: . : ; .. ; - SZ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES MASTERPIECES GERMAN POETRY. GERMAN POETRY. TRANSLATED F. H. HEDLEY. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS WANKE. LONDON : TRUBNER & CO., 57 & 59, LUDGATE HILL. 1876. All Atg/tts reserved. LONDON : WERTHEIMER, LEA AND CO., PRINTERS, CIRCUS PLACE, FINSBURV CIRCUS. FT TO OTTOMAR HAUPT, ESQ., (Hjig HJolnnu IS DEDICATED AS A TOKEN OF A FRIEND'S AFFECTION, BY THE AUTHOR. 917SI3 INDEX. The Song of the Bell. By Fr. von Schiller ... i Nuptial Song. By J. W. von Goethe . . . . 19 The Wizard's Apprentice. By the same ... 23 The Minstrel's Curse. By Ludwig Uhland ... 27 Harald. By the same . . . . . . .32 On Austria. By Franz Grillparzer .... 35 The Walk at Midnight. By George Herwegh . . 37 My Child. By F. Viet. Strauss 40 Two Kinds of Birds. By Nicolaus Lenau ... 42 A Friend. By F. Bodenstedt 44 'T is one of Life's Unkindly Dispositions. By Jos. Viet. Scheffel 45 To the Sea. By Anastasius Griin . . . . 47 Oh, love as long as love you can. By Ferdinand Freiligrath ........ 50 I.eognir. By Fr. Halm . . . . . . 52 The Ghost of Wurzburgh. By E. Geibel . . . 56 My Native Land so Mighty. By Robert Hamerling . 60 The Bridge. By the same 62 The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar. By H. Heine ... 64 The Castle of Boncourt. By A. von Cham it so . . 68 I Loved Thee. By Her r man Ling^ .... 70 The Forger, fly J. G. Seidl 71 The Open Cupboard. By Nicolatts Lenan ... 76 The Bridge. By Anastasiits Griin .... 78 Bertran de Born. By L. Uhland .... So Song. By Herrman Lingg 83 The Gipsy Boy in the North. By E. Gcibel ... 84 The Parrot of the Aturians. By Ernst Curtitts . . 87 Lenore. By G. A. Burger ...... 90 The Old Buffoon. By Anastasius Grun . . . 101 APPENDIX. The Strike of the Smiths ; from the French. By Francois Cop fee . . . . . . . 107 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Sans at % SCHILLER. Vivos voco Mortuos plango, Fulgura frango. IN the earth immured and grounded, Stands the mould of harden'd clay. This day shall the Bell be sounded ! Quick, my men, then work away. From the heated brow, Must the dew-drops flow, If the work should praise our merit ; Blessings we from Heav'n inherit. The work, o'er which we're gravely bending, With earnest words we '11 gravely greet ; With seemly speech its progress blending, Will make it speed on nimble feet. Then let us now with care endeavour To show what feeble strength can frame, B MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. And scorn the wretched man who never Premeditates his labour's aim. The noblest treasure man possesses And therefore was he crown'd with thought- Is, that within his heart's recesses, He feels what with his hand he wrought. Take the pine-tree's sturdy stem, But well season'd let it be, That the concentrated flame Rush along the brazen sea Fling the copper in, Quick then add the tin, That the metal's tough alloy, Fusing crown our hopes with joy. What here the busy hand is framing, With fire's aid beneath the ground, High in the belfry, loud proclaiming, 'Twill tell of us with booming sound. And still, in distant ages tolling, To many hearts it will appeal, With many mourners be condoling, With solemn chorus blend its peal. And what unto the earth-born mortal, The changeful tide of fortune brings, THE SONG OF THE BELL. That striketh at the brazen portal, And solemnly it onward rings. See ! white bubbles are up-oozing ; Well ! the metal 's melting fast, Salts, the molten mass infusing, Will accelerate the cast. But of cinders free, Let the mixture be, So that from the unblemish'd Bell Rich and clear the voice may swell. For with a glad and festive sound, The cliimes upon the infant creep, When, on its life's first mission bound, 'T is borne upon the arm of sleep. On time's unfathomable breast Its dark and happy fortunes rest; Its mother's love and tender sorrow Watch fondly o'er each golden morrow; The years on rapid pinions fleet. The boy parts proudly from the maiden, Forth rushing into life's campaign, The world he measures lightly laden; A stranger, he comes home again ; And sweetly in her beauty's prime, As formed upon celestial strands, MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. With blushing cheeks and grace sublime, The virgin now before him stands. And a delicious, nameless longing Comes o'er the youth ; alone he strays ; The tear-drops to his eyes are thronging, He shuns his brother's noisy ways, With blushes he her steps o'ertraces, Enraptured meets her smiling eye, And with the fairest flow'rets graces The darling of his reverie. Oh, dulcet hope, most sweet emotion, Oh, affluence of love and bliss ! The heart bounds on a golden ocean, And revels in its happiness. Ah ! could it last in such perfection, The happy time of young affection ! See, how brown the pipes are growing ! This assay I will plunge in, If a glassy surface showing, We the casting may begin. Now, my helpmates, quick ! Ply the testing-stick, Try if hard and soft combined Mingling blend as we designed. THE SONG OF THE BELL. For where severity and grace, Where force and gentleness embrace, It blends harmoniously and strong. Then prove, who seek a lasting bond, If to the heart the heart respond ! Illusion's short, repentance long. Sweetly in the bridal tresses Doth the virgin garland twine, While the merry peal addresses Welcome to the festive shrine. Ah ! life's brightest festival Also ends life's golden morn. With the zone, and with the veil, Sweet illusion's web is torn. Though passions decay, Yet love must survive ; The bloom fades away, The fruit still must thrive ; And man must go forth In the battle of life, Must venture the strife, And planting and striving, And wrestling, contriving, Must run in the race, His fortune to chase. MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Then blessings abundant flow in without measure, The barns are replenished with heavenly treasure, The stores are increasing, the building expands, And within is busy The modest matron, The family mother, E'er wisely presiding, The household guiding.' There schooling the girls, Here ruling the boys, And endlessly fagging, Her hands never flagging, Increasing the gains, With order and pains; With treasures o'erspreading the fragrant deal, And twisting the thread on the whirring wheel, And on the shelves' brightly glistening boards, The snowy linen she busily hoards, And all things to use and to beauty disposes ; And never reposes. And the father, with gladsome gaze, From his homestead's far-seeing gable His flourishing fortune surveys, His far-spreading forest he measures, And the granaries teeming with treasures, THE SONG OF THE BELL. And the storehouses bursting with grain, And the cornfields' wide waving-plain, Boasts there in proud admiration : " Firm as the earth's foundation, Against misfortune's might My house stands fair and bright ; " But with the powers of destiny There can no lasting compact be, And misfortune comes apace. Well, the casting may begin, For the fracture shows most fair; But, before we pour it in, Offer up an humble prayer. Out, thou plugging loam ! God protect our home ! Reeking, rolling, roaring, rushing, Forth the fiery flood comes gushing. Beneficent is Fire's might, When man controls and curbs its spite; And all he fashions, all he frames, He owes unto the force of flames ; But fearful grows this heav'nly force, }Vhen fetterless it wings its course, Proceeding in its progress wild As Nature's independent child. MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Woe, when from its bonds arising, Swelling on at boundless will, Crowded streets their course devising, Flames their dreadful flight fulfil ! For the elements despising Hate the works of human skill. From the clouds Blessings tend, Rains descend, From the clouds, reckless, rash, Darts the flash ! Hark ! the steeple's note of harm ! The alarm ! Crimson bright Glows the sky, That is not the broad day-light ! Hue and cry In the street ! Smoke-clouds fleet ! Flaring high the flames ascending, Down the street's long passage bending, Onward whirling, never-ending. Boiling, as from furnace flowing, Blow the breezes ; beams are glowing, Timber crashing, casements reeking, Children wailing, mothers shrieking, THE SONG OF THE BELL. Beasts lie smother'd, Ruin cover'd, All is hurry, rescue, flight, Bright as day the awful night. Hand to hand in long procession, Swift succession, Hurls the bucket; high up-soaring Fountains rise, their floods out-pouring. Rushing comes the storm that roaring With the fierce flames whirling wars, Crackling in the parched stores Falling, in the hoarded sheaves, In the roofs well season'd eaves, And, as if in its career It would hurl the earth's whole spite Onwards in tremendous flight, Towers up to heaven's sphere Giant-high ! Hopelessly Man succumbs to Heaven's decrees ; Musing, he his labors sees, And admiring, perish there. Burnt and blasted Lies the homestead, Savage tempests' barren bed. 10 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. In the bleak and hollow casements Terrors cower, And the clouds of heaven lower, Staring in. One adieu To the perish'd Home he cherished, Murmurs man and then anew His wand'ring staff is bravely flourished. Howe'er by fire's rage bereft, One sweetest comfort's still in store, He numbers all his fond ones o'er, And, see ! his darlings all are left. Earth and ore have done their duty, Well replenished is the clay; Will it also rise in