Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2019 with funding from 
 Getty Research Institute 
 
 https://archive.org/details/goetheshermanndoOOgoet_0 
 
4 
 

GOETHE’S 
 
 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 
 
i 
 

GOETHE'S 
 
 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 ]!Y 
 
 REV. HENRY DALE, m. a. 
 
 FORMERLY BRITISPI CHAPLAIN AT DRESDEN. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 WILLIAM KAULBACH and L. HOFMANN. 
 
 NEW YOEK 
 
 STROn^^'ER & KIRCIINER. 
 
Munich. F. Straub printer to the royal Academy. 
 
FORTUNE AND LOT. 
 
 “Never before have I seen our market and streets so deserted! 
 Truly the town is as though ’twere swept out, or dead; for not fifty 
 Still are remaining behind, methinks, of our whole population. 
 
 What will not curiosity do? Thus runneth and rusheth 
 Each one now to see the train of the poor wretched exiles. 
 
 Up to the causeway on which they travel is nigh an hour’s journey: 
 Still runs thither the crowd in the dust and heat of the midday. 
 
 Yet should not I like to stir from my place, to see wTat affliction 
 Good men suffer in flight, who now, with their rescued possessions, 
 
 I .eaving, alas! the Rhine’s charming bank, that country of beauty. 
 Come over here to us, and wander along through the windings 
 Of this fruitful vale, a nook by fortune most favour’d. 
 
 Nobly, Wife, hast thou done, in sending our son on kind errand. 
 Bearing with him old linen and something for eating and drinking. 
 
 1 
 
All to dispense to the poor; for to give is the rich man’s first duty. 
 
 Oh, what a pace the boy drove! and how he managed the horses! 
 
 Aye, and took for himself our carriage, — the new one; four persons 
 Sit with comfort inside, and out on the dickey the driver: 
 
 But all alone went he now, and how lightly it roll’d round the corner!” 
 Sitting at ease beneath the gate of his house in the market. 
 
 Thus, address’d his wife, the host of the Golden Lion. 
 
 Then made answer to him the prudent and sensible housewife: 
 “Father, not willing am I to part with my linen, though worn out; 
 
 For it is useful for much, and not to be purchas’d with money. 
 
 If one should need its use. Yet to-day I gave, aye and gladly, 
 
 Many a better piece, made up for chemises and covers. 
 
 Since I heard of old people and children going there naked. 
 
 But wilt thou pardon me now? for thjj chest, too, has been rifled. 
 
 And, above all, I gmve the dressing-gown, — finest of cotton. 
 
 Bright with Indian flowers, and lined with the finest of flannel: 
 
 But it was thin, you know, and old, and quite out of fashion.” 
 
 But upon that, with a smile, out spake the excellent landlord: 
 
 “Still am I sorry to lose it, — the old gown made of good cotton, — 
 Real East-Indian stuff — one will not get such another. 
 
 Well! I wore it no more; for a man (so the world will now have it) 
 Must at all hour.s of the day in frock or dress-coat exhibit. 
 
 And ever booted be; both slippers and caps are forbidden.” 
 
 “Look!” replied the good wite, “there are some already returning, 
 Who with the rest saw the train; yet surely it now must have pass’d by. 
 See how dusty are all their shoes, how glowin*^ their faces! 
 
 And with his handkerchief each wipes off the sweat from his forehead. 
 
Never may I in the heat, for such a spectacle, so far 
 Run and suffer! In truth the 7'ecital I find quite sufficient.” 
 
 Then observ’d the good father, in tones of great animation; 
 
 “Seldom hath such weather for such a harvest been granted; 
 
 And we are getting in the fruit, as the hay’s in already 
 Dry; — the sky is clear, no cloud can be seen in the heavens. 
 
 And from the East the wind is blowing with loveliest coolness: 
 
 This is indeed settled weather! the corn over-ripe is already. 
 
 And we begin to-morrow to cut down the glorious harvest.” 
 
 Whilst he thus spake, still swell’d the troops of men and of women. 
 
 Who through the market-square to their homes were now seen returning. 
 
 And thus, too, at full speed returning along with his daughters. 
 
 Came to the other side of the square, where his new house was standing. 
 
 Riding in open carriage of handsomest landau pattern. 
 
 Richest amongst his neighbours, the foremost of all the town’s merchants. 
 
 Lively grew the streets; for the place was well peopled, and in it 
 Many a factory work’d, and many a business was thriving. 
 
 Thus, then, under the gateway still sat the couple familiar. 
 
 And in many remarks on the passing crowd found amusement. 
 
 But the worth)' housewife at length spoke out, thus commencing: 
 
 “See! there comes the \hcar, and there, too, our neighbour the Druggist, 
 
 Coming along with him: a full account they shall give us. 
 
 What they have seen out yonder, and what gives no pleasure to look on.” 
 
 Friendly they both came on, and greeted the good married couple. 
 
 Seated themselves on the benches, — the wooden ones under the gateway, -—■ 
 Shook off the dust from their feet, and fann’d for a breeze with their ’kerchiefs. 
 
Then the Druggist first, after many mutual greetings, 
 
 Thus began to speak, and said in a tone almost fretful: 
 
 “So is it ever with men! and one is still just like the other. 
 
 In that he loves to stare, when mistortune befalleth his neighbour I 
 Each one runs to behold the flames breaking out with destruction. 
 
 Each the poor criminal marks who is dragg’d to a death of keen torture; 
 Each one is walking out now to gaze on the w'oes of the exiles. 
 
 No one thinking meanwhile, that himself by a similar fortune. 
 
 If not next, yet at least in the course of time may be stricken. 
 
 Levity such as this I pardon not; yet man displays it.” 
 
 Then observ’d in reply the honour’d intelligent Vicar, — 
 
 He the pride of the town, still young in his earliest manhood. 
 
 He was acquainted with life, and knew the wants of his hearers. 
 
 Thoroughly was he impress’d with the value supreme of the Scriptures, 
 Which man’s destiny to him reveal, and what feelings best suit it; 
 
 While he was also well vers’d in the best of secular writings, 
 hie, then, said: “I am loath to find fault with an innocent instinct. 
 
 Which hath at all times been given to man by good Mother Nature. 
 
 Eor, what prudence and sense cannot always do, may be often 
 Done by such fortunate impulse as irresistibly guides us. 
 
 Were not man strongly induced by curiosity’s ardour. 
 
 Say, would he ever have learnt, how natural things hold together 
 In such lovely connexion? Eor, first, he craved what was novel. 
 
 Then with unwearied pains continued his search for the useful. 
 
 Longing at last lor the good, which exalts him, and gives him new value. 
 
 Levity in his youth is his gladsome companion, to danger 
 
 Ever shutting his eyes, and the traces of pain and of evil 
 
 Blotting with wholesome speed, so soon as their forms have past by him. 
 
 Iruly may that man be prais’d, in whose riper years is develop’d 
 
Out of such jovial temper the steady and strong understanding, 
 
 Which in joy or in sorrow exerts itself, zealous and active; 
 
 For he will bring forth good, and atone for each hour he has wasted.” 
 
 Suddenly then began the hostess, with friendly impatience: 
 
 “Tell us what you have seen; for that’s what I wish to be hearing.” 
 
 “Hardly”, replied thereupon the Druggist, with emphasis speaking, 
 
 “Shall I in short space again feel happy since all I have witness’d. 
 
 Who could describe it aright, — that manifold scene of disaster? 
 
 Clouds of dust from afar, ere yet we came down to the meadows. 
 
 Saw we at once; though the train, from hill to hill as it progress’d. 
 
 Still was hid from our sight, and we could but little distinguish. 
 
 But when we reach’d the road which goes across through tlie valley. 
 
 Truly, great was the crowding and din of the travellers’ waggons. 
 
 Ah! we saw then enough of the poor men, while they pass’d by us, 
 
 And could but learn, how bitter is flight, with such sorrows attended. 
 
 And yet how joyous the sense of life, when hastily rescued. 
 
 Piteous was it to see the goods of ev’ry description, 
 
 AVhich the well-furnish’d house contains, and which a good landlord 
 In it has placed about, each thing in its proper position. 
 
 Always ready for use (for all things are needed and useful). 
 
 Now to see all these loaded on waggons and carts ot all fashions. 
 
 One thing thrust through another, in over-haste of removal. 
 
 Over the chest there lay the sieve, and the good woollen blankets, 
 
 In the kneading- trough the bed, and the sheets o’er the mirror. 
 
 Ah! and, as at the fire twenty years ago we all noticed. 
 
 Danger took from man altogether his powers of reflection. 
 
 So that he seiz’d what was paltry, and left what was precious behind him. 
 Just so in this case, too, with a carefulness lacking discretion. 
 
 5 
 
Worthless things took they on, to burden their oxen and horses, 
 
 Such as old boards and casks, the goose-coop, and with it the birdcage. 
 Women and children, too, gasp’d, as they dragg’d along with their bundles^ 
 Under baskets and tubs till’d with things of no use to their owners: 
 
 Since man is still unwilling the last of his goods to abandon. 
 
 Thus on the dusty road the crowding train travel’d onward. 
 
 Orderless and confus’d, with ill-match’d pairs of faint horses, 
 
 One of which wish’d to go slow, while the other was eager to hasten. 
 
 Then there arose the cry of the squeez’d-up women and children, 
 
 Mix’d with the lowing of cattle, and dogs all barking in chorus. 
 
 And with the wail of the aged and sick, all seated and swa}’ing 
 High aloft upon beds on the hard and over-pack’d waggons. 
 
 But, driven out of the rut, to the very edge of the highway, 
 
 WMnder’d a creaking wheel; — upsetting, the vehicle roll’d down 
 Into the ditch, with the swing its human freight quick discharging 
 Far in the field, — with dire screams, but yet with fortunate issue. 
 
 After them tumbled the chests, and fell bv the side of the wa2'L»‘on. 
 
 Truly, he who saw them in falling, expected to find them 
 Crush’d and shatter’d beneath the load of the boxes and cupboards. 
 
 Thus, then, they lay, — the waggon all broken, the people all helpless — 
 For the others went on, and with speed drew past, each one thinking 
 Only about himself, while the stream still hurried him forward. 
 
 Then did we hasten to them, and found the sick and the ac>-ed 
 Who, when at home and in bed, scarce bore their continual sufferino-s 
 And now injured here on the ground lay moaning and groaning. 
 
 Scorch’d at once by the sun, and chok’d by the dust thickly waving.” 
 
 Moved by the tale, thereupon replied the humane-hearted landlord; 
 “O that Hermann may find them, to give both comfort and clothino-! 
 Loath should I be to see them; the sight of misery pains me; 
 
Though, deeply moved by the first report of such a disaster, 
 
 Sent we in haste a mite from our superfluity, so that 
 
 Some might be strengthen’d therewith, and we feel our hearts the more tranquil. 
 But let us now no more renew these pictures of sorrow. 
 
 Quickly into the hearts of men steals fear of the future. 
 
 And dull care, which by me than evil itself is more hated. 
 
 Step now into our room at the back •— our cool little parlour. 
 
 Ne’er shines the sun therein; ne’er forces the warm air a passage 
 Through the thickly built walls. And, Mother dear, bring us a wee glass 
 Of the good Eighty-three, to drive far away all bad fancies. 
 
 Here there ’s no pleasure in drinking; the flies so buzz round the glasses.” 
 
 Thus they all went in, and enjoyment found in the coolness. 
 
 Carefully brought the good Mother some wine of glorious brightness. 
 In well-cut decanters on tray of tin brightly varnish’d. 
 
 With the light-green rummers, the genuine goblets for Rhine-wine. 
 
 And thus sitting, the three surrounded the high-polish’d table. 
 
 Round and brown, which stood upon feet so strong and so steady. 
 
 Merrily soon rang the glass of the Host on that of the Vicar; 
 
 But the Druggist held his unmov’d, in deep meditation; 
 
 Whom with friendly words the host thus challeng’d to join them: 
 
 “Drink and be merry, good neighbour; for God from misfortune hath saved us. 
 And, of His goodness, will still continue to save us in future. 
 
 Who can fail to acknowledge, that since the dread conflagration. 
 
 When He chasten’d us sore. He hath ever constantly bless’d us; 
 
 Aye, and constantly guarded, as man doth gmard his eye’s apple. 
 
 Keeping with greatest care what of all his members is dearest? 
 
 Should He not, then, continue to guard and help us still further? 
 
 Truly, how great is His power, then only man sees, when in danger. 
 
Should, then, this flourishing town, which He, through its diligent burghers, 
 First from its ashes anew built up, and tlien loaded with blessings. 
 
 Now again be destroy’d by Him, and our pains brought to nothing?” 
 
 Cheerfully then and gently replied the excellent Vicar: 
 
 “Hold ye fast this faith, and hold ye fast this conviction! 
 
 For it will make you in joy both steadfast and sure, and in sorrow 
 Sweet is the comfort it yields, and glorious the hope it enlivens.” 
 
 Then replied the Host, with thoughts judicious and manly: 
 
 “How have I greeted full oft with wonder the swell of the Rhine-flood, 
 VTen, in my business-journeys engag-ed, once more I approach’d it! 
 Grander it always seem’d, and exalted my thoug-hts and my spirits: 
 
 But I could never think that his bank, in loveliness smiling. 
 
 Soon should prove a rampart to guard off Frankish invasion. 
 
 Thus cloth nature guard us, thus guard us our brave-hearted Germans, 
 Thus the Lord Himself: who, then, would lose heart, like a dotard? 
 
 1 ired are the combatants now, and to peace is ev'ry thing pointing. 
 
 And wdien the feast long wish’d for within our Church shall be holden. 
 And the bells’ solemn peal shall reply to the swell of the organ. 
 
 Mix’d with the trumpet’s sound keeping time with the soaring Te Deum; 
 Then may our Hermann, too, on that day of rejoicing. Sir Vicar, 
 
 Stand resolv’d with his bride before you in front of the altar. 
 
 And so the happy feast-day, observ’d alike in all countries. 
 
 Seem in future to me a glad home-anniversary likewise! 
 
 But I am sorry to see the lad, who always so active 
 
 Shews himself for me at home, out of doors so slow and so bashful. 
 
 Little desire hath he amongst people to make his appearance; 
 
 Nay, he avoids altogether the company of our young maidens, 
 
 And the frolicksome dance, in which youth ever rejoiceth.” 
 

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Thus he spake, and then listen’d. The noise of clattering horses, 
 Distant at first, was heard to draw near, and the roll of the carriage. 
 Which with impetuous speed now came thundering under the gatewa}’. 
 

HERMANN. 
 
 A’ hen now the well-form’d son came into the parlour and join’d them, 
 Keen and direct were the glances with which the Vicar surve}'’d him, 
 And remark’d his manner, and scann’d the whole of his bearing 
 With the observant eye which easily reads through each feature: 
 
 Then he smiled, and with words of cordial purport address’d him: 
 “Surely, an alter’d man you come in! I never have seen you 
 Look so sprightly before, with a gleam of such animation. 
 
 Joyous you come and gay: ‘tis clear you divided your presents 
 Ably amongst the poor, and receiv'd in return their rich blessing.” 
 
 Quickly then the son with words of earnestness answer’d; 
 
 „\\Tether I merited praise, I know not; but my own feelings 
 
 II 
 
Bade me to do what now I wish to relate to you fully. 
 
 Mother, you rummaged so long your old stores, in searching and choosing. 
 
 That it was not till late that the bundle was all got together. 
 
 And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack’d up. 
 
 When to the gate at length and along the street I proceeded. 
 
 Streaming back came the mass of the townsmen, with women and children. 
 
 Right in my way; and now far off was the train of the exiles. 
 
 Therefore I held on faster, and cjuickly drove to the village. 
 
 Where they would halt, as 1 heard, for the night, and rest their poor bodies. 
 When now, as I went on, I reach’d the new road through the valley. 
 
 There was a waggon in sight, constructed with suitable timbers. 
 
 Drawn by two oxen, the largest and strongest that foreigners boast of. 
 
 Close by its side with steps full of strength was walking a maiden. 
 
 Guiding with a long rod the pair of powerful cattle. 
 
 Urging on now, and again holding back, as she skilfully led them. 
 
 Soon as the maiden saw me, she calmly came near to my horses. 
 
 Saying: “It is not always we’ve been in such doleful condition 
 As you behold us to-day along these roads of your country. 
 
 Truly, I am not accustom’d to ask the donations of strangers. 
 
 Which they oft grudgingly give, to be rid of the poor man’s petitions; 
 
 But I am urged to speak by necessity. Stretch’d on the straw here. 
 