beauty, Art and labour to repay? Should our luck be curst ! Should the mould have burst 1 Ah ! perhaps, while hope-elated, All our pains may be frustrated. Unto the dark and hallow'd earth We dedicate our work and deed, THE SONG OF THE BELL. II The sower dedicates the seed, And hopes it thriving may give birth To blessings, as by Heav'n decreed. More precious seed do we entomb, Consigning it to earthly rest, And hope that from its coffin'd gloom 'Twill rise to spheres more bright and blest. From the dome, A funeral knell, Gravely doling, Booms the Bell. Sadly do its mournful numbers Greet a wand'rer to eternal slumbers. Ah ! the wife it is, the cherished ; Ah ! it is the faithful mother Whom the Prince of Shades is bearing, From her husband's arm is tearing, From her tender infant's care, That to him she blooming bare; That she on her faithful breast Growing watched, and fondly bless'd ; Ah! the sweet domestic bands Are dissolved for evermore, For she dwells in shadow-lands Who was mother here before; 12 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Her fond care no more is guiding, And her love has pass'd away ; O'er the orphan'd home presiding Will th' unloving stranger sway. Till the Bell shall be congealed, Let stern labour rest awhile. Free as bird by twigs concealed, Each his leisure may beguile. When the stars appear, Of all duties clear, Glad the boy when evening closes ; But the master ne'er reposes. Gaily in the distance wending Through the wild wood fares the wand'rer, To his cherish'd cottage bending. Bleating, home the sheep are flocking, And the cattle's Broad-faced herds come lowing, Slowly winding, Their accustom'd stables finding. Rumbling in Rolls the waggon, Harvest laden; Bright with colours, THE SONG OF THE BELL. 13 On the corn-sheaves Lies the garland, And the merry troop of reapers Join the dance. Silent grow the streets and market ; Round the cheerful chimney circling Th' inmates of the house assemble, And the town-gate grating closes. Darkness veileth Earth around ; But the tranquil townsman haileth Glad the night, While with fright the sinner paleth, For the eye of law is bright Sacred Order! bliss-surrounded Child of Heaven, ever blending, Like with like, to comfort tending; That hast cities planned and founded, Summoning, 'mid strife and ravage, From the woods th' ungenial savage ; Entering human habitations, Teaching harmony to nations, And weaving that most sacred band, That binds man to his native land. 14 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Many thousand hands are striving, Joining all with gladsome care, And in arduous contriving, Each his power brings to bear. Master and apprentice toiling, On the .wings of Freedom borne, Each rejoicing in his calling, , And defying scoff and scorn. Industry adorns a nation, Blessing is their toil's reward, Honour to the sov'reign's station, Honour to our labour hard. Blessed Peace, Delightful Concord, Hover, hover, Brightly smiling o'er this city! May we never know the hour When rough war's o'erwhelming forces Hurtle through this peaceful valley, When the heavens, That the tender red of evening Sweetly show, With the villages' and cities' Dreadful conflagrations glow. THE SONG OF THE BELL, 15 Now break up the loamy building, It has done its duty well; That, to our exertions yielding, We behold the perfect Bell. Wield the hammer, wield, Till the casing yield ! Ere the Bell in beauty rise We the mould must sacrifice. The master may destroy the mould With judgment when occasion calls ; But, woe, when bursting from its hold, The boiling metal rends its walls ! Blind raging, with loud thunder's crashing, It bursts its broken bonds in twain, And, as from open Hell out-flashing, Destruction blazes in its train; Where brutal force in madness reigns, No structure e'er perfection gains; When nations their own fetters rive, Prosperity can never thrive. Woe ! when in cities' bosom glowing The firebrand 's in secret nurs'd, The people, their own yoke o'erthrowing, For self-deliverance madly thirst ! 1 6 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Then sounds the Bell, that wildly yelling, Shrieks out the hideous revolt, And else in peaceful measures swelling, Now gives the signal for assault. Freedom, equality ! are vaunted ; The peaceful citizen flies to arms. The streets with ruffians are haunted, And bands of murd'rers strike alarms. Then women to hyenas changed With horrors frantically jest ; Like beasts from all remorse estranged The heart from out their foes they wrest Naught more is sacred ; rent, disgraced Are all the bonds of pious awe ; The good by miscreants are displaced, And crimes and vices know no law. 'Tis dangerous to rouse the lion, The tiger's fangs destruction wage; But Terror's most terrific scion Is Man in his delirious rage. Woe be to them who lend the light Of Heaven's torch to sightless fools ! It cheers them not, can but ignite, And ashes mark the realms it rules. ifoncorbui shall be its name! THE SONG OF THE BELL. 17 Joy my God to me has given ! See ! like to a star of gold, From its casing, smooth and even, We the metal core unfold. Bright from crest to rim, Gleaming clear and trim ; And th' escutcheon neat and shining, Laud the maker's wise designing. Stand round ! stand round ! My helpmates all, the Bell surround, To consecrate it and proclaim : CONCORDIA shall be its name. In concord, and in peaceful harmony, It shall convoke the fond community. And this henceforth its mission be, Which man did at its birth decree ! High o'er this mean terrestrial dwelling, Aloft in Heaven's azure tent, At thunder's gates it shall be swelling, A neighbour to the firmament; Shall sound as a celestial message, And like the stars in hallowed sphere, That laud their Maker in their passage, Shall usher in the circling year ; c l8 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Things grave, eternal, only noting, Its metal mouth shall soothing chime, And hourly, on its swift wings floating In rapid flight shall touch at time. It shall to fortune lend expression; Itself unfeeling, void of heart, It shall attend with its vibration Life's ever-changing motley mart. But when its mighty music waneth, That strikes the ear with thrilling sway, Then it shall teach that nought remaineth, That all on earth must pass away. Now with force of ropes combined From its tomb uplift the Bell, That to realms of sound consigned, High in Heaven it may dwell ! Heave it, hoist it, raise ! See ! it moves, it sways ! Joy unto this town expressing, PEACE shall be its peal's first blessing ! U'upiial Song, GOETHE. WE sing a glad song of the gallant old knight Who here in this castle was dwelling, Where now at the wedding feast, merry and bright, The cup to his grandson you 're filling. Xo\v the knight had been fighting in holy Crusade, Where honours had crowned his victorious blade, And when he alighted at home from his jade, His castle unguarded appeared; Of servants and property cleared. Here you are, noble count, here you are, safe at home, But of home you will be none the fonder! The winds through the windows at liberty roam, Through the halls and the chambers they wander. But what's to be done in the bleak autumn night ? Full many I 've spent in a much sadder plight, The morning has ever again put all right. So quick by the moon's misty glitter, To bed, in the straw, in the litter. 20 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. And in his delectable slumber he hears Something hurrying skurrying past him, The rat, he may rustle without any fears, If I had but a breadcrumb to cast him ! But see ! there is standing a wee little wight, A pigmy so tiny, with lamp shining bright, The air of a speaker, and gait all upright, Full up at the weary count peeping, Who though awake, fain would be sleeping. " We Ve taken the liberty," thus he began, "To feast in the halls you've forsaken; And since we had fancied you far o'er the main, We intended loud revels to waken. And if you '11 permit us, and loathe not the sight, The dwarfs hold a revel convivial and bright To honour the bride on her nuptial night." The count in the pleasure of slumber: " Be ever your joys without number." Three riders now enter from under the bed, They ride forth in stately succession ; Then, singing and ringing, a queer cavalcade Comes after, in motley procession. And carriage on carriage with furniture bright, 'T would almost deprive one of hearing and sight, As only the courts of great monarchs bedight ; NUPTIAL SONG. 21 At last in a bright gilded carriage The bride and the guests of the marriage. Now all of them scamper, and all of them run, For seats, through the hall they are whirling; For frisking and whisking and frolicsome fun Each chooses, each conquers a darling. They pipe and they fiddle, they twang, clang and clash, They glide and they glitter, they dance, dart and dash, They twitter and titter, they flirt and they flash; The knight he looked on with a shiver, He fancied himself in a fever. Now a clatt'ring and prattling and rattling is heard, Chairs, tables and benches are moved, And each of them tries at the festival board, To seat himself next his beloved ; They bring hams and sausages dainty to see, And sirloins and fish and the poultry so wee; The sparkling wine circles in gladness and glee; They chatter and prattle so long, Till at last they are hushed in a song. And if we should sing all that after befell, Then cease all the clang and the clatter, 22 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. For what he saw here on so pigmy a scale, He witnessed, enjoyed on a greater. Loud flourishes, ringing and singing so gay, And carriages, horsemen and bridal display, All come and appear and then curtsey away, Innumerous gentlefolks pleasant ; Thus it was, and is also at present. 's Apprentice. GOETHE. HA, at last the old magician Has beta'en himself away ! And my magic erudition Now his spirits shall obey. All his spells and speeches I did well construe, And my magic teaches Me to conjure too. Wend thee ! wend thee On thy mission, My volition To fulfil; To the water swiftly bend thee, Full and fresh my bath to fill. Come, thou broom, so old and rotten ! Wrap thy wretched rags around thee; For a drudge thou wast begotten; Now enact what I command thee ! 24 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Two light legs convey thee, Topmost be a head ; Now nor stop nor stay thee With thy pail ! Be sped ! Wend thee ! wend thee On thy mission, My volition To fulfil; To the water swiftly bend thee, Full and fresh my bath to fill. See, he runs down to the river ; Verily is at the bank, Back now rushes to deliver Gushing floods into the tank. Twice he goes already ! How each vessel fills ! How the waters eddy With unnumber'd rills ! Leave it ! leave it ! In full measure Thou thy treasure Hast conferred ! Woe is me ! I now perceive it ! I have quite forgot the word ! THE WIZARD'S APPRENTICE. 25 Ah, the word which can transfigure Him to what he was before ! And he runs and brings with vigor ! VVert thou but the broom of yore ! Here again he rushes, With his streaming scourge, And a hundred gushes Now around me surge ! No, no longer I '11 endure it ; I '11 secure it ! This is spiteful ! And my fears grow strong and stronger ! See his look, how weird and frightful ! Oh, thou imp of Hell abhorrent, Wilt thou drown us house and home? O'er each threshold bursts a torrent, Every crevice vomits foam. Ah, confounded besom That will not obey ! Broomstick, list to reason ! I entreat thee, stay ! Will, then, never Pity touch thee? I will clutch thee, I will cleave thee, And thy crazy wood shall shiver, And my sharp axe shall achieve thee. 26 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. See, again he trudges hither ! As I throw myself upon thee Straight, oh imp, thy spite shall wither; Crashing falls the sharp edge on thee. Truly ! well directed ! See, he is in twain ! Now I am collected, Freely breathe again ! Help ! preserve me ! Both the parted Sticks have started Into life, And stand ready dight to serve me ! Powers supernal ! end this strife ! And they hurry ! fast and faster Sweeps the flood o'er hall and stairs. What a horrible disaster! Lord and patron ! hear my prayers ! Ah, here comes the master! Lord, my grief is sore ! Those I thought to master I can tame no more. Back, depart ye, Broom be banish'd ! Broom be vanish'd ! Cease disaster ! For as spirits none may start ye, Save when needful, the Old Master. And all around of gardens a wreath of blossoms fair, Where founts in rainbow beauty refreshed the fragrant air. There sat a haughty tyrant, in wars and victories bred; He sway'd his ruthless sceptre, so darkly and so dread ; For in his thoughts is horror, and in his eye is rage, And in his words are scourges, and blood on ev'ry page. One day unto this castle two noble minstrels fared, The one in golden ringlets, the other silver-haired; 28 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. With harp in hand, the old man a prancing palfrey rrode, While merrily beside him his young companion strode. "Now, boy," thus spake the elder, "refresh thy memory's train, Strike to the richest accents, recall our deepest strain ; Collect thy every effort ; of joy and sorrow sing ! We come this day to soften the stony-hearted king." The minstrels stand already the column'd hall within, d And on the throne are sitting the monarch and his queen ; The king in awful splendour, like fiery northlight's glare, The queen so mild and gentle, like moonbeams falling there. Now struck his harp the minstrel, and from its every chord A rich and ever richer deep swelling strain he poured ; THE MINSTRF.L'S CURSE. 29 Then forth like sounds from Heaven the boy's clear accents rang, While like a spectral chorus the hoary harper sang. They sing of love and gladness, of blissful golden days, Of liberty and honour, of faith and holiness ; They sing of all that's lovely, man's bosom to elate, They sing of all that 's lofty, man's heart to elevate. The scornful throng of courtiers forget their wonted t sneer, ^^^ The king's most dauntless warriors now bow in & pious fear, The queen, dissolv'd in sadness and pleasure pure and sweet, She throws from her fair bosom the rose to the minstrel's feet. " Ye have seduced my people, entice ye now my queen ?" Thus screams the king in frenzy, he trembles in his spleen, He flings his sword, which flashing, pierces the young boy's breast, From whence, 'stead golden carols, the crimson life- blood press'd. 30 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. And as by tempest scatter'd the crowd flies in alarm,- The youth lies pale and lifeless in his old master's arm, He binds him on his palfrey, his cloak the funeral pall, And silently and slowly he leaves with him the hall. But 'fore the lofty portal, the aged minstrel stays, He grasps his harp, his treasure, the harp of happier days ; Against a marble pillar he smites it in despair, Then lifts his voice, and wildly his curses rend the air : " Woe be to thee, proud mansion ! may never more sweet song A/ /V Sound through thy column'd chambers melodiously along ; No, nought but groans and murmurs and slaves' desponding cries, Till o'er thy mould'ring ruins th' avenging spirit rise ! " Woe be to you, fair gardens, bright in the May- morn air ! IP- To you I show this corpse's distorted frigid stare, THE MINSTRELS CURSE. 31 That henceforth you may wither, that every foun- tain dry, That you in future ages may parched and desolate lie! " Woe be to thee, foul murd'rer ! thou curse to minstrel's name ! In vain be all thy wrestling for wreaths of gory fame, Thy name be disremember'd, in dark oblivion veil'd, Be like the breath expiring, in vacancy exhaled !" Loud cried the aged minstrel, and Heaven heard the cry, The walls are rent asunder, the halls in ruins lie ; One pillar still bears witness of vanish'd pomp and might, And that, already riven, may shatter over night Instead of fragrant gardens a barren desert land, No tree sheds cooling shadows, no spring escapes the sand. The king's name is unmention'd in song or glorious verse : Sunk deep in dark oblivion ! that is the Minstrel's Curse. UHLAND. IN front of his brave army, the valiant Harald rode, The way through forests dreary the pale moon dimly showed. And many a conquered banner waved stately in the gale, And many songs of victory rang over hill and dale. But hark! what is it rustling and whisp'ring in the trees ? What rises from the waters and floats upon the breeze ? What scatters flowers gaily? what ravishingly sings? What skips among the warriors, and on the horses springs ? What wooes so soft with kisses, and nestles close and sweet? And grasps the sword, and gently lifts the rider from his seat? HARALD. 33 It is the airy legion of Elves so light and gay ; They Ve borne the warriors swiftly to Fairyland away. But only he withstood them, Harald, the valiant knight. Clad all around in armour, he dares all foes to fight. Eloped are all his warriors, there lie their swords and shields ; The horses, lacking masters, range wild in woods and fields. From thence in greatest sadness, rode Harald the proud knight, He rode through dreary forests, alone by Luna's light. Hark ! from the rock there bubbles a limpid crystal rill, The knight springs from his charger, he stoops, his thirst to still. But see ! his limbs are dropping, scarce has he cooled his lip, When on the rock reclining, he nods and falls asleep. D 34 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. And years full many a hundred, he slumbers on that stone, His head sunk on his bosom, his long beard grizzly grown. When lightnings flash, and roaring the thunders vaunt their might, Then grasps his falchion dreaming, Harald, the hoary knight. GRILLPARZER. LOOK all around ! where'er you gaze, behold How all the land smiles like a bride serene: The verdant meads, the harvest's waving gold, With flax and saffron winking from the green, With herbs and blossoms sweetening the breeze, It spreads to vales of plenty and of ease. A nosegay fair of numberless delights, Girt round by Danube's sparkling silver thread, It rises up to teeming vine-clad heights, Where golden grapes their affluent bounty shed, And in the smile of Heaven mellowing hang, While forests echo with the huntsmen's clang. And God's mild breath is wafted o'er the land, That makes the Austrian frank and glad and gay ; It warms and cheers and makes his breast expand, His faults, his joys, are open to the day ; By others envied, still he envies none, And what he does, with cheerful mind is done. 36 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. May be in Saxony and on the Rhine, Folks are more fond of reading letter'd lore, But what is pleasing in the eye divine The honest sense, the bosom's guileless core With these the Austrian stands before the best, Thinks his own thoughts, leaves talking to the rest. Oh, blessed land, my native Austria ! There brightly 'twixt the infant Italy, And the staunch full-grown man Germania, Thou like a hale and ruddy lad dost lie ! May God preserve to thee thy youthful mind And still redress where others proved unkind. Malk at HERWEGH. I WANDER with the spirit of the night Along the broad still streets, so dead in seeming ; How hasty were the tears, the laugh how light, Here but an hour ago ! Now all is dreaming. Joy, like a flower has paled and died away, The gayest goblet now no more o'erstreams, And grief has vanished with the waning day ; The world is weary leave it to its dreams ! How all my hate and anger fleet away, When day's tempestuous struggles all are ended ; The moon sheds mild her reconciling ray, E'en upon roseleaves withered and unfriended ! Soft as a tune, and soundless as a star, My soul in mid-air o'er these confines skims; As in itself it fain would search as far, And deep in all men's inmost secret dreams ! My shadow like a spy glides after me, I pause before a dungeon's dismal grating. Oh, native land ! thy son too true to thee, His love is sorely, sadly expiating ! 