 Newly deliver’d, the wife of a once rich proprietor lleth. 
 
 Whom, with child as she was, I scarce saved with the steers and the waggon. 
 Slowly we follow the rest, while in life she hath hartly continued. 
 
 Naked now on her arm the new-born infant is lying. 
 
 And with but scanty means our people are able to help us. 
 
 It in the village hard by, where we think of resting, we find them; 
 
 1 hough I am greatly in fear they already are gone along past it. 
 
 It from these parts you come, and a store of superfluous linen 
 Anywhere have at command, on the poor it were kind to bestow it.” 
 
 12 
 

Thus she spake; and, faint and pale, from the straw the poor woman 
 Rising shew’d herself to me; when thus in return I address’d them; 
 
 “Good men, surely, oft are warn’d by a spirit from heaven. 
 
 So that they feel the need which o’er their poor brother is hanging: 
 
 For my mother, your trouble thus teeling beforehand, a bundle 
 Gave me, wherewith at once to supply the wants of the naked.” 
 
 Then I untied the knots of the cord, and the dressing-gown gave her. 
 
 Once our father’s, and with it I gave the chemises and flannel. 
 
 And she thank’d me with joy, and exclaim’d; “The prosperous think not 
 
 Miracles still are wrought; for man in misery only 
 
 Sees God’s hand and finger, which good men guideth to good men. 
 
 What through you He is doing to us, may He do to you likewise!” 
 
 And I saw the glad mother the different pieces of linen 
 Handling, but most of all, the gown’s soft lining of flannel. 
 
 Then said the maiden to her: “Now speed we on to the village. 
 
 Where for the night our people already are halting and resting. 
 
 There the baby-clothes, one and all. I'll quickly attend to.“ 
 
 Then she greeted me, and thanks the mo.st cordial expressing. 
 
 Drove on the oxen, and so the waggon went forward. T waited. 
 
 Still holding back my horses; for doubt arose in my bosom. 
 
 Whether with hurrying steeds I should go to the village, the viands 
 ’Mong.st the rest of the crowd to dispense, or here to the maiden 
 All deliver at once, that she with discretion might .share it. 
 
 But within my heart I quickly decided, and gently 
 
 After her went, and o’ertook her soon, and cjuickly said to her: 
 
 “’Tis not linen alone, good maiden, to bring in the carriage. 
 
 That my mother gave me, wherewith to cover the naked; 
 
 But she added thereto both meat and drink in abundance. 
 
 And I have plenty thereof pack’d up in the box of the carriage. 
 
 But now I feel inclined these presents, as well as the others. 
 
 13 
 
Into thy hand to give, thus best fulfilling my mission; 
 
 Thou wilt dispense them with judgment, while I by chance must be guided.” 
 
 Then replied the maiden: “With all fidelity will I 
 
 There dispose of your gifts, and the poor shall richly enjoy them.” 
 
 Thus she spake, and quickly I open’d the box of the carriage. 
 
 Bringing out therefrom the loaves, and the hams weighing heavy. 
 
 Bottles of wine and beer, and all the rest, to give to her. 
 
 More would I fain have given her still, but the box was now empty. 
 
 Then she pack’d them all by the feet of the mother, and so went 
 Onward, while with all speed to the town I came back with my horses.” 
 
 When now Hermann had ended, at once the talkative neighbour. 
 
 Taking up the discourse, exclaim’d: “Oh, that man is happy, 
 
 Wdio in these days of flight and confusion alone in his house lives, 
 
 Blaving nor wife nor children to cringe before him in terror. 
 
 Happy I feel myself now; nor would I to-day for much money 
 Bear the title of father, and have wife and children to care for. 
 
 Often ere now about flight have I tought with myself, and have pack’d up 
 All the best of my goods together, — the chains and the old coins 
 Of my late mother, whereof not a thing has been sold to this moment. 
 
 Much, to be sure, would be left behind not easy to furnish: 
 
 Even my simples and roots, collected there with much trouble, 
 
 I should be sorry to lose, though things of no very great value. 
 
 Still, only let the dispenser remain, and I go with some comfort. 
 
 Let me but rescue my cash and my body, and all is then rescued. 
 
 Easiest from such troubles escapes the man that is single.” 
 
 “Neighbour,” replied thereupon young Hermann, with emphasis speaking, 
 “Not at all do I think as thou, and thy speech I must censure. 
 
 Is, then, he the best man, who in prosperous days and in adverse 
 
 1.1 
 
Thinks of himself alone, and to share his joys and his sorrows 
 Knows not, nor feels thereto in his heart the least inclination? 
 
 Sooner now than ever could I determine to marry. 
 
 IMany a good maid now stands in need of a man to protect her; 
 
 Many a man needs a wife, to cheer him when troubles are threat’ning.” 
 
 Smiling, said thereupon the father: “I hear thee with gladness; 
 
 Such a sensible word in my presence thou seldom hast spoken.” 
 
 But the mother at once chimed in, her part quickly taking: 
 
 “Son, in good truth thou art rig'ht; and thy parents set the example. 
 
 For they were no days of joy in which we chose one another. 
 
 And our most sorrowful hour but join’d us the closer together. 
 
 Next Monday morning — I know it full well; for the day before happen’d 
 That most terrible fire which gave our dear town to destruction — 
 
 It will be twenty years. It was, like to-day, on a Sunday: 
 
 Hot and dry was the season, and in the place little water. 
 
 All the people were out, taking walks in their holiday clothing. 
 
 Scatter’d about the hamlets, and in the mills* and the taverns. 
 
 Then at the end of the town the fire commenc’d, and the flames ran 
 Quickly through the streets, with the wind themselves had created. 
 
 And the barns were burnt, with the rich and new-gather’d harvest. 
 
 And the streets were burnt; right up to the market; my father 
 Lost his house hard by, and this one soon perish’d with it. 
 
 Little saved we in flight. I sat the sorrowful night through 
 
 Out of the town, on the green, taking care of the beds and the boxes^ 
 
 Sleep at length fell o’er me; and when the cold of the morning-. 
 
 Falling down ere the sun was up, from my slumber awoke me; 
 
 * The mills in Germany are generally places of refreshment. 
 
 15 
 
There I saw the smoke, and the flame, and the old walls and chirnnejs. 
 
 Then was my heart in anguish, until, more splendid than evei’. 
 
 Up came the sun once more, and into my soul shed new courage. 
 
 Then I arose with haste, for I long’d the spot to examine, 
 
 'WTere our dwelling hat stood, and see if the fowls had been rescued, 
 
 ^\’’hich I so fondly loved; for childish still were my feelings. 
 
 As, then, I thus stepp’d on, o’er the ruins of house and of homestead. 
 
 Smoking still, and so found my home, and beheld its destruction; 
 
 Thou too, searching the spot, earnest up in the other direction. 
 
 Thou hadst a horse buried there in his stall; the timbers and rubbish 
 Glimmering lay upon him, and nought could be seen of the boor beast. 
 Thoughtful thus and sad we stood o’er against one another; 
 
 For the wall was fallen which erst had divided our houses. 
 
 Then by the hand thou took’st me, and saidst: “Louisa, poor maiden. 
 
 How cam’st thou here? Go thy way! thou art burning thy soles in the rubbish; 
 For it is hot, and singes e’en these strong boots I am wearing.” 
 
 And thou didst lift me up, and carry me through thine own homestead. 
 
 Still there was standing the gate of the house, with its high vaulted ceiling. 
 
 As it now stands; but that alone of all was remaining. 
 
 And thou didst set me down, and kiss me, although I forbad it. 
 
 But upon that thou spakest with kindl}' w^ords full of meaning; 
 
 “See! the house lies low. Stay here, and help me to build it; 
 
 And let me help in return, to build thy father’s up likewise.” 
 
 Yet did I not understand thee, until to my father thou sentest, 
 
 And through my mother full soon the vows of glad wedlock were plighted. 
 Joyfully still to this day I remember the half-consum’d timbers. 
 
 And still joyfully see the sun arise in his splendour: 
 
 hor it was that da}’ gave me my husband; the son of my youth was 
 
 First bestow’d upon me by those wild times of destruction. 
 
 Therefore I praise thee, Hermann, that thou, with bright trust in the future. 
 
In these sorrowful times of a maid for thyself, too, art thinking-. 
 
 And hast courage to woo in the war, and over its ruins.” 
 
 Quickly then the father replied, with much animation: 
 
 “Laudable is the feeling, and true, too, each word of the stoiy. 
 
 Mother dear, which thou hast told; for so it happen’d exactly. 
 
 But what is better is better. It is not becoming- that each one 
 Should from the past be content to form his whole life and condition; 
 Nor should ev’r}' one choose, as we did, and others before him. 
 
 Oh, how happy is he, to whom his father and mother 
 Leave the house well-furnish’d, and w^ho with success then adorns it! 
 Ev’ry beginning is hard, — the beginning of house-keeping hardest. 
 Things of many a kind man wants, and all things grow daily 
 Dearer; then let him in time provide for increasing his money. 
 
 And thus I cherish a hope of thee, my Hermann, that quickly 
 Into the house thou wilt bring thy bride with fine marriage-portion; 
 
 For a high-spirited man deserves a well-endow’d maiden; 
 
 And it gives so much pleasure, when with the dear wife of his wishes 
 Come in the useful presents, too, in baskets and boxes! 
 
 ’Tis not in vain that the mother through many a year is preparing^ 
 
 Linen of ample store, of web fine and strong, for her daughter. 
 
 ’Tis not in vain that sponsors present their silver donations, 
 
 And that the father lays by in his de.sk a gold-piece, though seldom; 
 For in due time shall she thus delight with her goods and her presents 
 That young man who hath made her, before all others, his chosen. 
 
 Yes, I know in her house how pleasant the dear wife must find it 
 Both in kitchen and parlour to see her own furniture standing. 
 
 And herself her own bed, herself her own board to have cover'd. 
 
 May I but see in the house the bride that is handsomely portion’d! 
 
 For the poor one at last is only despised by her husband. 
 
 17 
 
And as a servant she’s treated, who servant-like came with a bundle. 
 
 Men continue unjust, and the season of love passeth by them. 
 
 Yes, my Hermann, thou wouldst to my age grant highest enjoyment. 
 
 If to my house ere long thou shouldst bring me a dear little daughter. 
 
 From the neighbourhood here — from the house painted green over yonder. 
 Rich is the man — that’s sure; and his trade and factories make him 
 Daily richer; for what does not turn to gain for the merchant? 
 
 And there are only three daughters to share his possessions amongst them. 
 Won already, I know, is the eldest, and promis’d in marriage: 
 
 But the second and third may be had, though not long may they be so. 
 Had I been in your place, till now I would not have tarried. 
 
 One of the girls for myself to bring here, as I did your mother.” 
 
 Modestly then the son to his urgent father made answer; 
 
 “Truly, my wish too was, a yours is, one of the daughters 
 
 Of our neighbour to choose; for we all were brought up together; 
 
 Round the spring in the market in former times had we sported. 
 
 And from the town-boys’ rudeness I often used to protect them. 
 
 But that was long ago; and girls at length, when they grow up. 
 
 Stay, as is proper, at home, and avoid such wild sportive meetings. 
 
 Well brought up they are, to be sure; still, from former acquaintance, 
 
 As you wish’d it, I went trom time to time over yonder: 
 
 But in their conversation I never could feel myself happy, 
 
 Since they would always be finding fault, which tax’d my endurtince. 
 
 Quite too long wxis my coat, the cloth was too coarse, and the colour 
 Quite too common; and then my hair was not cut and curl’d rig-htly; 
 
 So that at last I thought of bedecking myself like the shop-boys 
 Qver there, who on Sunday are always displaying their figures. 
 
 And w'hose lappets in summer, hall silk, hang so loosely about them. 
 
 But I observ’d soon enough that they always to ridicule turn’d me; 
 
Which offended me much, for my pride was wounded. More deeply 
 Still did it vex me to find that they misunderstood the kind feeling 
 Which I cherish’d for them, — especially Minnie, the youngest. 
 
 For I went the last time at Easter to pay them a visit. 
 
 And had donn’d my new coat, which now hangs up in the wardrobe. 
 
 And my hair I had got well curl’d, like the rest of the fellows. 
 
 M^heh I went in, they titter’d; but I to m 3 'self did not take it. 
 
 At the piano sat Minnie; her father also was present. 
 
 Hearing- his dear daughter .sing, — entranced, and in excellent spirits. 
 
 Much was express’d in the songs that surpass’d my poor comprehension; 
 
 But I heard a great deal of Pamina and of Tamino; 
 
 And since I did not like to sit dumb, as soon as she finish’d. 
 
 Questions I ask’d on the words and the two chief characters in them. 
 
 Then they all at once were silent, and smiled; but the father 
 Said; “Our friend, sure, with none but Adam and Eve is acquainted.” 
 
 No one then refrain’d, but loud was the laugh of the maidens. 
 
 Loud the laugh of the boys, while the old man held tightly his stomach. 
 Then I let fall my hat through embarrassment, and the rude titter 
 Still went on and on, in spite of the singing and playing. 
 
 Then did I hurry back to my home in shame and vexation. 
 
 Hung up my coat in the wardrobe, and drew my hair with my fingers 
 Down to my head, and swore never m.ore to pass over the threshold. 
 
 And I was perfectly right; for vain they all are and loveless. 
 
 And I hear that with them m}' name is always Tamino.” 
 
 Then replied the mother: “Thou shouldst not, Hermann, so long time 
 Angry be with the children; for children they are all together. 
 
 Minnie is certainly good, and for thee always shew’d an affection, 
 
 And but lately she ask’d after thee: thou oughtest to choose her.” 
 
 19 
 
Thoughtfully then the son replied: “I know not; that insult 
 Hath so deep an impression made on me, that truly I wish not 
 At the piano again to see her, and list to her singing.” 
 
 Then the father broke out, and spoke with wrathful expressions: 
 “Slight is the joy I receive from thee! I have ever asserted 
 That thou couldst shew no taste but for horses and field operations. 
 
 Just what a servant does for a man of ample possessions. 
 
 That dost thou; and meanwhile the son must be miss’d by the father. 
 
 Who still shew’d himself off to his honour before all the townsmen. 
 
 Early thus with vain hope of thee did thy mother deceive me. 
 
 When in the school never progress’d thy reading and writing and learnin 
 As did that of the rest, but thy place was always the lowest. 
 
 That must happen, of course, when no ambition is stirring 
 
 In the breast of a youth, and he cares not to raise himself higher. 
 
 Had my father for me shown the care which on thee I have lavish’d. 
 
 Had he sent me to school, and for me engaged the best masters, 
 
 Then had I been something else than the host of the Golden Lion.” 
 
 But the son rose up, and approach’d the door in deep silence. 
 
 Slow, and without any noise; while his father, with wrath still increasing. 
 After him call’d; “Aye, begone! I know thine obstinate temper; 
 
 Go, and attend henceforth to the business, or fear my displeasure. 
 
 But never think thou wilt bring, as a daughter-in-law to thy father. 
 
 Into the house where he lives, a boorish girl and a trollop. 
 
 Long have I lived, and with men I know how to deal as I should do, — 
 Know how to treat both ladies and gentlemen, so that they leave me 
 Gratified, — know how to flatter, as always is welcome to strangers. 
 
 But now at length I must find a dear daughter-in-law to assist me. 
 
 And to sweeten the toil which I still .shall bear in abundance. 
 

 
 
 
 

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On the piano, too, must she play to me, while are assembled, 
 
 List’ning around her with pleasure, our burghers, the best and the fairest, 
 As on Sunday is done in the house of our neighbour,” Then Hermann 
 Softly lifted the latch, and so went out of the parlour. 
 
o 
 
 THE BURGHERS. 
 
 Thus, then, the modest son escaped that passionate language: 
 
 But the father went on in the self-same way he began in: 
 
 “That which is not in man comes out of him; and I can hardly 
 Ever expect to bring my heart’s dearest wish to fulfilment. 
 
 That my son might be, not his father’s equal, but better. 
 
 For, now, what were the house, and what were the town, did not each one 
 Always think with desire of upholding and of renewing. 
 
 Aye, and improving too, as time and travel instruct us? 
 
 Must not man in such case grow out of the ground like a mushroom. 
 
 And as quickly decay on the spot which lately produced him. 
 
 No single vestige behind him of vital activity leaving? 
 
 Surely, one sees in a house the mind of the master as clearly 
 
 As in the town, where one walks, of the magistrate’s wisdom he judgeth. 
 