38 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. He sleeps, and feels he how he lies so low ? His noble oak in lofty grandeur gleams ; The laurel-wreath crowns his unconscious brow : Oh, God of freedom, leave him to his dreams ! A palace proudly towers into sight, I see, while peeping through the purple curtain, How in his sleep one grasps his sword in fright, With sinful looks, distracted and uncertain. His countenance is yellow like the crown ; For flight he for a thousand horses screams; He's dashed upon the earth, the earth breaks down : Oh, God of vengeance, leave him to his dreams ! Yon mean and narrow cottage by the stream There innocence and hunger lie embraced, But to the peasant God has giv'n a dream That waking cares be by the dream effaced ; With every grain that falls from Morpheus' hands, His teeming crops the golden distance seam, His narrow cottage to a world expands : Oh, God of poverty then let him dream ! And at the last house, on the bench of stone, I'll pause, a blessing to invoke from Heaven; I love thee true my child, but not alone, To liberty my heart shall e'er be given. THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. 39 In golden air doves rock thee evermore, While from my prancing steeds the wild manes stream ; Thou dream'st of butterflies, I with the eagle soar : Oh, God of love, then let my darling dream ! Thou star, that break'st like fortune from on high ! Thou night, in thy deep azure calmly shrouded, Let me not view too soon the evil eye Of the awakening world with sorrows clouded ! On tears alight the first rays of the sun ; Liberty flies before the morning beam ; Proud tyranny doth whet his steel anon : Oh, God of reveries, then let us dream ! Ufa Cbtto. F. VICT. STRAUSS. COME hither, my darling, thy father's glad joy ; Come, nestle up close to my bosom, my boy; Deep, deep, in thy blue eyes I '11 gaze with delight, So pure and so holy, so cheerful and bright. When home to my cottage thy mother I brought, I felt that an angel my dwelling had sought ; And still we were lonely, our house was unblest, Till into thy father's arms, thou, boy, wast placed. And then with unspeakable power of love, An infant descended, a gift from above, And forth from thy tender eyes beamed a light, So innocent, blissful, so gentle and bright. Oh, could I preserve thee so good and so fair, For ever watch o'er thee with tenderest care, And keep thee from turmoils, from hardship and harm, So peaceful as here thou now liest in my arm MY CHILD. 41 But softly, inaudibly, swift in its course Time flies o'er our heads with unmerciful force; He ripes thee to boyhood, to youth, and to man, Thou gazest on distance, thy life-course is ta'en. Thou formest a hearth and a home of thy own, And many another has dear to thee grown, Thou 'rt borne on the wings of thy hope, young and bold, And leav'st far behind thee thy parents now old. But let it remain so, since thus it must be, For thou, my beloved one, art dear still to me ; Come hither, my darling, thy father's glad joy, Come, nestle up close to my bosom, my boy. |imbs of gtrbs. LENAU. HOMEBIRD Reflection, Rovingbird Poesy, Each sings a different tune, Different melody. Homebird e'er hops and sings, Pecking from sprig to sprig; Seldom its flight it wings On to a neighbour's twig. " Friend!" he cries, " stay at home, Honestly feed thyself; 'Tis but a fool will roam Far off for fabled pelf. " Oh, stay on native ground, Far from the foaming main, Longing 's an empty sound, Here peck in peace thy grain." TWO KINDS OF BIRDS. 43 Rovingbird makes reply : " Thou, flutterer, canst not prize All my flight's mystery; Prudence here naught supplies. " Steadily, steadily Ever stay on thy bough, For of my revery Canst have no notion, thou. " Deem it not quite insane, Think it not madman's lore, That o'er the distant main There's yet another shore." BODENSTEDT. IF any one speak ill of thy dear friend, And seem it ne'er so true, do not attend ! If all the world of that thy friend speak ill : Mistrust the world and advocate him still ! He only that so truly loves his friend, Deserves that Heaven him a friend should send. A friend's heart is a treasure, rarely met, For which the whole world cannot compensate ; A gem in which a secret magic lurks, That with true faith alone its wonders works ; But with each breath of doubt its beauty wanes, Once broken, it for ever dim remains. Then if such gem be thy allotted joy, Preserve its lustre pure, without alloy ; Oh, break it not ! The whole world contemplate But as a ring in which this gem is set, Which from this gem its only worth has gained For else the world without it were profaned, And if thou shouldst the poorest beggar be Thou 'rt rich if one friend's heart still beat for thee ; While poor is ev'n the monarch on his throne Who stands without a friend, uncheer'd, alone. am of fife's ftnhinbljy ]OS. VlCT. SCHEFFEL. 'Tis one of life's unkindly dispositions, That next to roses also thorns do grow, And all the poor heart fancies and petitions Must still at last endure the parting blow. Thine eyes did once a tender meaning bear, They beamed with love and fond felicity. But fare thee well. It would have been too fair ! Then fare thee well, it was not thus to be. Grief, envy, hate I too have felt their powers;' A weatherbeaten wanderer I rove; I dreamt of peace and happy tranquil hours, And fate directed me to thee, my love. In thy fond arms I would forget all care, And gratefully devote my life to thee. But fare thee well. It would have been too fair ! Then fare thee well it was not thus to be. 46 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. The clouds do fleet, the wind howls o'er the heather, The rain sweeps through the forest and the wold ; To say farewell, 't is just the proper weather ; Grey as the sky, I now the world behold ! Howe'er my fortune be, hovve'er I fare, My thoughts, thou gentle maid, shall be with thee. Then fare thee well. It would have been too fair ! Then fare thee well, it was not thus to be. ANASTASIUS GRUN. BOUNDLESS, vast and never ending, Bright and calm, portentously, Thou before me liest expanded, Old, sublime, eternal sea ! Shall with tears I sadly greet thee, Such as sorrow often gave, Weeping in a silent churchyard, Over some beloved grave? An enormous cemetery, A still vault thou liest there ; Many lives and many hopes, thou Buriest ruthless unaware. Not a tombstone dost thou gran: them, Not a cross, however poor ; Living monuments full many Wander weeping on thy shore. 48 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Shall I greet thee with rejoicing, Such as gladness oft displays, At a garden fair and blooming Spread beneath th' admiring gaze ? An immeasurable garden, A rich treasury thou art ; Many peerless gems and relics Lie within thy crystal heart. Like the gardens' smiling meadows Thou art also fair and green, Pearls and coral groves and grottoes In thy tranquil depths are seen. Like still wand'rers in the garden, O'er the main ships come and go, Treasures claiming, treasures bringing, Greeting, hoping, to and fro. Shall my tears or shall rejoicing, Boundless ocean, welcome thee? Needless doubt and idle question, Since to choose is not for me, TO THE SEA. Seeing that the greatest pleasure On mine eye a tear-drop leaves, As the glow of morn and evening Only dew to flowers gives. Tearful were mine eyes uplifted Godwards in the sacred dome, And with tears I lately welcomed, Greeted my dear native home. Tearful I approach my true-love, Whom within my arms I fold ; Tearful on those heights I knelt then, Where I first did thee behold. (DIj, loirc as Jong as lobe jjou ran. FERDINAND FRE1LIGRATH. OH, love as long as love you can ! Oh, love as long as love you may! The hour will come, the hour will come, When over graves you '11 weep and pray ! Oh, may your heart still warmly beat, And cherish love, and nourish love, As long as yet another heart To yours its fond affection prove ! And whoso opes his heart to thee, Oh, make each hour more sweet and glad Do all that can rejoice and please, Do nothing that may make him sad ! And o'er thy tongue keep careful guard ; An angry word is soon expressed ! Alas, 't was not unkindly meant, But he turns from you grief-oppressed. Oh, love as long as love you can ! Oh, love as long as love you may ! The hour will come, the hour will come, When over graves you '11 weep and