 For, where the towers and the walls are falling, where in the trenches 
 
 “3 
 
Dirt is piled up, and dirt in all the streets, too, lies scatter’d; 
 
 Where the stone from the joining- protudes, with none to replace it, 
 
 ^^^here the beam is decay’d, and the house, all idle and empty, 
 
 ^^"aits to be under-pinn’d, afresh, — that place is ill-govern’d. 
 
 For, where the rulers work not for order and cleanliness always. 
 
 Easily there the townsmen to dirty sloth grow accustom’d; 
 
 Just as his tatter’d clothes to the beggar become most familiar. 
 
 Therefore is it my wish that Hermann, my son, on a journey 
 
 Soon should set out, and at least have a sight of Strasburg and Frankfort, 
 
 And the agreeable Mannheim with cheerful and regular outline. 
 
 For whoever hath seen cities large and cleanly, will rest not. 
 
 Till his own native town, however small, he embellish. 
 
 Do not strangers commend our gateways since their improvement. 
 
 And our whiten’d tower, and our church restored so completely? 
 
 Does not each one extol our pavement, and mains rich with water. 
 
 Cover’d and well-divided, for usefulness and for assurance 
 
 That on its first breaking out a fire might at once be kept under? 
 
 Has not all this been done since that terrible conflagration? 
 
 Six times I acted as builder, and won the praise of the Council, 
 
 And the most hearty thanks of the townsmen, for having suggested. 
 
 And by assiduous efforts completed that good Institution, 
 
 Which honest men now support, but before had left unaccomplish’d. 
 
 Thus at length the desire possess’d each member of Council: 
 
 All alike at present exert themselves, and the new causeway 
 Is decided on quite, with the great high-roads to connect us. 
 
 But I am much afraid our youth will not act in this manner: 
 
 Some of whom only think of the pleasure and show of the moment, 
 
 MTile others sit in the house, and behind the stove still are brooding: 
 
 And what I fear is to see such a character always in Hermann.” 
 
 24 
 
Then replied at once the good and sensible mother: 
 
 “Father, e’en so tow’rd our son thou art ever prone to injustice; 
 
 And e’en so least of all will thy wish for his good find fulfilment. 
 
 After our own inclinations we cannot fashion our children, 
 
 But as God gave them to us, e’en so must we keep them and love them, 
 Training them up for the best, and then leaving each to improve it. 
 
 Gifts of one kind to one, of another belong to another; 
 
 Each one doth use them, and each is still only good and successful 
 In his peculiar way. Thou shalt not find fault with my Hermann, 
 
 ^\’’ho, I am sure, will deserve the fortune he ’ll some day inherit. 
 
 And be an excellent landlord, a pattern of townsmen and farmers. 
 
 And not the last in the Council, — I see it already beforehand. 
 
 But in the poor boy’s breast with thy daily blaming and scolding. 
 
 As thou hast done to-day, thou checkest all feeling of courage.” 
 
 Then she left the room, and after her son quickly follow’d, 
 
 That, having somewhere found him, she might with soft words of kindness 
 Cheer him again; for he, her excellent son, well deserv’d it. 
 
 When she was thus gone away, at once the father said, smiling: 
 “Truly a marvellous race are women — as much so as children! 
 
 Each of them loves so to live just after her own proper liking; 
 
 And one must do nothing then but always be praising and fondling. 
 
 But once for all holds good that truth-speaking proverb of old-time, 
 
 ‘Who will not foremost go, he comes in hindmost.’ So is it.” 
 
 Then replied to him the Druggist, with great circumspection: 
 
 “Gladly, neighbour, I grant you this, and for all that is better 
 Ever myself do look out, — if ’tls new without being dearer. 
 
 But is it really good, when one has not abundance of money. 
 
 Active and bustling to be, and in doors and out to be mending? 
 
Nay, too much is the burgher kept back; increase his possessions, 
 
 E’en if he could, he may not: his purse is ever too slender. 
 
 And his need is too great; and so he is always impeded. 
 iNIany a thing had I done, but the cost of such alterations 
 Who doest not wish to avoid? above all, in times of such danger. 
 
 Long, in time past, my house in its dress of new fashion was laughing; 
 
 Long with ample panes throughout it the wdndows did glitter. 
 
 But does the man who in this would vie with the merchant, know also, 
 
 As he does, the best way to make his property greater? 
 
 Only look at the house over there — the new one; — how handsome 
 Shews on its ground of green each wLite compartment of stucco! 
 
 Large are the lights of the wdndows; the panes are flashing and gleaming, 
 So that the rest of the houses throughout the square stand in darkness. 
 
 And yet, after the fire, wmre ours at first quite the finest, 
 
 Mine with the Golden Angel, and yours with the Golden Lion. 
 
 So was my garden, too, throughout the whole neighbourhood famous. 
 
 And each traveller stood, and look’d through the red palisading 
 At the beggars in stone and the pigmies colour’d so gaily. 
 
 Then, wLen I gave a friend coffee within the glorious shell-work. 
 
 Which, to be sure, now stands all dusty and ready to tumble. 
 
 Great was the pleasure he took in the colour’d sheen of the muscles. 
 
 Ranged in beautiful order; and e’en the connoisseur, gazing. 
 
 Look’d with dazzled eye on the crystals* of lead and the corals. 
 
 So did the paintings, too, in the drawdng-room gain admiration, 
 
 Where fine lords and ladies wmre taking a walk in the garden. 
 
 And wnth their taper fingers the flowers were giving and holding. 
 
 Yes, who would now any more cast an eye upon that? Lor vexation 
 Scarce do I ever stir out: for all must be modern and tasteful. 
 
 * The original word signifies properly a combination of lead and sulphur, often found in a crystalline form. 
 
As it is call’d, — the pales must be white, and the seats must be wooden; 
 All now is simple and plain; carv’d work and gilding; no longer 
 Will they endure; and now foreign wood is of all things most costly. 
 
 Were I, now, so dispos’d to have my things newly fashion’d. 
 
 Even to go with the times, and my furniture often be changing, 
 
 Yet does ev’ry one fear to make e’en the least alterations. 
 
 For who now can afford to pay the bills of the workmen? 
 
 ’T was but lately I thought of having Michael the Angel, 
 
 Who is the sign of my shop, again embellish’d with gilding. 
 
 And the green dragon, too, winding under his feet; but I left him 
 Dingy still, as he is; for the sum that they ask’d (|uite alarm’d me. 
 
 27 
 
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 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 Ihus spake together the men in friendly converse. The Mother 
 Went meanwhile in front of the house, to search for her Hermann 
 On the bench of stone, the seat he most often frequented. 
 
 When she found him not there, she went and look’d in the stable, 
 AVhether the noble steeds of high courage claim’d his attention. 
 
 Which he had bought when foals, and which he intrusted to no one. 
 Then the servant said: “He is gone aw^ay into the garden.” 
 
 Quickly then she stepp’d across the long double court-yard. 
 
 Left the stables behind, and the barns all built of good timber. 
 
 Into the garden went, which extended right up to the town-walls; 
 
 Pass’d straight through it, enjoying meanwhile the bloom of each object. 
 Upright set the props on which the apple-tree’s branches 
 Rested, o’erladen with fruit, and the burden’d boughs of the pear-tree. 
 And from the strong swelling kale pick’d a few caterpillars in passing; 
 
 29 
 
For the industrious wife takes no single step that is useless. 
 
 Thus had she come to the end of the garden, and up to the arbour, 
 
 Cover’d with honey-suckles; but there no more of her Hermann 
 vSaw she, than she had seen in the garden she just now had travers’d. 
 
 But on the latch was left the wicket, which out of the arbour. 
 
 As an especial favour, their trusty forefather the Mayor 
 
 Had, in times gone by, through the walls of the town got erected. 
 
 Thus without any trouble she pass’d across the dry trenches, 
 
 Mdiere from the road close at hand went up the steep path of the vineyard. 
 Well inclos’d, and straight to the sun’s rays turning its surface. 
 
 This, too, she travers’d throughout, and enjoy’d the sight, while ascending. 
 Of the abundant grapes, beneath their leaves scarcely cover’d. 
 
 Shaded and roof’d-in with vines was the lofty walk in the centre. 
 
 Which they ascended by steps of slab-stones rough from the cjuarry. 
 
 And within it were hanging Gutedel and Muscatel bunches, 
 
 A\"ondrous in size, and e’en then displaying tints red and purple. 
 
 Planted all with care, to the guests’ dessert to add splendour. 
 
 But with single plants the rest of the vineyard was cover’d. 
 
 Bearing smaller grapes, from which flows wine the most costly. 
 
 Thus then she mounted up, with glad thoughts already of Autumn, 
 
 And of that festal day when the country in jubilee gathers. 
 
 Plucking and treading the grapes, and in casks the sweet must collecting; 
 While, in the evening, fire-works light up each spot and each corner. 
 Flashing and cracking; and so full honour is paid to the vintage. 
 
 Yet she went ill at ease, when the name of her son she had shouted 
 
 Twice or thrice, and echo alone in manifold voices 
 
 From the towers of the town with great loquacity answer’d. 
 
 It was so strange for her to seek him! he never had wander’d 
 Far, or he told it to her, — the cares of his dear loving Mother 
 Thus to prevent, and her fears lest ought of ill should befal him. 
 
 3 ° 
 
And she was still in hope that on the way she should find him; 
 
 For the doors of the vineyard, the lower and also the upper, 
 
 Open alike were standing. And so the field she next enter’d. 
 
 With whose further slopes the back of the hill was all cover’d. 
 
 Still on ground of her own all the time she was treading, and pleasant 
 Was it for her to see her own crops, and corn nodding richly, 
 
 W'hich over all the land with golden vigour was waving. 
 
 Right between the fields she went, on the green sward, the foot-path 
 Keeping still in view, and the great pear-tree on the summit. 
 
 Which was the bound of the fields her house still held in possession. 
 
 Who had planted it, none could tell. Far and wide through the country 
 There it was to be seen, and the fruit of the tree was most famous. 
 
 ’Neath it the reaper was wont to enjoy his meal in the midday. 
 
 And in its shade the neatherd to wait the return of his cattle. 
 
 Benches of rough stone and turf the seats they there found to sit on. 
 
 And she was not mistaken; there sat her Flermann, and rested — 
 
 Sat with his arm propp’d up, and seem’d to gaze o’er the country 
 Far away towr’d the mountain, his back turn’d lull on his mother. 
 
 Softly she stole up to him, and shook quite gently his shoulder; 
 
 And, as he quickly turn’d round, she saw there were tears on his eyelids.” 
 
 “Mother,” he said, disconcerted, “your coming surpris’d me.” Then quickly 
 Dried he up his tears — that youth of excellent feelings. 
 
 “What! Thou art weeping, my son,” his mother replied with amazement, 
 
 “And must I to thy grief be a stranger? I ne’er was thus treated. 
 
 Say, what is breaking thy heart? What urges thee thus to sit lonely 
 Under the pear-tree here? What brings the tears to thine eyelids? 
 
 Then the excellent youth collected himself, and thus answer’d: 
 
 “He who beareth no heart in his brazen bosom now feels not. 
 
 31 
 
Truly, the wants of men who are driven about in misfortune; 
 
 He in whose head is no sense, in these days will take little trouble. 
 Studying what is good for himself and the land of his fathers. 
 
 What I had seen and heard to - day fill’d my heart with disquiet: 
 
 And then I came up here, and saw the glorious landscape 
 Spreading afar, tind winding around us with fruit-bearing uplands: 
 
 Saw, too, the golden fruit bowing down, as if for the reaping. 
 
 Full of promise to us of rich harvest and garners replenish’d. 
 
 O but, alas, how near is the foe! The Rhine’s flowing waters ' 
 
 Are, to be sure, our guard: yet what now are waters and mountains 
 To that terrible people which comes on thence like a tempest? 
 
 For they are calling together from every corner the young men. 
 
 Aye, and the old, and onward are urging with might, and the masses 
 Shun not the face of death, but masses still press upon miasses. 
 
 And does a German, alas! in his house still venture to linger? 
 
 Hopes he, forsooth, alone to escape the all-menacing ruin? 
 
 Dearest Mother, 1 tell you it fills me to-day with vexation. 
 
 That I was lately excus’d, when from out our townsmen were chosen 
 Men for the wars. To be sure. I’m the only son of my father. 
 
 And our household is large, and of great importance our business; 
 
 But were I not doing better to take my stand far out yonder 
 On the borders, than here to wait for affliction and bondage? 
 
 Yes, my spirit hath spoken, and in my innermost bosom 
 Courage and wishes are stirr’d, to live for the land of my fathers. 
 
 Aye, and to die, and so set a worthy example to others. 
 
 Truly, were but the might of our German youth all together 
 On the borders, and leagued not an inch to yield to the stranger. 
 
 Oh, they should not be allow’d to set foot on our glorious country. 
 And before our eyes consume our land’s fruitful produce. 
 
 Lay their commands on our men, and rob us of wives and of maidens. 
 
See then, mother; within the depth of my heart I’m determin’d, 
 
 Quickly to do and at once what seems to me right and judicious; 
 
 For not always is his the best choice who thinks of it longest. 
 
 Lo! I will not return to my home from the spot that I stand on. 
 
 But go straight into town, and devote to the ranks of our soldiers 
 This good arm and this heart, to serve the land of my fathers. 
 
 Then let my father say, if my breast by no feeling of honour 
 Be enliven’d, and if I refuse to raise myself higher.” 
 
 Then with deep meaning replied his good and intelligent mother. 
 Shedding the gentle tears which so readily came to her eyelids: 
 
 “Son, what change is this that hath come o’er thee and thy spirit. 
 
 That to thy mother thou speak’st not, as yesterday and as ever, 
 
 Open and free, to tell me what ’tis that would suit with thy wishes? 
 
 Should a third person hear thee at present discoursing, he doubtless 
 Would both commend thee much, and thy purpose praise, as most noble, — 
 Led away by thy words, and thy speech so full of deep meaning. 
 
 Yet do I only blame thee; for, lo! I know thee much better. 
 
 Thou art concealing thy heart, and thy thoughts from thy words widely differ. 
 For it is not the drum, I know, nor the trumpet that calls thee. 
 
 Nor in the eyes of the girls dost thou wish to shine in reg’mentals. 
 
 For, whatever thy valour and courage, ’tis still thy vocation 
 Well to guard the house, and the field to attend to in quiet. 
 
 Wherefore tell me with frankness, what brings thee to this resolution?” 
 
 Earnestly said the son; “You err, dear mother; one day is 
 Not just like another; the youth into manhood will ripen. 
 
 Better oft ripen for action in quiet, than midst all the tumult 
 Of a wild rowing life, which to many a youth has been fatal. 
 
 Thus, then, however calm I am, and was, in my bosom 
 
 
Still hath been moulded a heart which hateth wrong and injustice. 
 
 Work, too, strength to my arm and power to my feet hath imparted. 
 
 This, I feel, is all true, and boldly I dare to maintain it. 
 
 And yet, mother, you blame me with justice, since you have caught me 
 Dealing with words but half-true, and with half-disguises of meaning. 
 
 For, let me simply confess it, it is not the coming of danger. 
 
 That from my father’s house now calls me, nor thoughts great and soaring. 
 Succour to bring to the land of my sires, and its foes strike with terror. 
 
 All that I spoke was mere words alone, intended to cover 
 
 Those bitter feelings from thee, which my heart are tearing asunder. 
 
 O, then, leave me, my mother; for since all vain are the wishes 
 Cherish’d here in my bosom, in vain may my life, too, be wasted. 
 
 For I know that himself the individual injures 
 
 Who devotes himself, when all for the common weal strive not.” 
 
 “Do but proceed,” so said thereupon the intelligent mother, 
 
 “All to relate to me, the chief thing alike and the smallest. 
 
 Men are hasty, and think on the end alone; and the hasty 
 Easily out of their path the least impediment driveth. 
 
 But a woman is apt to look at the means, and to travel 
 Even by round-about ways, and so to accomplish her purpose. 
 
 Tell me then all; what has moved thee to such excitement as never 
 Thou hast display’d before, — the blood in thy veins fiercely boiling. 
 
 And, in spite of thy will, the tears from thine eyes gushing thickly?” 
 
 Then the good youth to his pain his whole being surrender’d, and weeping. 
 Weeping aloud on his mother’s breast, said with deepest emotion: 
 
 “Truly, my father’s words of to-day did grievously wound me. 
 
 Undeserv’d as they were, alike this day and all others. 
 
 For ’twas my earliest pleasure to honour my parents, and no one 
 
 o4 
 
Cleverer seem’d, or wiser, than they whom I thank’d for my being. 
 
 And for their earnest commands in the twilight season of childhood. 
 
 Much, in truth, had I then to endure from my playfellows’ humours. 
 
 When for my good will to them full oft with spite they repaid me. 
 
 Many a time, when struck by stone, or hand, I o’erlook’d it. 
 
 But if they ever turn’d my father to sport, when on Sunday 
 Out of church he came with step of dignified slowness; 
 
 If they e’er laugh’d at the band of his cap, and the flowers on his loose gown. 
 Which he so stately wore, and ne’er till to-day would abandon; 
 
 Fearlessly then did I clench m}- fist, and with furious passion 
 Fell I upon them, and struck and hit, with blind reckless onset. 
 
 Seeing not where my blows fell: they howl’d, and with blood-dripping noses 
 Hardly escaped from the kicks and strokes which I dealt in my fury. 
 
 And thus grew I up, with much to endure from my father. 
 
 Who full often to me, instead of to others, spoke chiding. 
 
 When he was moved to wrath in the Council, at its last sitting; 
 
 And I still had to pay for the strifes and intrigues of his colleagues. 
 
 Ofttimes did you yourself commiserate all that I suffer’d. 
 
 Wishing still from my heart to serve and honour my parents. 
 
 Whose sole thought was for our sake to add to their goods and possessions. 
 Often denying themselves in order to save for their children. 
 
 Oh, but it is not saving alone, and tardy enjoyment. 
 
 Not heap piled upon heap, and acre still added to acre. 
 
 All so compactly inclos’d, — it is not this that makes happy. 
 
 No, for the father grows old, and with him the sons, too, grow older, 
 
 \Aid of joy for to-day, and full of care for to-morrow. 
 
 Look down there, and say how rich and fair to the vision 
 Lies yon noble expanse, and beneath it the vineyard and garden. 
 
 Then the barns and stables, — fair ranges of goodly possessions. 
 
 Further on still I see the house-back, where, in the gable. 
 
 35 
 
Peeping under the roof my own little room shews its window. 
 
 And I reflect on the times, when there the moon’s late appearing 
 Many a night I awaited, and many a morning the sun-rise; 
 
 When my sleep was so sound that only few hours were sufficient. 
 
 Ah! all seems to me now as lonely as that little chamber, — 
 
 House, and garden, and glorious field outstretch’d on the hill-side; 
 
 All lies so dreary before me: I want a partner to share it.” 
 
 Then replied to him his good and intelligent mother: 
 
 “Son, thou dost not more wish to lead a bride to thy chamber. 
 
 That the night may yield thee a lovely half of existence. 
 
 And the work of the day be more free and more independent. 
 
 Than thy father and I, too, wish it. We always advised thee. 
 
 Aye, and have urged thee also, to make thy choice of a maiden. 
 
 Yet do I know it well, and my heart this moment repeats it. 
 
 That till the right hour come, and with the right hour the right maiden 
 Make her appearance, this choice must still remain in the distance; 
 
 And in most cases meanwhile fear urges to catch at the wrong one. 
 
 If I must tell thee, my son, I believe thou hast chosen already; 
 
 Since thy heart is smitten, and sensitive more than is common. 
 
 Speak it then plainly out, for thy soul already declares it; 
 
 Yonder maiden is she, — the exile, — wTom thou hast chosen.” 
 
 “Dearest mother, thou say’st it,” the son then quickly made answer, 
 “Yes, it is she; and unless, as my bride’^, this day I may bring her 
 Home to our house, she goes on, and perhaps will vanish for ever. 
 
 In the confusion of war and sad journeyings hither and thither. 
 
 Then ever vainly for me our rich possessions will prosper. 
 
 * The titles of “bride” and “bridegroom” are given in Germany to persons who are only engaged to be married. 
 
 36 
 
And for these eyes ever vainly the years to come will be fruitful. 
 
 Yes, the familiar house and the garden become my aversion, 
 
 Ah! and the love of his mother, e’en that her poor son fails to comfort. 
 For love loosens, I feel, all other ties in the bosom. 
 
 When it makes fast her own; nor is it only the maiden 
 
 That leaves father and mother, to follow the youth she hath chosen; 
 
 But the youth, too, knows no more of mother and father. 
 
 When he sees his maiden, his only beloved, go from him. 
 
 Wherefore let me depart, where desperation now drives me; 
 
 For my father hath spoken the words that must needs be decisive. 
 
 And his house is no longer mine, if from it the maiden. 
 
 Whom alone I wish to bring home, by him is excluded.” 
 
 Quickly then replied the good and sensible mother; 
 
 “Two men, surely, stand like rocks in stern opposition; 
 
 Still unmoved and proud will neither advance tow’rd the other. 
 
 Neither move his tongue the first to words of good feeling. 
 
 Wherefore I tell thee, son, in my heart the hope is still living. 
 
 That if she be but worthy and good, to thee he’ll betroth her 
 Though she is poor, and he the poor hath so stoutly forbidden. 
 
 Many a thing he says, in his passionate way, which he never 
 Cares to perform; and so it may be with this his refusal. 
 
 But he demands a soft word, and may with reason demand it; 
 
 For he’s thy father. AVe know, too, that after dinner his anger 
 Makes him more hastily speak, and doubt the motives of others, 
 
 Giving no reason; for wine the whole strength of his hot wilful temper 
 Then stirs up, nor lets him attend to what others are saying; 
 
 Only for what he says himself has he hearing or feeling. 
 
 But the evening is now coming on, and long conversations 
 tiave ere this been exchanged by him and his friendly companions. 
 
 J7 
 
# 
 
 Gentler, I’m sure, he must be, when the fumes of the wine have now left him. 
 And he feels the injustice he shew’d so keenl}^ to others. 
 
 Come! let us venture at once; nought speeds like the quickly-tried venture ; 
 And we require the friends who now sit with him assembled; 
 
 But, above all, the support of our worthy Pastor will help us.” 
 
 Quickly thus she spoke, and herself from the bench of stone rising, 
 
 Drew, too, her son from his seat, who willingly follow’d. In silence 
 Both descended the hill, on their weighty purpose reflecting. 
 
 
 1 
 
 38 
 
 1 
 
 4 
 
THE CITIZENS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ]VIeanwhile sat the three still incessantly talking together, 
 
 With the Pastor the Druggist, and each by the side of the Landlord. 
 Aye, and the theme of their talk was still the self-same as ever. 
 
 Carried backwards and forwards, and well examin’d on all sides. 
 
 Then the excellent Vicar replied, with worthy reflections: 
 
 “I will not contradict you. I know man must ever be striving 
 After improvement, and still, as we see, he will also be striving 
 After what is higher; at least he seeks something novel. 
 
 But ye must not go too far. For close by the side of this feeling 
 Nature hath also given the wish to linger mid old things. 
 
 And to enjoy the presence of what has long been familiar. 
 
 Each condition is good that is sanction’d by nature and reason. 
 
 Man wisheth much for himself, and yet he wanteth but little; 
 
 39 
 
I 
 
 For his days are but few, and his mortal sphere is contracted. 
 
 Ne’er do I blame the man, who, constantly active and restless. 
 
 Urged on and on, o’er the sea and along each path of the mainland 
 
 Passes busy and bold, and enjoyment finds in the profits 
 
 Which are so richly heap’d up, alike round himself and his children. 
 
 But t//at character, too, I esteem, — the good quiet yeoman. 
 
 Who with tranquil steps o’er the fields which his sires left behind them 
 Walks about, and attends to the ground, as the hours may require him. 
 Not for him each year is the soil still alter’d by culture; 
 
 Not for him does the tree, newly planted, with hastiest increase 
 Stretch forth its boughs so heaven, with blossoms most richly embellish’d. 
 No, the man has need of patience, — has need, too, of simple. 
 
 Quiet, unvarying plans, and an intellect plain and straight-forward. 
 
 Small is the measure of seed he commits to the earth which supports him; 
 Few are the beasts he is taught to raise by his system of breeding; 
 
 For what is useful is still the only object he thinks of. 
 
 Happy the man to whom nature hath given a mind so decided! 
 
 He supporteth us all. And joy to the small town’s good burgher, 
 
 AVho with the countryman’s trade the trade of the burgher uniteth! 
 
 On him lies not the pressure which cripples the countryman’s efforts; 
 
 Nor is he crazed by the care of the townsmen with many requirements. 
 Who, though scanty their means, with those who are richer and higher 
 Ever are wont to vie, — most of all, their wives and their maidens. 
 
 Bless, then, for ever, say I, the tranquil pursuits of thy Hermann, 
 
 And of the like-minded partner who by him will some day be chosen!” 
 
 Thus he spake; and just then came in with her son the good mother. 
 Whom she led by the hand, and placed in front of her husband. 
 
 ^Father,” said she, “how oft have we thought, when chatting together, 
 
 Ot that jovial day which would come, when Hermann hereafter. 
 
 40 
 
Choosing a bride for himself, completed at length our enjoyment! 
 
 Backward and forward then ran our thoughts; now this one, now that one 
 Was the maiden we fix’d on for him, in converse parental. 
 
 Now, then, that day is come; now heaven itself hath before him 
 Brought and pointed out his bride, and his heart hath decided. 
 
 Did we not always then say he should choose for himself unrestricted? 
 
 Didst thou not just now wish that his feelings might for some maiden 
 Clear and lively be? Now is come the hour that you wish’d for! 
 
 Yes, he hath felt, and chosen, and come to a manly decision. 
 
 That is the maiden — the stranger — the one who met him this morning: 
 Give her him; or, he hath sworn, he remains in single condition.” 
 
 Then spake to him his son: “Yes, give her me. Father; my heart hath 
 Clearly and surely chosen; you ’ll find her an excellent daughter.” 
 
 But the father was silent. Then, rising quickly, the Pastor 
 Took up the talking, and said: “A single moment doth settle 
 All concerning man’s life, and concerning the whole of his fortune. 
 
 After the longest counsel, yet still each single decision 
 
 Is but a moment’s work; but the wise man alone takes it rightly. 
 
 Perilous is it always, in choosing, this thing and that thing 
 Still to consider besides, and so bewilder the judgment. 
 
 Hermann is clear in his views; from his youth long ago have I known him; 
 E’en as a boy, he stretch’d not his hands after this thing and that thing, 
 
 But what he wish’d did always become him, and firmly he held it. 
 
 Be not alarm’d and astonish’d, that now at once is appearing 
 What you so long have wish’d. ’Tis true that just now that appearance 
 YYars not the form of the wish which by you so long hath been cherish’d; 
 For from ourselves our wishes will hide what we wish; while our blessings 
 Come to us down from above in the form that is proper to each one. 
 
Then misjudg-e not the maid, who the soul first woke to emotion 
 In your well-belov’d son, so good and so sensible likewise. 
 
 Happy is that man to whom her hand by his first love is given. 
 
 And whose fondest wish in his heart unseen doth not languish. 
 
 Yes, I see by his look, his future lot is decided. 
 
 Youth to full manhood at once is brought by a genuine passion. 
 
 He is no changeling; I fear, that if this maid you deny him, 
 
 All his best years will then be lost in a life of deep sorrow.” 
 
 Quickly then replied the Druggist, so full of discretion. 
 
 From whose lips the words to burst-forth long had been ready; 
 
 “Let us still only adopt the middle course in this juncture; 
 
 “Speed with slow heed!” ’t was the plan pursued e’en by Caesar Aug-ustus. 
 Gladly I give up myself to serve the neighbour I value. 
 
 And for his use exert the best of my poor understanding; 
 
 And above all does youth stand in need of some one to guide it. 
 
 Let me, then, go yonder, and I will examine the maiden, 
 
 And will question the people with whom she lives, and who know her. 
 
 No one will easily cheat me; on words I can put the true value.” 
 
 Then with winged words the son immediately answer’d: 
 
 “Do so, neighbour, and go, and inquire. At the same time my wish is 
 That our respected Vicar should also be your companion; 
 
 Two such excellent men will bear unimpeachable witness. 
 
 Oh! my father, she hath not run wantonly hither — that maiden; 
 
 She is not one through the country to whisk about on adventures. 
 
 And to ensnare with her tricks the inexperienced youngster. 
 
 No, but the savage doom of that all-ruinous conflict, 
 
 Which is destroying the world, and many a firmly-built structure 
 Hath from the ground up-torn, this poor maid also hath banish’d. 
 
 42 
 
Are not noble men of hig-h birth now roving in exile? 
 
 Princes fly in disguise, and kings are doom’d to live outlaw’d. 
 
 Ah! and so, too, is she, the best of all her good sisters. 
 
 Out of her country driv’n; and her own misfortune forgetting, 
 
 Aids she the wants of others, and though without help, yet is helpful. 
 
 Great are the woe and the need which over the earth are now spreading; 
 Should not, then, from misfortune like this some good fortune follow? 
 
 And should I not in the arms of my bride, my trustworthy partner. 
 
 Reap good fruits from the war, as you from the great conflagration?” 
 
 Then replied the father, and spake with words full of meaning: 
 
 “How now, my son, hath thy tongue been loosed, which many a long year 
 Stuck to thy mouth, and moved in speech but on rarest occasions? 
 
 But I must prove to-day — the doom which threatens each father — 
 
 That the passionate will of the son is favour’d right gladly 
 By the all-gentle mother, supported by each of her neighbours; 
 
 If but the father be made an object of blame, or the husband. 
 
 But I will not resist you, thus banded together: what good were ’t? 
 
 For, in truth, I see here beforehand defiance and weeping. 
 
 Go, and examine, and with you, in God’s name, bring me my daughter 
 Home to my house; if not, he may then think no more of the maiden.” 
 
 Thus the sire. Then exclaim’d the son, with features so joyous: 
 
 “Now before night shall you have an excellent daughter provided. 
 
 E’en as the man must wish, in whose breast lives a mind full of prudence. 
 Happy will be, too, then my good maiden, — I venture to hope so. 
 
 Yes, she will ever thank me for having both father and mother 
 Given her back in you, as sensible children would have them. 
 
 But I must tarry no more; I’ll go and harness the horses 
 
 Quickly, and take out with me our friends on the track of my lov’d one. 
 
 43 
 
Then leave it all to the men themselves and their own good discernment; 
 Whose decision, I swear, I will entirely abide by. 
 
 And never see her again, until she is mine — that sweet maiden.” 
 
 Thus went he out. Meanwhile the others were weighing with wisdom 
 Many a point, and quickly discussing each matter of moment. 
 
 Hermann, then, to the stables sped, where the high-mettled horses 
 Quietly standing, their feed of clean white oats were enjoying. 
 
 And their well-dried hay, that was cut in the best of the meadows. 
 
 Quickly then in their mouths he put the bright bits of their bridles. 
 
 Drew at once the straps through the buckles handsomely plated. 
 
 Then the long broad reins to the bridle fast’ning securely. 
 
 Led the horses out to the yard, where the quick willing servant. 
 
 Guiding it well by the pole, the coach had already drawn forward. 
 
 Then with ropes so clean, and fitted exactly in measure. 
 
 Fasten’d they to the bar the might of the swift-drawing horses. 
 
 Hermann took the whip, sat down, and drove to the gateway. 
 
 And as soon as the friends their roomy places had taken. 
 
 Speedily roll’d on the carriage, and left the pavement behind them. 
 
 Left behind them the walls of the town and the towers whitely shining. 
 
 Thus drove Hermann on to the causeway now so familiar. 
 
 Quickly, and did not loiter, but still drove up hill and down hill. 
 
 But when once again he descried the tower of the village. 
 
 And at no distance once more lay the houses garden-surrounded; 
 
 Then he thought with himself it was time to pull in the horses. 
 
 Shaded by linden trees, which, in worthy pride high exalted. 
 
 Had for hundreds of years on the spot already been rooted. 
 
 There was a wide-spreading space of green-sward in front of the village, 
 AVhere the peasants and burghers from neighbouring towns met for pleasure. 
 
 44 
 
There, beneath the trees, was a well at slight depth from the surface. 
 
 As one went down the steps, the eye did light on stone benches. 
 
 Placed all round the spring, which still well’d forth living waters. 
 
 Pure, and inclos’d in low walls, for the comfort of those who were drawing. 
 There, beneath the trees, to stay with the carriage and horses 
 Hermann now determin’d, and thus address’d his companions; 
 
 “Step now forth, my friends, and go, and gain information. 
 
 Whether indeed the maid be worthy the hand which I offer. 
 
 Truly I think it, and so ye would bring me no new and strange tidings. 
 
 Had I to act for myself, I would go straight on to the village. 
 