pray ! OH, LOVE AS LONG AS LOVE YOU CAN. 51 Then you will kneel beside the tomb, With aching heart and tearful eyes ; No more shall they that friend behold, That now beneath the churchyard lies. And you will cry : " Oh, friend, look down, Behold me here in sorrow bent ! Forgive, forget my cruel taunt ! Alas, 't was not unkindly meant ! " But he nor sees nor hears you more ; He to your fond embrace comes not; The lips on which so oft you hung, They speak no more : 't is all forgot ! But he forgave you long ago, Though many bitter tears were shed For you and your ungrateful word ! But hush he sleeps, his peace is made ! Oh, love as long as love you can ! Oh, love as long as love you may ! The hour will come, the hour will come. When over graves you '11 weep and pray ! fcogair. FR. HALM. THE alders are swaying along by the stream, Bright o'er the high rocks the moonbeams gleam ; And hark, in the distance ! Why trembles the ground ? What clashing of arms ? What shrill brazen sound? What banners are streaming so gay in the night? What helmets are gleaming? What meaneth this sight ? It is the royal Leogair, Who leads his valiant army there ; He comes to conquer Leinster's land, Takes therefore spear and sword to hand, And therefore wave his banners proud, And like a whirlwind rolls the crowd ; And when they at the stream arrive The Nymphs up from the waters dive, And hearken amazed to the clamorous throng, And sing from the billows a plaintive song : " Why flutters thy flag, why dost thou prepare To march against Leinster, O Leogair? LEOCAIR. 53 When years long ago, on the oak-crowned height, Thy army was scatter'd and hurried to flight, When Leinster's people, oh, shame and despair ! Did bind thee a captive, O Leogair ! Didst thou not promise, if ever a free Return to thy kingdom were granted thee Didst thou not promise by word and hand No more to invade Lord Leinster's land? By sun ana by wind thou didst pledge thy troth ; Mortal remember, remember thine oath !" Loud laughing makes answer King Leogair : . " And if I did swear it, full little I care ; And if I did promise, by wind and by sun Who is there as witness? I do not see one! The sun has gone down by which I then swore, And out of the sea has risen no more, And as for the wind, by which I did swear, Its rage has been wafted away in the air ; The sun and the wind departed are both, And there where the proofs are, there is my oath !" And laughing he spurs his steed swiftly on, O'er briar and bramble, o'er stock and stone. And wildly behind him, a frantic throng, Dashes his army the valley along, And the rocks re-echo their heavy tread, And the morning dawns with a sullen red, 54 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. And Leinster's army in battle array Blocks the defile and opposes their way. And the air resounds with battle alarms With shattering of spears and clashing of arms; And when the sun rises splendid and fair The victory points unto Leogair, And when the breeze begins to swell Then Leinster's feeble forces fail. Then spake the Sun : " I will not allow That he should win who broke his vow,"- In anger then the Zephyr blew : "He's false to me, I'll prove so too."- Then turned the Sun with fearful force 'Gainst Leogair's triumphant course, And shoots his hot rays, dazzling bright, Like arrows in the hostile sight, And blinds the eyes of man and steed That wild confusion stays their speed. Then Wind revengeful rushing past Blows with dilated cheeks a blast That Leogair and all his host In clouds of dust are whirled and lost ; The captain's cry and cheering word Are all unheeded and unheard ; The banner's trailed along the ground, And all are blind and deaf around. LEOGAIR. 55 Then Leinster's men once more unite, Since Wind and Sun now for them fight, And dashing forwards hew their way Through foes now sickening with dismay. But dauntless still stands Leogair, When lo ! an arrow cleaves the air He bleeds, he sinks, while over him The battle's rage rolls dense and dim. They fly, pursued by Leinster's train ; Deserted is the gory plain, Hushed is the din of the battle and flight, And silence sleeps in the shades of night ; And from the stream the wind conveys The alders' sighs, the mermaids' lays, And Zephyr whispers those words full of wrath: " Mortal, remember, remember thine oath ! " E. GEIBEL. AT Wiirzburgh, at the " Golden Flower," They say, there stalks from midnight hour Till one o'clock, a lonely ghost, Whose presence oft has scared the host. Three scholars once, with learned speeches, Arrived in doublet, leathern breeches And spurs that rang like silver-bells ; To them the host the story tells. The scholars look profound and wise, And say they '11 ne'er believe such lies ; They'd travelled far, knew black from white, And ne'er a ghost put them in fright ; The trial they would make to-day, To mock and scare the ghost away. So all three, full of merriment, Into the haunted chamber went; Three candles on the table stood, The host brought white wine, fresh and good. THE GHOST OF WUR2BURGH. 57 They talked of matters old and new, Each drank a quart and praised it too, But ere the hour of ten was o'er, The white wine tasted good no more. They told the host some red to bring, "Which soon began to make them sing, And each in special merriment Knew some mad glee or ballad quaint ; But when it struck th' eleventh hour, The red wine too had grown too sour. So loud they called for other wine, Which you will easily divine, That in the goblet froths and fritters, With eddying pearls it brightly glitters. Of this each drank much more than needful, Of time and consequence unheedful, Until at last, with gentle heaving, They found their senses quickly leaving ; They felt the air grow damp and chill, Their heads grew heavy, tongues grew still. The clock now boomed the midnight hour ; In burst the door by unseen power; And in there stepped oh, hideous sight! The ghost, while they stood mute with fright. His face, dress, hair, were ashy pale, The hair behind was like a tail; 58 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. His nose alone quite redly shone, And glowed like a carbuncle-stone. The spectre to the table stalked And thus with hollow voice he talked : " How is it, knaves degenerate, I find you here in such a state? Can you not sleep this time of night, Or study, with your senses bright, Greek wisdom, as becomes your station, Preparing for examination? Instead of that you muddle here, With wine your stony noddles sheer, Disturb the calm repose of night, How will you meet the morning's light? How will your souls you satisfy? With herrings and pale ale ? Reply, For what means have you to your knowledge, To arm yourselves to go to college?" With that he seized the first so coldly, Beneath the table flung him boldly ; The second's throat then grasped so tight, He thought his soul would say good night; Then punched the belly of the third That many groans and sighs were heard. THE GHOST OF WURZBURGH. 59 It was a struggle hot and reeking, A dismal wriggling, wailing, shrieking, Till with the first stroke of the bell The spectre vanished with a smell. The three were not in spirits now, They felt cold sweat and glowing brow, All quiet in the chamber kept, That night upon hard benches slept, And when the host appeared next day With the long score they had to pay, Then they confessed with looks depress'd How that the ghost had been their guest, Their limbs his heavy weight still bore, His gripe would leave them nevermore. This Wiirzburgh Ghost so dolorous, His name is "Horrors" or "The Blues;" The moral of this tale's sad plight "Never drink red wine afier white ; And if champagne do crown your cheer, The Ghost of Wiirzburgh will appear." n Uutib* i^anb so ROBERT HAMERLING. MY native land so mighty, where bloom in sunny shine A hundred smiling cities from Elbe to verdant Rhine ; Where from the Alpine ranges up to the northern strand Dwell many thousand brothers God speed thee, mighty land ! My native land so lovely, where proud the rivers flow ; Where high the steeples tower, thy ancient castles glow ; Where in two mighty oceans thy shores reflect their sand, The hills bloom mild and verdant God speed thee, lovely land ! My native land so valiant, where, oak-entwined, still gleaming, The shield of Hermann rusts not, where glistens, slumbering, dreaming, The sword of Hohenstaufen, and where the German hand Still wields them both so ably God speed thee, valiant land ! <^/ff.i n I t^ ft- : 7 MY NATIVE LAND SO MIGHTY. 6 1 My native land so noble, where every dark deceit Th' enlightened flow of spirits doth boldly, proudly meet; Where love and faith so pure as the offering's sacred brand Within our bosoms gloweth God speed thee, noble land! My native land much-loved, that like a blessed star Shines brightly on our brothers beloved, however far; To which so truly, firmly, one blessed, sacred band All German hearts uniteth God speed thee, well- loved land ! My native land so sacred bright in the morning's glow. For ever for thy banner to meet our death we go, When gloriously it flutters upon the North-sea- strand, Or floats in Alpine breezes God speed thee, sacred land ! R. IlAMERLING. HIGH over rock and ridge LOVE fondly fashions Nightly a golden bridge, Fairest, to thee ! Deep in the dead of night, Tenderest passions Further the structure bright, Glorious to see ! LONGING the groundwork lays, She who imploring, Even when nought she says, Whispers to thee; While as on arches wide HOPE boldly soaring, Stretches from side to side, Lofty and free. THE BRIDGE. 