 And with words short and few the good girl should decide on my fortune. 
 And amongst all the rest you will soon be able to know her; 
 
 For it were hard indeed for any to match her in figure. 
 
 But I will give you, further, some marks from her dress clean and simple. 
 Red is the bodice that gives support to the swell of her bosom. 
 
 Well laced up; and black is the jacket that tightly lies o’er it; 
 
 Neat the chemise’s border is plaited in form of a collar. 
 
 Which encircles her chin, so round, with the charms of its whiteness; 
 
 Freely and fairly her head displays its elegant oval; 
 
 Twisted strongly and oft are her plaits round hair-pins of silver; 
 
 Full and blue is the skirt which beneath the bodice commences. 
 
 And, as she walks along, flaps round her neatly-shaped ankles. 
 
 One thing still will I say, and from you expressly request it; 
 
 Do not speak to the maiden, nor let your purpose be noticed; 
 
 But you must question the others, and listen to all they may tell you. 
 
 When you get tidings sufficient to cpiiet my father and mother. 
 
 Then come back to me, and we’ll think of our further proceedings. 
 
 This is what I plann’d on the way, as we drove along hither.” 
 
 45 
 
Thus he spake. But his friends forthwith went on to the village, 
 
 Where in gardens, and barns, and houses the mass of the people 
 Crowded, while cart upon cart along the wide road was standing. 
 
 There to the lowing cattle and teams the men gave attention; 
 
 On all the hedges the women their clothes were busily drying; 
 
 And in the brook’s shallow water the children delighted to dabble. 
 
 Thus they went pressing on through waggons, through men, and through cattle. 
 Looking about right and left, as spies despatch’d for the purpose. 
 
 Whether they might not descry the form of the girl they had heard of: 
 
 But not one of them all seem’d to be that excellent maiden. 
 
 Soon they found the crush become greater. There, round the waggons. 
 Threatening men were at strife, while the women mix’d with them screaming. 
 Quickly then an Elder, with steps full of dignity walking. 
 
 Up to the brawlers came, and at once the hubbub was silenced. 
 
 As he commanded peace, and with fatherly earnestness threaten’d. 
 
 "‘Hath not misfortune,” he cried, “e’en yet so tamed our fierce spirits. 
 
 That we should understand at length, and bear with each other. 
 
 Living in peace, — though not each one by this rule metes out his conduct? 
 Careless of peace, to be sure, is the prosperous man; but shall trouble 
 Fail to teach us, no more, as erst, with our brother to quarrel? 
 
 Nay, to each other give place on the stranger’s soil, and together 
 Share what ye have, that so ye may meet with compassion from others.” 
 
 Such were the words of the man; and they all in silence and concord. 
 
 Thus appeas’d once more, arranged their cattle and waggons. 
 
 AVhen now the Clergyman heard the speech which the Elder had spoken. 
 
 And the pacific views of the stranger Judge had discover’d. 
 
 Straight up to him he went, and address’d him with words full of meaning; 
 “Father, ’tis true that when men live in prosperous days in their country. 
 
 Gaining their food from the earth, which far and wide opes her bosom. 
 
 46 
 
And through years and months renews the gifts that they wish for, 
 
 All then comes of itself, and each in his own eyes is wisest. 
 
 Aye, and best; and this is their standing one with another. 
 
 And the most sensible man is esteem’d but the same as his neighbour; 
 Since in quiet proceeds, as if of itself, all that happens. 
 
 But should distress disturb the usual modes of existence. 
 
 Tear the buildings down, and root up the garden and corn-field, 
 
 Drive the man and his wife from the site of their dwelling familiar, 
 
 And, as wanderers, drag them through days and nights full of anguish; 
 Ah! then look they around for the man of the best understanding. 
 
 And no longer he utters his excellent words to no purpose. 
 
 Tell me, father; you are, no doubt, the Judge of these exiles. 
 
 Who so quickly did shed the calm of peace o’er their spirits. 
 
 Yes, you appear to me as one of those leaders of old-time. 
 
 Who the exiled people through deserts and wanderings guided: 
 
 Surely, methinks I am talking with Joshua, if not with Moses.” 
 
 Then with earnest look the Judge address’d him in answer; 
 
 “Truly, our times may compare with those of rarest occurrence 
 Noted in history’s page, alike the profane and the sacred. 
 
 He Avho in days like these his life but from yesterday reckons. 
 
 Hath already lived years: so crowd the events in each story. 
 
 If but a short Avay back I travel in thought, on my head seems 
 Grey-hair’d age to be lying; and yet my strength is still lively. 
 
 Oh, Ave may Avell compare ourselves Avith those others so famous. 
 
 Who, in solemn hour, in the fiery bush saAV appearing 
 God the Lord: to us, too, in clouds and fire he appeareth.” 
 
 While noAV the Vicar was fain the discourse still further to lengthen^ 
 Longing to hear from the man his OAvn and his countrymen’s fortunes, 
 
 47 
 
Quickly with whisper’d words in his ear observ’d his companion; 
 
 “Talk on still with the Judge, and turn the discourse on the maiden, 
 
 While I am walking about to look for her; and I will come back. 
 
 Soon as I find her.” The Vicar with nod express’d his approval. 
 
 And through the hedges, and gardens, and sheds the spy began seeking.” 
 
 48 
 
W' 
 
 I 
 
 THE AGE. 
 
 When the Clergyman thus to the stranger Judge put his questions, 
 
 What were his people’s woes, and how long from their land they were driven; 
 Then the man replied: “Of no short date are our troubles; 
 
 For of continuous years the bitter dregs we have drunken. 
 
 All the more dreadful, because our fairest hopes were then blasted. 
 
 For, indeed, who can deny that his heart was highly elated. 
 
 And in his freer bosom far clearer pulses were beating. 
 
 When first rose o’er the world that new-born sun in his splendour; 
 
 When we heard of the rights of man, which to all were now common. 
 
 Heard how freedom inspired, and equality won the world’s praises? 
 
 Then did each man hope to live for himself; and the fetters 
 
 Seem’d to be loos’d, which had thrown their links over many a country. 
 
 And in the hand of sloth and selfishness long were held tightly. 
 
 Did not each man look, in those days of pressing excitement. 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 49 
 
Tow’rd the city which long the world its capital reckon’d, 
 
 And which now more than ever deserv’d the magnificent title? 
 
 Were not, too, those men who first proclaim’d the good tidings 
 Equal in name to the highest beneath the stars up in heaven? 
 
 Did not ev’ry man’s mind, and spirit, and language grow greater? 
 
 And, as their neighbours, we first were fired with lively emotion. 
 
 Then the war began, and the columns of newly-arm’d Frenchmen 
 Nearer drew; but they seem’d to bring with them nothing but friendship. 
 Aye, and they brought it too; for the souls of them all were elated. 
 
 And for all with pleasure they planted the gay tree of freedom. 
 
 Promising each man his own, and that each should be his own ruler. 
 
 Great was then the enjoyment of youth, and great that of old age. 
 
 And the gay merry dance began around the new standards. 
 
 Thus did they quickly win — those Frenchmen surpassing in talent — 
 
 First, the souls of our men by their fiery reckless adventure, 
 
 Then our women’s hearts by their irresistible graces. 
 
 Light we deem’d e’en the pressure of war, with its wants great and many; 
 Since, before our eyes, bright hope hover’d over the distance. 
 
 And allured on and on our look to the new-open’d courses. 
 
 Oh! how glad is thet ime, when along with his bride the gay bridegroom 
 Lightly trips in the dance, his long’d-for marriage awaiting! 
 
 But more glorious still was the time, when the loftiest objects 
 Man can think of appear’d nigh at hand, and of easy attainment. 
 
 Then was ev’ry one’s tongue untied, and loudly they utter’d. 
 
 Grey-beards, and men, and youths, their high intentions and feelings. 
 
 But the heavens were clouded too soon; for the prize of dominion. 
 Strove a corrupted race, unmeet to produce what was noble. 
 
Then they slew one another, and crush’d with the yoke of oppression 
 Their new neighbours and brothers, and sent forth the self-seeking masses. 
 And amongst us the high were debauching and robbing by wholesale. 
 
 And the low were debauching and robbing, e’en down to the lowest: 
 
 Each man seem’d not to care, if but something were left for the morrow. 
 Great indeed was our need, and daily increas’d our oppression: 
 
 No one heeded our cry; of the day they were absolute masters. 
 
 Then fell vexation and rage upon even the tranquilest spirit; 
 
 Each one but thought and swore for all his wrongs to take vengeance. 
 And for the bitter loss of his hope thus doubly defrauded. 
 
 Eortune changed at length to the side of the suffering Germans, 
 
 And with hasty marches the Erenchman fled back tow’rd his country. 
 
 Ah! but never till then did we feel the sad doom of warfare! 
 
 Great, and generous, too, is the victor, — at least he appears so, — 
 
 And he doth spare, as one of his own, the man he has vanquish’d. 
 
 When he is daily of use, and with all his property serves him. 
 
 But the fugitive knows no law^; if but death he may ward off; 
 
 And without any regard he quickly destroys what is precious, 
 
 Since his spirit is heated, and desperation brings forward 
 Out of the depth of his heart each lurking villainous purpose. 
 
 Nought thinks he sacred now, but he robs it. His wildness of passion 
 Rushes by force upon woman, and takes a delight in all horrors. 
 
 All around he sees death, and in cruelty spends his last moments, 
 
 Einding enjoyment in blood, and in misery’s loud lamentations. 
 
 Wrathful then in our men rose up the spirit of daring. 
 
 Both to avenge the lost, and to save their remaining possessions. 
 
 All then seiz’d on their arms, allured by the haste of the flying, 
 
 And by their faces so pale, and their looks so timid and doubtful. 
 Ceaselessly now rang out the sound of the sullen alarm-bell. 
 
Nor did the danger before them repress their furious courage. 
 
 Quickly into weapons the peaceful tools of the farmer 
 
 Now were turn’d; with blood the fork and scythe were all dripping. 
 
 None shew’d grave to the foe in his fall, and none shew’d forbearance; 
 Every where raved courage, or weakness malignant as timid. 
 
 O may I never again in such contemptuous madness 
 
 Look upon man! The beast in his rage is a pleasanter object. 
 
 Ne’er let him speak of freedom, as though himself he could govern! 
 
 Loos’d from their bands appear, when the checks are gone that restrain’d him, 
 All bad things, which the law into holes and corners had driven.” 
 
 “Excellent Sir,” replied the Vicar, with emphasis speaking, 
 
 “If you have misjudg’d man, I cannot on that account blame you; 
 
 Evil enough, to be sure, have you borne from that wild undertaking. 
 
 Still, if you would but look once more through the days of your sorrow. 
 
 You would yourself confess, how often you saw what was good, too, — 
 Many an excellent thing, which remains in the heart deeply hidden. 
 
 Should not danger incite it, and man by need be press’d forward 
 E’en as an angel, or guardian-god, to seem to his neighbour.” 
 
 Smiling then replied the Judge so aged and worthy; 
 
 “Sensibly do you remind me, as oft, when a house has been burnt down. 
 Men to the owner recal in his sadness the gold and the silver. 
 
 Which, though molten and scatter’d, lies still preserv’d in the rubbish; 
 
 Little it is, to be sure, but even that little is precious; 
 
 And the poor man digs for it, and when he has found it, rejoices. 
 
 And just so am I glad to turn my thoughts, full of brightness. 
 
 Back to those few good deeds which memory still loves to cherish. 
 
 Yes, I have seen, I will not deny it, foes joining in concord. 
 
 That they might save the town from threatening evil; seen friends, too. 
 
 52 
 
t 
 
And dear parents and children on what was impossible venture; 
 
 Seen the stripling at once grow up into manhood, — the grey-beard 
 Young once more, — and e’en the child into stripling develope; 
 
 Aye, and the weaker sex, as ’tis our custom to call it. 
 
 Shew itself valiant and strong, and for presence of mind justly famous. 
 Thus let me now relate, above all, that action most noble. 
 
 Which with high soul a maiden perform’d — the excellent virgin — 
 
 Who in the large farm-house stay’d behind along with the young girls; 
 Since the men had all gone, like the rest, to fight with the strangers. 
 
 Then came into the yard a troop of wandering rabble. 
 
 Bent upon plunder, and quickly rush’d into the women’s apartment. 
 
 There they mark’d the form of the well-grown beautiful maiden. 
 
 And those lovely girls, — or, to call them more properly, children. 
 
 Then, with wild passion possess’d, they made an assault without feeling 
 On that trembling band and on the magnanimous maiden. 
 
 But from the side of one she instantly tore the bright sabre. 
 
 Brought it down with might, and before her feet he fell bleeding. 
 
 Then with manly strokes the girls she valiantly rescued. 
 
 Wounding four more of the robbers, though these escap’d death by flying 
 Then she secured the yard, and with weapon in hand waited succor.” 
 
 When the Clergyman thus had heard the praise of the maiden, 
 
 Hope for the friend he loved at once mounted high in his bosom; 
 
 And he was on the point of asking her subsequent fortunes. 
 
 Whether along with the people she now were in sorrowful exile. 
 
 But with hasty steps just then the Druggist came to them. 
 
 Pull’d the Clergyman’s arm, and with whisper’d words thus address’d him: 
 “Surely at last I have found the maid out of many a hundred. 
 
 As the description ran! So come yourself to behold her. 
 
 53 
 
And bring with you the Judge, to tell us still further about her.” 
 
 Purposing this, they turn’d; but the Judge meanwhile, had been summon’d. 
 
 By his own people away, who, in want of counsel, required him. 
 
 But the Vicar at once prepared to follow the Druggist, 
 
 Up to the gap in the hedge; and the latter, cunningly pointing. 
 
 Said: “Do you see her — the maiden? The doll she has swaddled already, 
 And well enough do I know, now I see it again, the old satin. 
 
 And the old cushion-cover, which Hermann brought in the bundle. 
 
 These are significant marks, and the rest are all in accordance. 
 
 For the red bodice affords support to the swell of her bosom. 
 
 Well laced up; and there lies the jacket of black tightly o’er it; 
 
 Neat the chemise’s border is plaited in form of a collar. 
 
 Which encircles her chin so round with the charms of its whiteness; 
 
 Freely and fairly her head displays its elegant oval; 
 
 And the thick plaits are twisted and fasten’d round hair-pins of silver. 
 
 Though she is sitting, we still can see the height of her stature. 
 
 And the blue skirt, which in full and numerous folds from the bosom 
 Gracefully waves below, and extends to her neatly-shaped ankle. 
 
 Without doubt it is she. So come, that we may examine. 
 
 Whether she virtuous be and good, — a maiden domestic.” 
 
 Then the Vicar replied, as he look’d at the sitting girl keenly: 
 
 “That she enchanted the youth is to me, most surely, no wonder: 
 
 For she stands proof to the eye of the man of finest perception. 
 
 Happy, to whom mother Nature a pleasing person hath given! 
 
 It doth commend him always, and nowhere is he a stranger; 
 
 Each one likes to be near him, and each one would gladly detain him, 
 
 If but the grace of his manner to that of his person be suited. 
 
 Be well assured the youth has succeeded in finding a maiden 
 Who o’er the future days of his life will shed glorious lustre. 
 
 54 
 
And with the truth and vigour of woman at all times support him. 
 
 Thus, sure, perfection of body the soul also keepeth in brightness, 
 
 And thus a vigorous youth of a happy old-age still gives promise.” 
 
 But to that made reply the Druggist, inclin’d to be doubtful: 
 
 “Yet doth appearance more often deceive; I trust not the outside; 
 
 Since in times past so oft I have proved the truth of the proverb, 
 
 “Ere thou hast eaten a bushel of salt with thy new-made accjuaintance. 
 Lightly thou must not trust him; ’tis time alone can assure thee. 
 
 What thy position is with him, and what thy friendship’s endurance.” 
 
 Let us, then, first address to honest people some c[uestions, 
 
 Who both know the maid, and will give us intelligence of her.” 
 
 “I, too, approve of foresight,” the Pastor replied, as he follow’d, 
 
 “Nor do we woo for ourselves; and wooing for others is ticklish.” 
 
 And upon that they went to meet the good Judge, who was coming 
 Back again up the road, intent, as before, on his business. 
 
 Then the Vicar at once address’d him with words of precaution: 
 
 “Say! we have seen a maiden, who, in the garden close by here, 
 
 Under the apple-tree sits, and makes up clothing for children 
 Out of some worn-out satin, receiv’d, I suppose, as a present. 
 
 We were well pleas’d with her form; she seems one of those full of spirit. 
 What, then, you know of her, tell us; we ask from a laudable motive.” 
 
 When now- the Judge straigtway went into the garden to see her, 
 “Nay, ye know her,” he said, „already; for when I related 
 Of the most noble deed Avhich that young maiden accomplish’d. 
 
 When she seiz’d the sword, and herself and those with her defended. 
 
 This was she! You may see by her look that robust is her nature. 
 
 But as good as strong; for she nurs’d her aged relation 
 Up to the day of his death, Avhen torn away by affliction 
 
 55 
 
For the distress of the town, and fear for his threaten’d possessions. 
 
 Aye, and with silent courage she bore her heart’s bitter anguish 
 At her bridegroom’s death, who, a youth of generous feeling. 
 
 In the first glow of high thoughts, for precious freedom to struggle. 
 
 Even departed to Paris, and terrible death soon encounter’d: 
 
 For, as at home, so there he opposed the tyrant and plotter.” 
 
 Thus, then, spake the Judge. With thanks both were going to leave him. 
 When the Pastor drew forth a gold-piece, (the silver already 
 Had, some hours before, left his purse in kind distribution. 
 
 When he saw the poor exiles in sorrowful crowds passing by him). 
 
 And to the Judge he held it out, and said; “This poor farthing 
 Share thou amongst the needy, and God to the gift grant an increase!” 
 
 Yet did the man refuse, and said: “Nay, but many a dollar 
 
 And much clothing and stuff from the wreck of our fortunes we rescued 
 
 And shall again, I trust, go back before all is exhausted.” 
 
 Then replied the Vicar, and into his hand press’d the money, 
 
 “No one should wait to give in these days of trouble, and no one 
 Should refuse to accept what to him in kindness is offer’d. 
 
 No one knows, how long he may hold his peaceful possessions. 
 
 No one, how long still in foreign lands he may wander. 
 
 And be without the field and the garden, which ought to maintain him.” 
 
 “Aye, indeed,” then observ’d the Druggist, that keen man of business, 
 “Did now my pocket but hold any money, you quickly should have it. 
 Large coin or small alike; for your people’s wants must be many. 
 
 Yet will I not let you go without a gift; that my wishes 
 
 Still may be seen, however the deed may fall short of the wishes.” 
 
 Thus he spake, and forward the leathern pouch well embroider’d 
 Drew by the string, in which was kept his tobacco, and op’ning 
 
 56 
 
Nicely shared it with him; and many a pipe-full was found there. 
 
 ^‘Small is the gift,” he added; to which the Judge quickly answer’d: 
 
 “Nay, but good tobacco to travellers ever is welcome;” 
 
 And upon that the Druggist began to praise his Kanaster. 
 
 But the good Vicar then drew him away £ind the Judge they now quitted. 
 “Haste we,” said the man of good sense; “the youngster is waiting 
 Painfully; let him then hear with all possible speed the good tidings.” 
 
 So they hasten’d, and came, and found their young friend on the carriage 
 Leaning there, beneath the lindens. The horses were stamping 
 Wildly upon the turf, and he held them in check, and stood thoughtful. 
 Silently looking before him, nor saw his friends till the moment 
 When they came to him with shouts and signs of their gladly returning. 
 Even when still at a distance, the Druggist began to address him; 
 
 Yet they still approach’d unperceiv’d. Then his hand the good Vicar 
 Seiz’d, and said, thus snatching away the word from his comrade: 
 
 “Joy to thee now, young man! Thine eye and thy heart truly guided 
 Rightly have chosen. Good luck to thee and thy youth’s blooming partner! 
 Worthy is she of thee! Then come, and turn round the carriage. 
 
 That we may drive with all speed, till we come to the end of the village. 
 And, having woo’d her, at once may take to your house the good maiden.” 
 
 Yed did the youth stand still, and without any tokens of pleasure 
 Heard the messenger’s word, though of heavenly power to give comfort. 
 Then with a deep sigh he said: “We came with hurrying carriage, 
 
 And we shall drive back home, perhaps, with shame and full slowly. 
 
 For, while waiting here, a load of care hath come o’er me. 
 
 Doubt, and suspicion, and all that afflicts a lover’s heart only. 
 
 Think ye, that if we but go, the maiden will surely come with us. 
 
 Since we are rich, and she a poor and wandering exile? 
 
 57 
 
Poverty, undeserv’d, e’en makes men prouder. Contented 
 
 Seems the maiden, and active, and so has the world at her summons. 
 
 Think ye there ever grew up a woman of beauty and feeling 
 Such as hers, without luring some good youth on to adore her? 
 
 Think ye she hath not yet her heart to love ever open’d? 
 
 Go not thither so fast; we might, to our shame and confusion. 
 
 Turn back slowly home our horses. The fear doth possess me 
 That some youth owns her heart, and the excellent maiden already 
 Hath both plighted her hand, and her true love breath’d to that bless’d one. 
 Ah! then indeed shall I stand before her asham’d of my offer.” 
 
 To console him, the Vicar his mouth already had open’d. 
 
 But, in his talkative way, his companion did thus interrupt him: 
 
 “Surely in former times we should not have thus been embarrass’d. 
 
 When in its own proper way each business was brought to completion. 
 
 Then, if e’er for their son a bride the parents had chosen. 
 
 First, a friend of the house in whom they trusted was summon’d. 
 
 He, then, as wooer was sent, and begg’d to confer with the parents 
 Of the selected bride; and, dress’d in his finest apparel. 
 
 After dinner on Sunday he paid the good burgher a visit, 
 
 Interchanging with him at first on general topics 
 
 Friendly words, and well skill’d to direct and lead round the subject. 
 
 After much beating about, the daughter at length was commended. 
 
 And the man and his house from whom he receiv’d his commission. 
 
 I 
 
 Sensible people perceiv’d his object; the sensible envoy 
 Soon perceiv’d their wishes, and might explain himself further. 
 
 If they disliked the offer, there then was no painful refusal. 
 
 But if it proved successful, the wooer was then ever after 
 First to be seen in the house at each domestic rejoicing: 
 
 For the good married couple their whole lite through did remember 
 
 58 
 
That the first knots were tied by the hands commission’d to tie them. 
 
 But all that is now, with other such excellent customs, 
 
 Quite gone out of fashion, and each for himself is the wooer. 
 
 Wherefore let each himself in person receive the refusal 
 Destin’d for him, and stand with shame before the proud maiden.” 
 
 “Be it, e’en as it may!” replied the youth, who had scarcely 
 Heard all the words, and in silence had form’d his own resolution. 
 
 “I will in person go, and in person learn what my doom is. 
 
 Out of the maiden’s mouth, in whom my trust is the greatest 
 Man ever yet tow’rd w^oman within his bosom did cherish. 
 
 What she says, must be true, and according to reason; I know it. 
 
 If for the last time now I must see her, yet once, and once only. 
 
 Will I the open gaze of that black eye go to encounter. 
 
 Though to my heart she may ne’er be press’d, yet that breast and those shoulders 
 Will I yet once more see, which my arm so longs to encircle; 
 
 Once more will see that mouth, from which one kiss and one “Yes” would 
 Make me happy for ever, -—• one “No” for ever undo me. 
 
 But now leave me alone; you must not wait, but returning 
 
 Go to my father and mother, that they may learn from your story 
 
 That their son did not err, and that there is worth in the maiden. 
 
 And so leave me alone. By the foot-path over the hill-side 
 Will I go back by a nearer way. And O that my dear one 
 I may with joy and speed lead home I But perhaps b)" that foot-path 
 I may slink lonely home, and never again tread it gladly.” 
 
 Thus he spake, and put the reins in the hand of the Vicar, 
 
 Who receiv’d them with skill and command o’er the foam-cover’d horses. 
 
 Quickly mounted the carriage, and sat in the seat of the driver. 
 
 59 
 
But thou still didst tarry, thou prudent neighbour, and saidest: 
 
 “Gladly, my friend, with soul and mind and heart would I trust thee; 
 
 But the body and limbs are not preserv’d most securely. 
 
 When to the secular rein the ghostly hand makes pretension.” 
 
 But thou didst smile at that, thou sensible Vicar, and saidest: 
 
 “Take but your seat, and your body commit to me, e’en as your spirit. 
 Long ago has this hand been train’d to wield the reins deftly. 
 
 And this eye is well skill’d to hit the turn most artistic. 
 
 For ’twas our custom at Strasburg to drive full oft in the carriage. 
 
 When I accompanied thither our good young Baron; and daily 
 
 Roll’d through the sounding gateway our carriage, with me as the driver, 
 
 Out on the dusty roads far away to the meadows and lime-trees. 
 
 Right through the midst of the croAvds who the live-long day spend in wmlking.” 
 
 Half assured, upon that the Druggist mounted the carriage. 
 
 Sitting as one who prepared a prudent leap to accomplish; 
 
 And the steeds gallop’d home, with thoughts intent on the stable. 
 
 Under their powerful hoofs were clouds of dust streaming upward. 
 
 Long stood the youth there yet, and watching the dust as it mounted. 
 Watch’d it still as it fell, and stood devoid of reflection. 
 
 6o 
 
DOROTHEA. 
 
 As the traveller, ere the sun sank below the horizon, 
 
 Fix’d once more his eyes on the orb now fast disappearing. 
 
 Then in darkling copse and along the side of the mountain 
 Sees its hovering form, and where’er his glance he now turneth. 
 
 There it speeds on, and shines, and wavers in glorious colours; 
 
 4 
 
 So before Hermann’s eyes did the lovely form of the maiden 
 Softly move on, and seem’d in the path to the corn-field to follow. 
 
 But from his dream of rapture he woke, and slowly proceeded 
 Tow’rd the village, and then was enraptur’d again, for again came. 
 Meeting him there in the way, the glorious maiden’s tall figure. 
 
 Closely he mark’d her, — it was no ghost, but her own very person. 
 Bearing in either hand her larger jug by the handle 
 And a smaller one, thus she walk’d to the well, full of business. 
 Joyfully went he up to meet her; the sight of her gave him 
 
 6i 
 
Courage and strength; and thus he spake to his wondering dear one; 
 
 “Do I then find thee here, brave maiden, so soon again busy. 
 
 Helping others, and gladly still comforting all that is human? 
 
 Say, why com’st thou alone to the spring which lies at such distance. 
 
 While with the village-water the others all are contented? 
 
 This, I suppose, must be of particular virtue and flavour. 
 
 Perhaps to that sick woman, so faithfully rescued, thou bear’st it.” 
 
 Then the good maiden at once with friendly greeting thus answer’d: 
 “Surely my coming thus here to the well is already rewarded. 
 
 Since I find the good youth who before with so much supplied us; 
 
 For, as the gifts themselves, the sight of the giver is pleasant. 
 
 Come now, and see for yourself, who hath reap’d the fruits of your kindness; 
 And receive the calm thanks of all to whom you gave comfort. 
 
 But, that you now may learn at once my object in comings 
 Here to draw, where the spring flows pure and ever unceasing. 
 
 This is the reason I give. Our thoughtless men in the villag'e 
 Everywhere have disturb’d the water, with horses and oxen 
 Trampling right through the spring which supplies the whole population. 
 
 Just in the same way, too, have they soil’d, with washing and cleaning. 
 
 All the troughs in the village, and all the wells have corrupted; 
 
 For to provide with all speed for himself and the want next before him. 
 
 This alone each man studies, and thinks not of what may come after.” 
 
 Thus she spake, and then at once to the broad steps descended 
 With her companion, and there they sat them both on the low wall, 
 
 Down by the springe To draw the water she then did lean over; 
 
 And of the other jug he laid hold, and leant over likewise: 
 
 And their mirror’d forms they saw in the bright blue of heaven, 
 
 Hov’ring with nods to each other, and greeting, like friends, in the mirror. 
 
 62 
 
“Let me drink,” then said the youth in the joy of his feelings; 
 
 And she held him the jug. Then both of them trustingly rested, 
 
 Leaning over the vessels; and then her friend she thus question’d: 
 
 “Say, how find I thee here, without the carriage and horses. 
 
 Far away from the spot where I saw thee at first? What has brought thee?” 
 
 Thoughtfully Hermann look’d on the ground, then rais’d up his glances 
 Quickly tow’rds the girl, and with friendly gaze in her dark eye 
 Felt himself calm and assured. Yet to speak of love to her now was 
 Put quite out of his power; her eye not love was now looking, 
 
 But clear sense, and demanded such sense in their whole conversation. 
 
 Thus he was soon collected, and said with confidence to her: 
 
 “Let me speak, my child, and give a reply to your question. 
 
 It was for you I came here; and why should I wish to conceal It? 
 
 For with both my parents, who love me, I live and am happy, 
 
 * Faithfully helping them manage their house and other possessions. 
 
 As their only son; and manifold are our emplo3^ments. 
 
 All the fields are my care, •— the house, my diligent father’s, — 
 
 And my active mother gives life to the whole of the business. 
 
 But thou hast doubtless, like others, observ’d how sorely the servants. 
 Whether through lack of thought, or of honesty, trouble the mistress. 
 
 Ever compell’d to change, and take one fault for another. 
 
 Wherefore m}^ mother long wish’d In her house to keep such a servant 
 As not with hand alone, but also with heart would assist her. 
 
 In the place of the daughter she lost long ago, to her sorrow. 
 
 Now, when I saw thee to-day by the waggon so joyously active. 
 
 Saw the strength of thine arm and th}^ limbs’ perfection of soundness, — 
 When to thy words I listen’d, so full of good sense. It all struck me. 
 
 And I hasten’d back home, to my parents and friends for that service 
 
 63 
 
To commend the stranger. But now I am come to inform thee 
 Of their wishes and mine. Forgive me my faltering language.” 
 
 “Shrink not,” then she said, “from speaking what yet should be spoken; 
 No offence do you give, but with grateful feelings I ’ve listen’d. 
 
 Speak it then plainly out; your words can never affright me. 
 
 You would like to engage me as maid to your father and mother. 
 
 Over your well-furnish’d house intrusted with full supervision; 
 
 And you believe that in me you Avould find a capable maiden. 
 
 Well adapted for work, and not of a rough disposition. 
 
 Briefly your offer was made, — as brief shall be, too, my answer. 
 
 Yes, I will go Avith you, and folloAA” where destiny leads me. 
 
 Here my duty is done; the new-born infant’s poor mother 
 I have restored to her OAvn, and they all rejoice in their rescue. 
 
 Most of them here already, the rest soon hoping to join them. 
 
 All of them think, indeed, in a few short days they shall hasten 
 Back to their home; for so is the exile ever self-flatter'd. 
 
 But with hopes light as this I dare not cheat my own bosom 
 In these sorrowful days, which still portend days of sorroAv. 
 
 For the bands of the Avorld are loosen’d, and Avhat shall re-bind them. 
 
 But the most urgent need, such as that Avhich o’er us is hanging? 
 
 If in the worthy man’s house I can gain my bread as a servant. 
 
 Under the eye of his Avife so industrious, gladly I ’ll do it; 
 
 Since the wandering maiden hath still a repute that is doubtful. 
 
 Yes, I Avill go Avith you, so soon as the jugs of the strangers 
 I have restored, and, further, have ask’d from those good friends a blessinm 
 Come, you must see them yourself, and straight from their hands must receive me.” 
 
 Glad was the youth to hear the Avilling maiden’s decision. 
 
 Doubting AAdiether he noAV should not OAAm the truth fully to her; 
 
 64 
 
1 
 
But it appear’d to him best to leave her still to her fancy, 
 
 And to conduct her home, and there first woo her affection. 
 
 Ah! and he mark’d the gold ring, Avhich the maiden wore on her finger, 
 And let her still speak on, while he paid to her words deep attention. 
 
 “Let us now hasten back,” she thus continued, “the maidens 
 Always fall into blame, who linger too long at the fountain. 
 
 Yet by the running spring to chat is still so delicious!” 
 
 Thus they arose, and look’d yet once more, standing together. 
 
 Into the well; and sweet was the longing that seiz’d on their bosoms. 
 
 Silently, then, the maid, taking hold of both jugs by the handle. 
 Mounted again the steps, while Hermann folloAv’d his lov’d one. 
 
 Wishing to take a jug, and bear his share of the burden. 
 
 “Nay’, let it be,” she said, “all loads are lightest when even; 
 
 And I must not be serv’d by the master who soon will command me. 
 Look not so serious at me, as though my fortune were doubtful. 
 Woman should learn in time to serve,— ’tis her natural calling; 
 
 For through serving only attains she at length to commanding. 
 
 And to that well earn’d power she wields by right in the household. 
 Gladly the sister serves her brother, the daughter her parents; 
 
 And so her life is still a continual coming and going. 
 