63 Firmly love's ARDOUR lends Binding connection, While the quick HEART-BLOOD tends All to cement; But that the work attain Brightest perfection, DREAMS with their magic train, Hasten the end. Thus over rock and ridge LOVE fondly fashions Nightly a golden bridge, Fairest, to thee ! fire ^pilgrimage f0 H. HEINE. I. THE mother stood at the window, In bed her young son lay : "Wilt not thou rise, my William, To see the procession to-day ? " " I am so sick, oh mother, I can nor see nor hear ; I think of my poor dead darling, And sad is my heart and sear." "Arise, we will go to Kevlaar, With book and beads and prayer; The Virgin Mary soon will Thy poor sick heart heal there." Cathedral banners flutter, Cathedral hymns are sung, Cologne the Rhenish city, Sends forth the pilgrim throng. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 65 And slowly in the procession The son and the mother plod, They both sing in the chorus : " Hail Mary, Mother of God ! " II. The Virgin Mary at Kevlaar Is deck'd in her best array ; Full many weary suff'rers Throng to her shrine to-day. The maim'd, and the halt, and the palsied Devote her, as offerings meet, All manner of waxen members, Of waxen hands and feet. And whoso offers a wax hand, His hand is healed of its sore ; And he that offers a wax foot, No pain in his foot feels more. To Kevlaar went many on crutches That now for their dancing are praised, And many now play on the fiddle Whose fingers were palsied and crazed. F 66 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. So out of a waxen taper The mother moulded a heart : " Take that to the Virgin Mary, And she will heal thy smart." Then sighing the boy took the wax-heart, And sighing he wander'd there ; But from his eyes gush tear-drops, And from his heart the prayer : " Thou blessed above all women, Thou spotless Virgin Saint, Thou queen sublime of Heaven, Ah ! list to my complaint ! " I dwelt with my mother so happy, There at Cologne in the town, The city of hundred chapels And churches in wide renown. " And near to us lived my darling, But she is now no more O Virgin, I bring thee a wax-heart, Heal thou my heart of its sore. " Heal thou my heart in its yearning, And I will never fail To pray and to sing with fervor : Praise to thee, Mary, hail ! " THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 67 III. The suffering son and his mother Within the chamber slept; While silent to the bedside The Virgin mildly stept. She bent down over the sufferer, And touch'd him as he lay, She touch'd his heart with her soft hand, And smiled and passed away. The mother saw all in a vision, And more she beheld dismayed ; She woke from out her slumbers, So loud the watchdogs bayed. There pale, and calm, and breathless In death her young son lay; And on his wan cheeks quiver'd The golden morning ray. Her hands the mother folded, Scarce roused from her revery; Devoutly she sang and sweetly: " Praise, Mary, be to thee ! " Castle xif A. VON CHAMISSO. I DREAM myself back to my childhood, And shake my age-furrowed brow; why do ye haunt me, ye pictures, That seem'd long forgotten ere now? High soars o'er the shadowy woodland A castle in splendour and state ; 1 know well each tower and turret, The drawbridge of stone and the gate. Aloft from the gilded escutcheons The lions look lovingly down, I welcome their dear ancient faces ; And haste to the court-yard anon. There lies the sphinx by the fountain; The fig-tree still verdantly gleams, Ah there, in that rocky seclusion, I dreamt then my earliest dreams. tfastlc of gmuoiut THE CASTLE OF BONCOURT. 69 I enter the time-honour'd chapel And seek the ancestral tomb, 'T is there, from the pillar, still glitters Th' escutcheon of old in the gloom. My eyes are dim now and misty, They read the inscription no more, Though bright through the painted windows The light gilds the characters o'er, O pile of my fathers, thou standest 1'hus firm in my mind even now, And yet from the earth thou art vanish'd, And over thee passes the plough. Be fruitful, O soil of my childhood ! I bless thee, so fond and so fain ; And doubly I bless him, whoever Now guideth the plough o'er thy plain. But I will be up and be stirring, My minstrel's harp in my hand, Over distant shores I will wander, Still singing from land to land. Circe. HERRMAN LINGG. I LOVED thee, how could I conceal it? My deepest soul before thee lay; In all its depth I dared reveal it, And yet from me thou turn'dst away. Ah, how could ever hope beguile me, To dream thy head upon this breast, That, prone to tempests that defile me, Ne'er knew a blissful hour of rest? I loved thee yes, I dare confess it ! I hoped and ah, how keen the smart ! I have the courage to express it None know the tortures of my heart ! Farewell ! and oh, may Heaven spare thee, That e'en a touch of that hot breath Which withered me should ever sear thee; My heart alone endure till death ! forger. J. G. SEIDL. BEFORE the court of justice There enters from the crowd, A man, himself accusing, By deep contrition bowed. So wild his hair and manner, So weird and wan is he, That were he not a culprit A maniac he might be. To him the judges beckon, Bid him his suit prefer : " My lords," begins the stranger, " Lend me a gracious ear ! To judge and then to punish That is your duty's aim, Then hear my guilt's confession, And judge me and condemn ! 72 iMASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. The greatest crime, which is it ? " " 'T is Murder ! " answer they, The stranger laughs : " Now tell me The smaller next, I pray ? " The judges name " High Treason," The stranger laughs : " Proceed ! " Then Forgery is mentioned. " There stop, lords ! 't is my deed ! " Yes, Forgery ! that is it, Why, look, you learned men, You as the third would rank it ? You would protect me fain ? I say 'tis worse than murder, Than treason, vile and base ! A forger, yes I was one I do not plead for grace." "A forger?" cry the judges, "Where did you forge, and how, And had you an accomplice? Then name him and avow ! " But scornfully the stranger Replies : " My Lords, take heed, Look up from out your law books, And in my visage read ! THE FORGER. 73 " Do you see there the traces Of courtship, gay and bold ? The marks of vanished spring-tides, Of passions long since cold 1 These, with their smiling graces, A spotless maid beguiled, Who was of men's fierce passions Unconscious as a child ! " Her love the maiden gave me, Gave all she had to me, And how, my lords, how think you, Did I her love repay? I coin'd false oaths of true love She no deception knew, I coin'd false tears of passion She took them all for true. " I coin'd true faith and virtue She took them for pure gold, And feign'd and false and forged, Was all I ever told. She boasted of the treasures That unto her I gave, But when she felt deception, She sank into the grave. 74 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. "A murder, lords, what is it? The steel is quick and hot ! And Treason ? it despatches Its victim on the spot. But Forg'ry is more dreadful, It seeks by faith to blind, It drowns the calls of conscience, Derides the upright mind. " Then speak, lords, speak the sentence ! I am prepared to hear, My sins' o'erwhelming burden I can no longer bear. Each night I hear it thund'ring : 'Forger ! discharge thy debt ! Restore, restore ! ' 1 cannot ! My guilt is far too great ! " The court in deep emotion, With one accord reply : " That is not our office, To God in heaven cry. We do not judge the conscience, The act alone we treat : For heart-coins counterfeited No human councils meet ! " THE FORGER. 75 Loud laughs in scorn the stranger, Then fast his hot tears flow : " Oh ! then, unworthy," cries he, " For e'en the hangman's blow ! " He goes, and what no judges In his distress e'er gave, He, after long repentance, At last finds in the grave. NICOLAUS LENAU. MY dear old mother had long since departed, She did not return, she was laid in the tomb ; And I was alone, and was broken-hearted, And sadly I enter'd her small silent room. Her cupboard was open it was, I remember, As she on departing had left it of yore, As people leave things strewn about in the chamber When the horses are waiting outside the door. On the table a prayer-book lay still unfastened, With many accounts undersigned by her hand ; And of her breakfast, when off she had hastened, Some crumbs and a morsel of cake still remained. I read the prayer that she had been reading : It was for a mother, imploring the grace Of God for her child, when her heart is bleeding ; I gasped for breath and cover'd my face. THE OPEN CUPBOARD. 77 I read her writing, ah ! and unmeasured Became my anguish deep and sore ; I read the figures, and then the treasured Last remnants of joy in my heart I tore. The fragments then of the meal I collected, The smallest crumbs together I swept, And though to be choked I each moment expected, I ate of the cake and bitterly wept. Clje Jgrtoge. ANASTASIUS GRI)N. I DO know a bridge, my darling, Where to linger is so sweet; Perfumes there of springs eternal Like balsamic breezes meet. From the heart, and to the heart, there Leads the bridge's wondrous way, Open but to Love's affection, Subject only to his sway. Love has built the bridge, and formed it Out of roses sweet and rare ! Soul to soul there freely wanders, Like the lover to his fair. Love has spann'd it fondly, boldly, Love adorned and deck'd it all ; Love there standeth as the tollman, Kisses are the bridge's toll. THE BRIDGE. 