 Still a lifting and bearing, arranging and doing for others. 
 
 Well for her, if her habits be such that no path is too irksome; 
 
 That the hours of the night are to her as the hours of the day-time; 
 That her work never seems too fine, or her needle too tiny; 
 
 But that herself she entirely forgets, and can live but in others. 
 
 Then, as a mother, in truth she needs one and all of the virtues, 
 
 When in her sickness the babe awakes her, for nourishment craving. 
 Weak as she is, and care to her pains is abundantly added. 
 
Twenty men together would not endure so much trouble: 
 
 Nor are they bound; but they ’re bound, when they see it, to shew themselves thankfulT 
 
 Thus she spake; and now, with her thoughtful silent companion. 
 
 Passing on through the gardens she came to the site of the barn-floor. 
 
 Where the poor mother lay, whom she left so glad with her daughters. 
 
 Those very girls she had saved, — the pictures of innocent beauty. 
 
 Both of them then walk’d in, and soon in the other direction. 
 
 Leading a child in each hand, the honour’d Judge also enter’d. 
 
 These had been hitherto lost to the eyes of their sorrowing mother. 
 
 But by the worthy Elder had now in the crowd been discover’d; 
 
 And they eagerly sprang to kiss their dearly-lov’d mother. 
 
 And to rejoice in their brother, their yet unknown little playmate. 
 
 On Dorothea next they sprang, and kiss’d her right friendly. 
 
 Asking for bread, and fruit, and for something to drink, above all things. 
 
 Then she handed the water round, and of it the children 
 
 Drank, and so did the mother and daughters, and so did the Elder. 
 
 All were pleas’d with their draught, and prais’d the excellent water. 
 
 Which a slight mineral taste for man made refreshing and wholesome. 
 
 Then with serious looks the maid replied, and address’d them: 
 
 “This is perhaps the last time, my friends, that I ever shall carry 
 Round to your mouths the jug, and moisten your lips with its water. 
 
 But when henceforth ye quaff a draught in the heat of the midday. 
 
 And in the shade enjoy your rest and the pure-gushing fountain. 
 
 Oh, then think too of me, and my friendly service amongst you. 
 
 Which from feelings of love I render’d, e’en more than of kindred. 
 
 Through the rest of my life shall I own all the kindness you shew’d me. 
 
 Truly I grieve to leave you; though now is each to his neighbour 
 More a burden than comfort; and still in the land of the straneer 
 
 66 
 
Must we all look to die, if return to our home be denied us. 
 
 See, here stands the youth to whom we owe thanks for the presents, — 
 Both for the baby’s clothing here, and those viands so welcome. 
 
 Hither he comes to beg that in his house he may see me. 
 
 Acting as servant there to his rich and excellent parents; 
 
 And I have not refus’d; for a maiden must serve in all cases. 
 
 And to sit quiet at home and be waited on she would deem irksome. 
 Therefore I follow him gladly; in sense the youth seems not deficient. 
 
 Nor will his parents be, — as befits their wealthy condition. 
 
 Wherefore now, my dear friend, farewell! and long may the baby 
 Live to delight your heart, who now in such health looks up to you. 
 
 But whene’er to your bosom he ’s press’d in these bright-colour’d wrappers. 
 Oh, then think of the youth so kind, who with them supplied us. 
 
 And will henceforth to me too, your kinswoman, give food and clothing. 
 
 And do you, excellent Sir,” (she turn’d to the Judge while thus speaking,) 
 “Take my thanks for having so often been to me a father.” 
 
 And upon that she kneel’d down to the new-born infant’s good mother. 
 Kiss’d the weeping woman, and took the blessing she whisper’d. 
 
 Meanwhile to Hermann said the Judge most worthy of honour; 
 
 “Well may’st thou claim, my friend, to be number’d with sensible landlords. 
 Who with capable persons are anxious to manage their household. 
 
 For I have mark’d full oft, that sheep, and horses, and cattle 
 Are with the nicest care by touching and handling examin’d; 
 
 While that human aid, which, if able and good, saveth all things. 
 
 But destroys and demolishes all by its wrong interference. 
 
 That men take to their house by chance and accident only. 
 
 And, when too late, repent of an over-hasty arrangement. 
 
 But you seem to know this; for you have chosen a maiden 
 Who is good, in your house to serve yourself and your parents. 
 
 67 
 
Keep her well; for while she an interest takes in your business, 
 
 You will not miss the sister you lost, nor your parents their daughter.” 
 
 Meanwhile many came in, — near relatives of the good mother, — 
 Bringing many a gift, and news of more suitable lodging. 
 
 All heard the maiden’s resolve, and gave their blessing to Hermann, 
 
 With significant looks, and thoughts of peculiar meaning. 
 
 For the poor exiles there were whispering one to another: 
 
 “If of the master a bridegroom come, then indeed is he rescued.” 
 
 Then did Hermann take hold of her hand, and said to her quickly: 
 
 “Let us begone; the day is declining, the town is far distant.” 
 
 Then, with liveliest talk, the women embraced Dorothea; 
 
 Hermann drew her away; yet with many a kiss was she greeted. 
 
 But all the children still, with screams and terrible weeping. 
 
 Clung to her clothes, and would not their second mother relinquish. 
 
 But the women thus spake, first one, then another, commanding: 
 
 “Silence, children! she ’s going away to the town, and will bring you 
 Plenty of good sugar-bread, which your little brother there order’d. 
 
 When past the baker’s shop by the stork* he lately was carried: 
 
 And you will soon see her back, with the paper-bags handsomely gilded.” 
 Thus, then, the children releas’d her: and Hermann, though not without trouble. 
 Tore her away from their arms, and their far-off beckoning kerchiefs. 
 
 * The reader who has not lived in Germany may require to be informed, that according to the nursery 
 belief in that country, all babies are carried to the house, and carefully dropped down the chimney, by the 
 storks; instead of being brought in the Doctor’s pocket, as in England. 
 
 68 
 
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 
 
 T hus the two went away tow’rd the sun now deelining, 
 
 Who, storm-threat’ning, in clouds his form had deeply envelop’d, 
 
 And from the veil, now here, now there, with fiery glances 
 Shot forth over the land the gleams of the ominous lightning. 
 
 “Oh! may this threatening weather,” thus Hermann said, “not soon bring us 
 Storms of hail and furious rain I for fine is the harvest.” 
 
 And they both rejoiced at the sight of the corn high and waving. 
 
 Which well nigh reach’d up to the tall figures then passing through it. 
 
 Then the maiden said to the friend who was guiding her foot-steps; 
 “Kind one, whom first I’ve to thank for a pleasant portion-safe shelter. 
 
 While ’neath the open sky the storm threatens many exiles. 
 
 Tell me now, first of all, and teach me to know both your parents, 
 
 09 
 
Whom to serve in future with all my soul I am anxious. 
 
 For, if one knows his master, he better can give satisfaction. 
 
 When he thinks of the things which to him seem of greatest importance. 
 And upon which his mind he set with most earnest attention. 
 
 Wherefore tell me, I pray, how to win your father and mother.” 
 
 Then replied thereto the good youth of clear understanding: 
 
 “Oh, how right do I deem thee, thou good and excellent maiden. 
 
 Asking first, as thou hast, concerning the views of my parents! 
 
 For in my father’s service in vain till now have I striven. 
 
 While to his business, as though ’twere my own, myself I devoted. 
 
 Early and late to the field and the vineyard giving attention. 
 
 But my mother I pleas’d well enough, for she knew how to prize it. 
 
 Aye, and thee, too, no less will she think the most excellent maiden. 
 
 If thou take care of the house, as though ’twere thine own to attend to. 
 But with my father not so; for he loves appearances likewise. 
 
 Do not take me, good girl, for a son that is cold and unfeeling. 
 
 If so soon I unveil my father to thee, quite a stranger. 
 
 Nay but I swear that this is the first time such an expression 
 E’er hath escaped from my tongue, which is not given to prattling. 
 
 But, since thou dost from my bosom elicit, each proof of reliance. 
 
 There are some graces in life for which my father is anxious, — 
 Outward marks of love, as well as respect, which he wishes; 
 
 And he would be, perhaps, pleas’d with quite an inferior servant. 
 
 Who could make use of this, and would angry be with the better.” 
 
 Cheerfully then she said, as along the darkening pathway 
 Now with a quicker step and lighter movement she hurried, 
 
 ‘‘Surely to both at once I hope to give ample contentment; 
 
 Since thy mother’s mind accords with my own disposition. 
 
 And to external graces from youth I have ne’er been a stranger. 
 
Those French neighbours of ours, in former times, of politeness 
 Made no little account; to the nobleman and to the burgher. 
 
 Aye, and the peasant, ’twas common, and each to his own did commend it. 
 And just so amongst us, on the German side, e’en the children 
 Brought with hissings of hand and curtseyings every morning 
 Wishes of joy to their parents, and all the day long would repeat them. 
 
 All which I then did learn, to which from my youth I’m accustom’d, —- 
 And which comes from my heart, to my elder master I’ll practise. 
 
 But now who shall tell me, to thee what should be my behaviour, — 
 
 Thee their only son, and to me in future a master?” 
 
 Thus she spake, and just then they arriv’d at the foot of the pear-tree. 
 Glorious shone the moon, at her full, down on them from heaven; 
 
 For it was night, and the sun’s last gleam was totally hidden. 
 
 Thus were spread out before them in masses, the one by the other. 
 
 Lights as bright as the day, and shades of the night that are darkest. 
 
 And that friendly question was heard with pleasure by Hermann 
 Under the noble tree, in the spot so dear to his fancy. 
 
 And which that self-same day had witness’d his tears for the exile. 
 
 Thus while there beneath it they sat for a short time to rest them. 
 
 Seizing the maiden’s hand, the enamour’d youth said in answer; 
 
 “Let thine own heart tell thee, and follow it freely in all things.” 
 
 But no further word did he risk, though the hour so much favour’d; 
 
 For he fear’d that his haste might only bring a refusal. 
 
 Ah! and,he felt, too, the ring on her finger, — that token so painful. 
 
 Thus, then, sat they still and in silence beside one another. 
 
 But the maiden began, and said, “How sweet do I find it 
 Watching the glorious light of the moon! The day is scarce brighter. 
 Yonder I clearly see in the town the houses and homesteads. 
 
 And in the gable a windoAv; methinks the panes I can number.” 
 
“What thou seest,” then replied the youth, restraining his feelings, 
 
 “Is the place where we dwell, and down to which I will lead thee; 
 
 And that window there in the roof belongs to my chamber. 
 
 Which will, perhaps, now be thine, for some change we shall make in the household. 
 These are our fields, now ripe for the harvest beginning to-morrow. 
 
 Here in the shade will we rest, and enjoy our meal in the noon-tide. 
 
 But let us now go down, proceeding through vineyard and garden; 
 
 For see yonder! the storm is coming on heavily o’er us. 
 
 Flashing lightning, and soon will extinguish the full-moon so lovely.” 
 
 So they arose, and pursued their way o’er the fields that lay under. 
 
 Through the magnificent corn, in the night’s clear splendour rejoicing. 
 
 Till to the vineyard next they came, and enter’d its darkness. 
 
 And down its many slabs he thus fain to conduct her, 
 
 AVhich were laid there unhewn, as steps in the leaf-cover’cl pathway. 
 
 Slowly wmlk’d she down, now resting her hands on his shoulders, 
 
 AVhile with wavering lustre the moon through the leave overlook’d them. 
 
 Till, in storm-clouds conceal’d, it left the couple in darkness. 
 
 Carefully thus the strong youth the dependent maiden supported: 
 
 But, not knowing the path, and unused to the rough stones along it. 
 
 Missing her step, she twisted her foot, and well-nigh had fallen. 
 
 Hastily then stretching out his arm, the youth, quick and clever. 
 
 Held his beloved one up; when she gently sank on his shoulder. 
 
 Bosom reclining on bosom, and cheek on cheek. Yet he stood there 
 Stiff as a marble-statue, his earnest wishes restraining. 
 
 Still not pressing her closer, and still her dear weight supporting. 
 
 Thus, then, he felt that glorious burden — the warmth of her young heart. 
 
 And the balm of her breath, on his lips exhaling its fragrance. 
 
 And with the feeling of man bore woman’s heroical greatness. 
 
But she conceal’d her pain, and said in jocular language; 
 
 “That betokens trouble, — so say all scrupulous people, — 
 
 When, on ent’ring a house, not far from the threshold the foot twists. 
 Truly, I well could have wish’d for myself a happier omen. 
 
 But let us wait a short time, that thou be not blamed by thy parents 
 For the poor limping maid, and be thought an incompetent landlord.” 
 
 73 
 

 
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PROSPECT. 
 
 Muses, ye who the heart’s true love so gladly have favour’d, 
 
 Who thus far on his way the excellent youth have conducted. 
 
 And to his bosom have press’d his maiden before the betrothal. 
 
 Help still further to perfect the tie of the love-worthy couple. 
 
 Parting at once the clouds which over their happiness gather! 
 
 But, before all, relate what within the house is now passing. 
 
 There for the third time already th’impatient mother returning 
 Enter’d the men’s room, which first she had left with anxiety, speaking 
 Of the approaching storm, and the moon’s quick veiling in darkness. 
 Then of her son’s remaining abroad, and the dangers of night-time; 
 While she well chided the friends, who, without a word to the maiden, 
 Wooing her in his behalf, from the youth so quickly had parted. 
 
 75 
 
“Make not the evil worse,” replied the dispirited father, 
 
 “For we ourselves, thou seest, tarry here, and abroad do not venture.” 
 
 But their neighbour began to speak, as he sat there so tranquil; 
 
 “Truly in hours of disquiet, like these, I always feel grateful 
 To my departed father, who rooted up all my impatience. 
 
 While I was yet a boy, and left not a fibre remaining; 
 
 Aye, and not one of the sages so quickly learnt to wait cjuiet.” 
 
 “Say,” replied the Vicar, “what means the old man had recourse to.” 
 “That will I gladly tell you, since each for himself may well mark it,” 
 Answer’d then the neighbour. “I stood one Sunday impatient. 
 
 When I was yet a boy, for the carriage eagerly waiting. 
 
 Which was to take us out to the Avell ’neath the shade of the lime-trees. 
 Still it came not, and I, like a weasel, ran backward and forward, 
 
 Stepping up and down, and from window to door, without ceasing. 
 
 Oh, how my hands did tingle! and how I was scratching the table. 
 Tramping and stamping about, and ready to burst into crying! 
 
 All was seen by the tranquil man; but at length, when I acted 
 Quite too foolish a part, by the arm he quietly took me. 
 
 Leading me up to the window, with words of dubious purport; 
 
 ‘Seest thou, closed for the day, the carpenter’s workshop o’er yonder? 
 
 It wall be open’d to-morrow, and plane and saw will be busy; 
 
 And so will pass the industrious hours, from morning till evening. 
 
 But bethink thee of this; the morrow will one day be coming. 
 
 When the master will stir him, with all his workmen about him. 
 
 Making a coffin for thee, to be quickly and deftly completed; 
 
 And over here all so busy that house of planks they Avill carry. 
 
 Which must at last receive the impatient alike and the patient, 
 
 And a close-pressing roof very soon to bear is appointed. 
 
 All straightway in my mind I saw thus really happen. 
 
 76 
 
Saw the planks join’d together, the sable colours preparing, 
 
 And once more sitting patient in quiet aAvaited the carriage. 
 
 Thus, whenever I now see others in doubtful expectance. 
 
 Awkwardly running about, I needs must think of the coffin.” 
 
 Smiling, the Vicar replied: “The picture of death ever busy 
 Strikes not the wise with fear, nor is view’d as an end by the pious: 
 
 Back into life it urges the one, for its dealings instructed. 
 
 And for the other in sorrow it strengthens the hope of the future. 
 
 Death becomes life to both. And so it was wrong in your father 
 Death to present as death to the eye of sensitive boyhood. 
 
 Nay, rather shew to youth the worth of old age ripe in honours. 
 
 And to the old man sheAV youth; that so the ne’er-ending circle 
 Both may enjoy, and life in life may fully accomplish’d.” 
 
 But now the door was thrown open, and shew’d the magnificent couple; 
 And astonishment seiz’d the friends and affectionate parents 
 At the form of the bride, nearly equalling that of the bridegroom. 
 
 Yea, the door seem’d too small to allow the tall figures to enter. 
 
 Which, as they came on together, were now seen crossing the threshold. 
 Hermann with hurried Avords presented her then to his parents; 
 
 “Here,” he said “is a maiden brought into your house, my dear father. 
 