79 Sweetest maiden, would'st thou gladly This my wondrous structure see? Be it so, but thou must truly Help to fashion it with me. Banish from thy brow the cloudlet ! Faithfully gaze in mine eyes ! Lay thy lip on mine, my darling, And the magic bridge will rise. gcrtnw L. UHLAND. HIGH upon the rocky summit Smokes the ruined Autafort, And the castle's lord stands fettered In the king's pavilion court : " Art thou he that spread rebellion Everywhere with song and sword ; That did instigate the children To oppose their father's word ? Stands before me he that boasted In presumptuous vanity : That he never needed more than Half his spirit's potency? Now that half will not suffice thee, Summon all thy mental strain, To rebuild once more thy castle, And to rend thy bonds in twain !" BERTRAN DE BORN. 8 1 " Even so, Bertran de Born, here Thou behold'st, my king and lord. That inspired with his verses Ventador and Perigord, That has ever been a blemish To his mighty sov'reign's eye. For whose sake e'en royal children Dared their father's rage defy." " In her bower sat thy daughter. Sweetly deck'd, a duke's fair bride, And before her sang the minstrel In whose song my spirit sigh'd; Sang how once her pride had revel'd In the poet's longing strain, Till her bridal gems bedew'd were With the tears that flowed amain. " From the olive shades of slumber Up arose thy stalwart son, When with angry songs of battle I assail'd his ear anon. Swiftly was his charger saddled, And I bore the banner forth, 'Gairxst the death-dart that so roughly Laid him low on Montfort's earth. a 82 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. " Bleeding in my arms he panted, And 't was not the weapon's smart, But the thought that he was dying With thy curse, that wrung his heart. Fain would he outstretch his right hand O'er the mountains, o'er the main, And as thine he could not reach more, Silently press'd mine again. " Then like Autafort up yonder, Blasted was my power and craft ; Not the whole, not e'en a moiety More remain'd of song or shaft. Light for thee my arm to fetter, Since enchain'd my spirit lies ; One more dirge it sadly murmur'd, Then it sank, no more to rise." Then his brow the monarch sinking Said : " Thou hast beguiled my son, Hast my daughter's heart enchanted, And my own hast touch'd and won. Take the hand, that all-forgiving Should have press'd thy friend's in death ! Off the fetters ! Of thy spirit I have felt a genial breath." Song. HERRMAN LINGG. I FAIN would dwell upon an isle Far o'er the silent, boundless main ; An isle that basks in sunny smile, Remote from Europe's cark and pain. I fain would plant the earliest trees, The vines, the grainfields, glad and free; And with the earliest colonies Would found a land of liberty. The laurel sprigs no more, no more, Of Grecian and Italian skies, That droop but o'er the dust of yore, And twine their wreaths with funeral sighs The ashy stage no more, no more, Of blasted realms, of battles' woe; We 've had too much of history's lore, Too much, too much of long ago ! But there upon those strands so blest, Time smiles into the azure light, E'en like an infant at the breast Of Nature undefamed and bright. f be (Sipsn $cm in % 0ovtlj. EMANUEL GEIBEL. SOUTHWARD far the fair Espana Is my home, my native-land, Where the shadowy castana Rushes o'er the Ebro-strand : Where the almonds bloom so blandly, Where the grape more ardent gleams, And the roses blush more fondly, And the moon sheds brighter beams. With my lute I wander sadly Here from house to house alone, But no friendly eye looks gladly, Kindly on the poor unknown. Scant the pittance that they throw me, And they turn me from their door; None will hear me, none will know me, Me, the gipsy brown and poor. Soufbtoaro borne Sf fain tooultr toanbtr ,j Q *~ C0 tyt (anb of Itrjbt antr THE GIPSY BOY IN THE NORTH. 85 Ah, these fogs depress and chill me, For they hide from me the sun ; Of the songs that used to thrill me, I remember scarcely one. Ever firmer, ever fonder In my strains the cry is wove : Southward home I fain would wander To the land of light and love ! Lately at the feast of pleasure, While the harvest dance went round, There I played my gayest measure, Strung my lute to sweetest sound. But amid the mirth and gladness, As the sun set bright and gold, Down my brown cheeks tears of sadness Rapidly and hotly roll'd. And I thought, amid the dances, Of my native land so blest, Where the moon more sweetly glances, Where more freely beats each breast. W T here unto the cithern's measure Every step transported springs, And the lad with his fair treasure Glowing the fandango wings. 86 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. No ! my bosom's ardent yearning I no longer can repress ; Every other pleasure spurning, Home is all my happiness ! Southward home ! to fair Espana ! To the land of love and light ! 'Neath the shade of the castana Must my quiet grave be dight. Oe |1arrot of tht Rinnans. ERNST CURTIUS. THIS Poem is founded on a. fact related by Alexander von Hum- boldt in his "Aspects of Nature." In the Orinoco Mountains there are traces of a race of people the Aturians who, accord- ing to popular tradition, had been driven thither by cannibal tribes from the Caribbee Islands, and sought refuge on the cliffs of the cataracts, where they and their language perished about a century ago. One old parrot alone is still living, who, not being understood by the natives, is said still to talk the language of the Aturians. IN the wilds of Orinoco, Sits a parrot old and lone, Cold and grim, as if his image, Had been chiselled out of stone. Foaming from the rocky caverns, Bursts the torrent's roaring flight, Over it the graceful palm-trees Sun themselves in happy light. Though to Heaven tend the billows, Never do they gain their end; With the watery spray commingling Does the sun his beauty blend. 88 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. J)o\vn below, where waves are rolling, Lies a nation sunk and dead ; Driven forth from home and country, To these rugged cliffs it fled. And there perished the Aturians, As they lived, so free and brave; And their last remains lie buried, In the river's sedgy grave. Very last of the Aturians, Sadly mourns the parrot there ; Whets his beak upon the branches, And his cry sounds through the air. Ah ! the boys that laughing taught him, To repeat their mother tongue, And the maidens fair that fed him, Fondled him the rocks among : All he slaughtered and forgotten, Stretched along the reedy shore, And his dismal sad complaining None to life has wakened more. THE PARROT OF THE ATURIANS. 89 Thus, alone, uncomprehended, To a strange world he makes moan ; Hears the roar but of the waters, Not a soul more heeds his groan ; And the savage that beholds him, Rows more swiftly by in awe; None, without a secret shudder, The Aturian Parrot saw. G. A. BURGER. LENORE rose up at morning red From heavy dreams of anguish : " Art faithless, William, or art dead ? How long wilt let me languish ? " He with King Frederick's warlike might At Prague had march'd into the fight, And had no tidings given Of how his luck had thriven. The empress and her royal foe In fury now relented, And, tired of warfare and of woe, To peace at length consented. And both the hosts with song and cheer, With clash and clang in glad career, Adorned with sprigs and flowers, Returned to homes and bowers. LENORE. 91 And everywhere, o'er hill and dale, By road and stile and turning, Did young and old exulting hail The shouts of the returning. " Thank Heaven ! " wives and children cried, And " Welcome ! " many a happy bride ; Alas ! for poor Lenore Nor kiss nor bliss was more. She ran along with fear distraught, Ask'd each in swift succession ; Alas, not one could tell her aught In all that long procession. And when at last the train had pass'd Upon the ground herself she cast, Her raven tresses tearing, Desponding and despairing. Her mother cried in fond dismay : ' Lord ! Mercy on my daughter ! My child, how is it with thee? Say!" And in her arms she caught her. " Oh, mother, what is gone is gone ! Farewell to world and all anon ! God has no pity for me, Woe, woe alone hangs o'er me ! " 92 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. " Help, Heaven, help ! look mildly down ! Child, pray a pater-noster ! What God does is benignly done, Thee God will kindly foster!" " Oh, mother, all is vanity ! God has not acted well by me ! What need vain prayers to falter? My grief they cannot alter." " Help, Heaven, help ! Who trusts the Lord From Him will comfort borrow ; Soon will God's sacrament afford Thee solace in thy sorrow." "Oh, mother, mother, my heart's sore Nor saint nor sacrament heals more ! No unction will recover From death to life my lover." " Hark, child ! What if the faithless man In foreign lands should tarry, And, false to thee, had vowed again Another fair to marry ? Forget, my child, his perjured love ! It will his own damnation prove! When life and soul forsake him, God's vengeance will o'ertake him." LENORE. 