 Just as you wish’d: gwe her welcome; for that she deserves. And, dear mother 
 She hath already inquired the whole extent of our business: 
 
 So that you see how well henceforth she deserves to be near you.” 
 
 Hastily then aside he drew the excellent Vicar, 
 
 Saying: “Most Avorthy Sir, noAV help me in this my dilemma 
 
 Quickly, and loosen the knots, whose entanglement makes me quite shudder. 
 
 For I have not yet dared as my bride to sue for the maiden. 
 
 But as a servant she Aveens she is come to the house; and I tremble. 
 
Lest she refuse to stay, as soon as we think about marriage. 
 
 But let it quickly be decided; no longer in error 
 
 Shall she remain; nor can I any longer endure to be doubtful. 
 
 Haste then, and shew in this case the wisdom for which we revere thee.” 
 
 Then the Pastor at once went away, and return’d to the party. 
 
 But already the soul of the maiden was grievously troubled 
 Through the father’s address, who at once, with kindly intention 
 Words of sprightly purport in joking manner had spoken: 
 
 “Aye, this is pleasant, my child! I am glad to see that my son is 
 
 Bless’d with good taste, like his sire, who (as those of his day knew) did always 
 
 Lead the finest girl to the dance, and at length brought the finest 
 
 Into his house, as his wife, — and that was my Hermann’s dear mother. 
 
 For by the bride a man chooses it needs not long to discover. 
 
 What a spirit he ’s of, and whether he feels his owm value. 
 
 But you required, I suppose, but short time to form your conclusion; 
 
 For, sure, it seems to me that he ’s not such a hard one to follow.” 
 
 Hermann but slightly caught these words, but his limbs to the marrow 
 Quiver’d, and all at once the whole circle was hush’d into silence. 
 
 But the excellent maiden by words of such cruel mocking, 
 
 (As they appear’d,) being hurt and deeply wounded in spirit. 
 
 Stood there, her cheeks to her neck suffused with quick-spreading blushes. 
 
 Yet her feelings she check’d, and her self-possession regaining. 
 
 Though not entirely concealing her pain, thus spake to the old man; 
 
 “Truly, for such a reception your son quite fail’d to prepare me, 
 
 Painting to me the ways of his father, that excellent burgher. 
 
 And I am standing, I know, before you, the man of refinement. 
 
 Who with judgment behaves to each one, as suits their positions. 
 
 But for the poor girl, methinks, you have not sufficient compassion. 
 
 78 
 
Who has now cross’d your threshold, and comes prepared for your service; 
 Else with such bitter mocking you surely would not have shown me, 
 
 How far my lot from your son and from yourself is now sever’d. 
 
 Poor, indeed, and with this small bundle I come to your dwelling. 
 
 Which is furnish’d with all that marks a prosperous owner; 
 
 But I well know myself, and thoroughly feel my position. 
 
 Is it noble to make me at once the butt of such mocking 
 
 As, on the very threshold, well-nigh from your house drove me backward?” 
 
 Much was Hermann alarm’d, and made signs to his friend the good Pastor, 
 That he should interfere, and at once put an end to the error. 
 
 Quickly the prudent man stepp’d up, and saw in the maiden 
 Silent chagrin, and pain subdued, and tears on her eyelids. 
 
 Then his soul urged him on, not at once to end the confusion. 
 
 But still further to test the afflicted heart of the maiden: 
 
 And upon that he address’d her with words of searching intention: 
 
 “Surely, thou foreign maiden, thou didst not wisely consider, 
 
 When with all haste thou resolvedst to be a servant to strangers. 
 
 What it is to live with a master, subject to orders; 
 
 For, but once strike the hand, and thy whole year’s doom is decided; 
 
 And the “Yes” but once spoken to much endurance will bind thee. 
 
 Truly, wearisome days are not the worst part of service. 
 
 Nor the bitter sweat of work everlastingly pressing; 
 
 Since the freeman, if active, will labour as hard as the bond-slave. 
 
 But to endure the whims of the master who blames without reason, 
 
 Wantmg now this, now that, with himself still ever at discord; 
 
 Aye, and the pettish mood of the mistress who soon waxes angry. 
 
 Join’d to the children’s rough and insolent want of good manners; 
 
 This is hard to bear, and still be performing your duty 
 Undelaying and prompt, and without any sullen objections. 
 
Truly, thou seem’st not well-suited for this, since the jokes of the father 
 Wound thee so deeply at once; and yet there is nothing more common 
 Than to teaze a girl about finding a )"outh to her fancy.” 
 
 Thus he spake: but his cutting words were felt by the maiden. 
 
 And she no longer refrain’d, but her feelings display’d themselves strongly. 
 Causing her bosom to heave, while groanings burst their way from it; 
 
 And with hot gushing tears she at once address’d him in answer: 
 
 “Oh! the wise man ne’er knows, when he thinks in our pain to advise us. 
 How little power his cold words can have to release our poor bosoms 
 From the woes which the hand of imperious doom lays upon them. 
 
 Happy are ye, and glad; and how should a joke then e’er wound you? 
 
 But by the man who is sick e’en the gentle touch is felt painful. 
 
 No, ’twould avail me nothing, e’en though my disguise had succeeded. 
 
 Let, then, at once be seen, what later had deepen’d my sorrow. 
 
 And had brought me, perhaps, to misery silently-wasting. 
 
 Let me again begone! In the house no more may I tarry. 
 
 I will away, and go to seek my poor people in exile. 
 
 Whom I forsook in their trouble, to choose for my own profit only. 
 
 This is my firm resolve; and now I may dare to acknowledge 
 That which else in my heart full many a year had lain hidden. 
 
 Yes, the father’s mocking hath deeply wounded me; not that 
 I am peevish and proud, (which would ill become a poor servant,) 
 
 But that, in truth I felt in my heart a strong inclination 
 
 Tow’rds the youth who to-day had appear’d as my saviour from evil. 
 
 For when first on the road he had gone and left me, his image 
 Linger’d still in my mind, and I thought of the fortunate maiden. 
 
 Whom, perhaps, as his bride in his heart he already might cherish. 
 
 And when I found him again at the w^ell, the sight of him pleas’d me 
 Not at all less than if I had seen an anorel from heaven; 
 
 
 8 o 
 
And my consent was so glad, when he ask’d me to come as a servant! 
 Yet my heart, it is true, on the way (I will freely confess it) 
 
 Flatter’d me with the thought that I might perhaps earn his affection. 
 
 If I should some day prove a stay the house could not dispense wdth. 
 Oh! but now for the first time I see the risk I encounter’d. 
 
 When I would dwell so near to an object of silent devotion. 
 
 Now for the first time I feel how far a poor maiden is sever’d 
 From the youth who is rich, although she were never so prudent. 
 
 All this now have I told, that you may not my heart misinterpret. 
 
 Hurt as it was by a chance which has brought me back to my senses. 
 For, while my silent wishes were hid, I must needs have expected 
 That I should next see him bring his bride to her home here conducted; 
 And how then had I borne my unseen burden of sorrow? 
 
 Happily have I been warn’d, and happily now from my bosom 
 Has the secret escaped, while yet there were cures for the evil. 
 
 But I have spoken enough. And now no more shall ought keep me 
 Here in the house, where I stand in shame alone and in anguish. 
 
 Freely confessing my love and the hope which sprang from my folly; — 
 Not the night, far and wide in brooding clouds now' envelop’d. 
 
 Not the roaring thunder (I hear it) shall keep me from going; 
 
 No, nor the gush of the rain, which abroad drives down with such fury. 
 Nor the whistling storm. All this ere now have I suffer’d 
 In our sorrowful flight, with the enemy closely pursuing: 
 
 And I will now go forth again, as I ’ve long been accustom’d. 
 
 Caught by the whirlwind of time, to part from all I could cherish. 
 
 Fare ye well! I can stay no longer, but all is now over.” 
 
 Thus she spoke, and again to the door was quickly returning, 
 
 Still keeping under her arm the little bundle brought with her. 
 
 But with both her arms the mother laid hold of the maiden. 
 
Clinging round her waist, and cried in wond’ring amazement: 
 
 “Say, what mean’st thou by this, and these tears now shed to no purpose? 
 No, I will not permit thee; — thou art my son’s own betroth’d one.” 
 
 But the father stood there displeas’d with Avhat was before him. 
 
 King the weeping women, and spoke with the words of vexation: 
 
 “This, then, befalls me at last, as the greatest test of forbearance. 
 
 That at the close of the day what is most unpleasant should happen! 
 
 For I find nothing so hard to bear as the weeping of women. 
 
 And the passionate scream, that with eager confusion commences 
 Scenes which a little good sense might soften down with more comfort. 
 Irksome is it to me still to look on this wondrous beginning: 
 
 Ye must conclude it yourselves, for I to my bed am now going.” 
 
 And he quickly turn’d round, and hasten’d to go to the chamber. 
 Where his marriage-bed stood, and where he was still wont to rest him. 
 But his son held him back, and said with words of entreaty: 
 
 “Father, make not such haste, nor be angry because of the maiden. 
 
 I alone have to bear the blame for all this confusion. 
 
 Which our friend, by dissembling, made unexpectedly greater. 
 
 Speak, then, worthy Sir, for to you is the matter confided. 
 
 Heap not up trouble and grief, but rather bring all to good issue; 
 
 For, in truth, I might never in future so highly respect you. 
 
 If but pleasure in mischief you practis’d for glorious wisdom.” 
 
 Speaking then with a smile, the worthy Vicar made answer: 
 
 “Say, what cleverness, then, could have won so fair a confession 
 From the good maiden here, and her heart before us uncover’d? 
 
 Has not thy sorrow at once been turn’d into bliss and rejoicing? 
 
 Wherefore but speak for yourself: what need of a stranger’s explaining?” 
 Hermann now coming forward with joyful words thus address’d her: 
 
 “Do not repent of thy tears, nor of pains so fleeting as these are; 
 
 82 
 
For they but bring my joy, and thine too, I hope, to perfection. 
 
 Not to hire as a servant the stranger, the excellent maiden. 
 
 Came I up to the well; — I came thy dear love to sue for. 
 
 O but out on my bashful glance! which thy heart’s inclination 
 Was not able to see, but saw in thine eye nought but friendship. 
 
 When in the calm well’s mirror thou gavest me there such kind greeting. 
 Merely to bring thee home the half of my happiness gave me. 
 
 And thou art now completing it quite: my blessing be on thee!” 
 
 Then did the maiden look at the youth with deepest emotion, 
 
 And refus’d not th’ embrace and kiss, — the crown of rejoicing. 
 
 When they at length afford to lovers the long-wish’d assurance 
 Of their life’s future joy, which now seems of endless duration. 
 
 All meanwhile to the rest had been explain’d by the Vicar. 
 
 But the maiden came with bows of hearty affection 
 
 Gracefully made to the father; and kissing his hand, though retracted. 
 
 Said: “It is surely but right that you pardon a poor surpris’d maiden. 
 
 First for her tears of pain, and now for her tears of rejoicing. 
 
 Oh! forgive me that feeling, forgive me this present one also; 
 
 And let me comprehend my happiness newly imparted. 
 
 Yes, let the first annoyance which in my confusion I caus’d you 
 
 Be now at once the last! That service of faithful affection 
 
 Which was your maid’s bounden duty, your daughter shall equally render.” 
 
 Hiding then his tears, the father cjuickly embraced her; 
 
 And the mother came up with kisses familiar and hearty. 
 
 Shaking her hand in her own, while the weeping women were silent. 
 
 Speedily then laid hold the good and Intelligent Vicar, 
 
 First, of the father’s hand, and drew the wedding-ring off it, 
 
 (Not so easily, though; for the plump round finger detain’d it,) 
 
 Then the mother’s ring he took, and affianced the children; 
 
 83 
 
Saying: “Once more let the rings of gold discharge their glad office, 
 Closely securing a tie which exactly resembles the old one. 
 
 Deeply this youth is pierced through and through wdth love of the maiden, 
 And the maiden hath own’d that the youth, too, hath call’d forth her wishes. 
 Wherefore I here betroth you, and bless you for ever hereafter. 
 
 With your parents’ consent, and with this true friend to bear witness.” 
 
 And the neighbour at once bow’d his head, with wishes for blessings. 
 But when the reverend man the golden ring was now placing 
 On the maiden’s finger, he saw with amazement the other. 
 
 Which before, at the well, had been view’d with sorrow by Hermann: 
 
 And he said thereupon with words of friendly jocoseness: 
 
 “What! for the second time art thou now betroth’d? May the first j’outh 
 Not appear at the altar, with words forbidding the marriage!” 
 
 But she said in reply: “Oh, let me to this dear memento 
 Consecrate one short moment; for well did the good man deserve it. 
 
 Who, when departing, gave it, and never came back for the nuptials. 
 
 All was foreseen by him at the time when his longing for freedom. 
 
 And his desire to act in the scenes of a novel existence, 
 
 Urged him quickly to Paris, where dungeon and death he encounter’d. 
 
 “Live, and be happy,” said he; “I go; for all that is earthly 
 Now is changing at once, and all seems doom’d to be sever’d. 
 
 In the most settled states the primary laws are departing; 
 
 Property is departing from even the oldest possessor; 
 
 Friend is departing from friend, and love from love, in like manner. 
 
 I now leave thee here; and where I may e’er again find thee. 
 
 Who can tell? Perhaps this may be our last conversation. 
 
 Man, it is rightly said, on earth is only a stranger; 
 
 More a stranger than ever has each one in these days been render’d. 
 
 Even our soil is ours no longer; our treasures are wand’ring; 
 
 84 
 
Gold and silver are melted from forms which time had made sacred. 
 
 All is moving, as though the world, long form’d, would dissolve back 
 Into Chaos and night, and be form’d anew for the future. 
 
 Thou wilt for me keep thy heart; and if we again meet hereafter, 
 
 Over the wreck of the world, we both shall then be new creatures, 
 
 Quite transform’d and free, and no longer dependent on fortune; 
 
 For what fetters could bind the man who survived such an epoch? 
 
 But if it is not to be, that happily free’d from these dangers 
 We should one day again with joy return to each other; 
 
 Oh; then keep in thy thoughts my image, still hov’ring before thee; 
 
 That thou with equal courage for joy and grief may’st be ready. 
 
 Should a new home appear, and new connexions invite thee. 
 
 Then enjoy thou with thanks whate’er by thy fate is provided; 
 
 Love them well that love thee, and for kindness shew thyself grateful 
 Yet e’en then set thy foot but lightly, where all is so changeful; 
 
 For the redoubled pain of new loss still near thee is lurking. 
 
 Holy be that thy day! Yet esteem not life of more value 
 Than ought else that is good; and all that is good is deceitful.” 
 
 Thus he spake, and before me the noble one ne’er, reappeared. 
 
 All meanAvhile have I lost, and a thousand times thought of his warning 
 And now I think of his words, when so splendidly love is preparing 
 Joy for me here, and disclosing most glorious hopes for the future. 
 
 Oh! forgive me, my excellent friend, if I tremble while leaning 
 E’en on thine arm! So deems the sailor, at length safely landed. 
 
 That the firmly-set base of the solid ground is still rocking.” 
 
 Thus she spake, and placed the rings, one close to the other. 
 
 But the bridegroom said, with noble and manly emotion; 
 
 “All the firmer be, in this shaking of all things around us, 
 
 Dorothea, this tie! Yes, we will continue still holding, 
 
 85 
 
Firmly holding ourselves and the good things we have in possession. 
 
 For in wavering times the man whose views also waver 
 Does but increase the evil, and spread it further and further; 
 
 While he who firmely stands to his views mouls the world to his wishes. 
 
 Ill becomes it the German the fear-inspiring commotion 
 Still to prolong, and still to be staggering hither and thither. 
 
 “This is ours!” so let us assert, and maintain our assertion! 
 
 Men of resolute minds are still ever valued the highest. 
 
 Who for God and the law, for parents, for wives, and for children 
 Battled, against the foe together standing, till vanquish’d. 
 
 Thou art mine, and now what is mine is more mine than ever. 
 
 Not with vexation of heart will I keep, and with sorrow enjoy it. 
 
 But wdth courage and might. And should our foes threaten at present. 
 Or in future, equip me one thyself and hand me my weapons 
 Knowing that thou wilt attend to my house, and affectionate parents. 
 
 Oh! I shall then ’gainst the foe stand with breast of fearlips assurance. 
 And if but each man thought as I think, then quickly would stand up 
 Might against might, and of peace we all should share the enjoyment.” 
 
 86 
 
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