93 " Oh, mother, what is gone is gone ! What's lost is lost for ever! Death, death alone is mine anon ! Oh, hadst thou born me never ! Out, out my light to darksome night! Die out, die out in dread and fright ! God has no pity for me, Woe, only woe hangs o'er me." " Help, Heaven, help ! No judgment pass Against my poor frail daughter ! She knows not what she speaks, alas, Her sorrow has distraught her ! Oh, child, forget thy heart's distress, And turn to God and blessedness ! Then for thy soul the lover Thou surely wilt recover." " Oh, mother, what is blessedness ? And what is hell, oh, mother? With William only there is bliss, And hell without him, mother ! Out, out my light to darksome night ! Die out, die out in dread and fright ! Nor earth nor Heaven can cheer me Where William is not near me." 94 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Thus raged despair and grief intense Within this hapless maiden ; She raved against God's providence With frenzy sorely laden ; She wrung her hands and beat her breast, Until the sun sank down to rest, Until in azure regions Forth beamed the starry legions. And clatter, clatter, hark so late, The hoofs of courser sounded ; Then clanking at the postern gate A horseman lightly bounded ; And hark ! and hark ! a gentle rap ! Quite slightly, lightly, tap, tap, tap! Then through the door came faintly In accents uttered gently : " My darling ! love, come ope the door ! Art waking, love, or sleeping? Art faithful ever as of yore ? Art laughing, love, or weeping?" " Ah, William, thou ! so late by night ? 1 Ve waked and wept since morning light ; Ah, who can tell my yearning! Say, whence art thou returning ? " LEXORE. 95 " We saddle but at dead of night ; Late from Bohemia hieing I hither spurred, and ere the light With thee I must be flying." " Oh, William, first quick come in-doors ! The wind through hawthorn-bushes roars, Come in, my love, and near thee These arms shall warm and cheer thee ! " " Let winds through hawthorns rush and roar, Child, let them howl and hurry ! Wild snorts my steed, clear rings the spur, I dare no longer tarry. Busk, spring and swing thee up with speed Behind me on my swarthy steed ! A hundred miles we measure To-night to bridal pleasure." "Alack! a hundred miles wilt scour To-night thy pleasure claiming ? And hark ! the bell still booms the hour, Eleven just proclaiming." " See here, see there ! The moon shines bright, We and the dead ride fast by night. Ere morn I will convey thee ; To bridal bed I'll lay thee." 96 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. " But say, where is thy bridal hall ? Where, how the bridal bed, dear?" " Far, far from here ! still, cool and small ! Within six boards 'tis laid, dear ! " " Has 't room for me ? " " For thee and me Come busk and spring, and up with thee ! The wedding guests will meet us, And at the bower greet us." The fair one busk'd, and sprang and swung, Upon the steed she bounded; To the beloved one fondly clung, His form her arms surrounded. And hurry, hurry, clatter, clack ! Away they galloped, crack, crack, crack ! Forward they dashed and darted, While sparks from pebbles started. To right away, to left away, The objects past them flashing, They scoured o'er mountain, moor and lea, O'er bridges madly dashing. " Does darling fear? The moon shines bright ! We and the dead ride fast by night ! Art fearful, love, of spectres?" " Ah, no ! but leave the spectres ! " LENORE. 97 What yonder sung, what yonder rung? Lo ! ho\v the ravens fluttered ! Hark, death bell clang ! hark, funeral song ! " We hide the dead ! " was muttered. And nearer came a dismal throng, That bier and coffin bore along; The dirge was like the droning Of toads in marshes moaning. " At dead of night the body hide, With clang and song and sorrow ! I homeward ride with my young bride, Come, come, we feast ere morrow ! Come, sexton, here ! come with thy train, And mumble out the bridal strain ! Come, priest, pronounce the blessing, As homeward we are pressing ! " Ceased clang and song. Sank bier and pall, Obedient to his bidding, Came hurry, hurry ! train and all, Behind his courser speeding. And forward, forward, clatter, clack ! With wild halloo, and crack, crack, crack ! Headlong they dashed and darted, While sparks from pebbles started. 98 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. How flew to right, how flew to left, Trees, hills and rocky ridges ! How flew to left, and right, and left, Towns, villages and bridges ! " Does darling fear ? The moon shines bright ! Hurrah ! the dead ride fast by night ! Art fearful, love, of spectres ?"- " Ah ! let them rest, those spectres."- What yonder hung, what yonder swung ? Around the gibbet prancing, Half seen the fitful rays among An airy rabble dancing. " Holla ! ye rabble, here, come here ! Come, follow me, ye rabble queer ! The bridal dance be skipping, When we to bed are tripping ! " And helter and skelter, swift behind, The rabble huddling rattled, As in the hazel-bush the wind Through dry leaves whirling battled. And ever onward, clatter, clack, They spurred and galloped, crack, crack, crack! Wildly they dashed and darted, While sparks from pebbles started. LENORE. 99 How fled the earth in moonlight dim, Beneath their feet receding ! How high above and over them The sky and stars were speeding ! " Does darling fear ? The moon shines bright ! Hurrah ! the dead ride fast by night ! Art fearful, love, of spectres ? " " Alack ! rouse not those spectres ! " " Steed, steed ! The bird of morn I hear, The sand will soon be wasted Steed, steed ! I scent the morning air Steed ! be thy course now hasted ! 'T is done, 't is done ! our race is run ! The bridal bed receives its own ! Swift do the spectres scour! We 've reached the bridal bower." They dashed up to an iron gate, With slacken' d reins they clattered ; With slender staff a blow thereat, And bar and bolt were shattered. The yielding gates check not their speed, And over graves flew man and steed ; Tombstones were faintly gleaming, As in the moonlight dreaming. MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Ha see, ha see ! swift as a thought, Hoo-"hoo ! a hideous wonder ! The rider's jerkin round about Like cinders fell asunder. His head was reft of crest and cue, A scalpless skull of ghastly hue ; The bones, of flesh divested, On scythe and hour-glass rested. High reared and snorted wild the horse, With flashing eyes distorted ; And in a trice, its swarthy corse, Was vanish'd and transported. Shrieks, shrieks and waitings fill the gloom, And yells and groans from cavern'd tomb ; Lenore's poor heart contending, ' Twixt death and life was pending. And now within the flick'ring glance, In ghastly circle prowling. The spectres held a fetter-dance, This frightful burden howling : " Endure ! endure ! though heart be sore, ' Gainst God in Heaven wage no war ! Thy corse to earth be given, God take thy soul to Heaven ! " ricks, sjjwhs an& Catlings fill i(u gloom rulls anb groans from cabmrtr tomb. Itr guffomi. ANASTASIUS GRUN. THE rustling curtain upwards glides An old buffoon the stage bestrides Bedecked with spangles queer and quaint, His honest face bedaubed with paint. Thou poor old man with silver hair, My heart laments thy cark and care ; Thus o'er thy grave thou caperest From vulgar lips a smile to wrest; A smile that pitilessly mocks Thy feeble age, thy silvery locks. Oh, that a life such price should claim, Thine, poor old man, no higher aim ! The old man's brain is slack and slow, His tehderest feelings coldly glow, But thou with sorrow and with pain Still seek'st to force a flourish vain. 102 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. The old man's arm is cramp'd and crazed, His weary hand is only raised His little ones withal to bless, Or clasp'd in prayer or humbleness. But thy hand still beats frantic time To wanton talk or wilder rhyme, And all thy toil and care the while Is that the rabble may but smile. And if thy limbs are sick and sore, What matters it, they 're thine no more ! And if thou weep'st, alas, who cares ? The laughing crowd no sadness shares. And in a chair the aged clown, His aching limbs to rest, sits down : " He takes his ease, the lazy lout ! " Is muttered 'mong the scoffing rout. In accents faltering and weak, He slowly now begins to speak. " Mark ! he forgets his cues to keep," The rabble cries with curses deep. THE OLD BUFFOON. 103 He babbles many a soundless word, His faltering voice is scarcely heard, And now his speech is not yet o'er He stops, as he could speak no more. The curtain drops with the tinkling bell, Who 'd think it was his dying knell ? And drumming and hissing shouts the throng, Who'd think it was his funeral song? The old man in his chair lies dead, But life's dissembled in the red That on his cheeks, so ghastly, cold, Stares brazen as a falsehood bold. It rests upon the old man's face, E'en like an epitaph which says : "All was a vain and cruel strife, His art, his striving, and his life." His canvas forest doth not wave, In plaintive murmurs o'er his grave, His paper moon is loth to shed, Its lurid light to wail the dead. 104 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. His fellow-artists on him gaze, And thus exclaim unto his praise : " Hail to the veteran-hero brave, Who in the action found his grave ! " A juggling girl advances now, And Muse-like crowns his aged brow, With paper laurels old and worn, With too much use besmeared and torn. Two men compose his funeral train, To bear his coffin more were vain, And as he to his grave now hies, See, no one laughs and no one cries ! THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS FROM THE FRENCH FRANCOIS COPPEE. Strike 0f % Smiths. FRANgOIS COPPEE. BRIEF, my lords of justice, my history shall be : The smiths agreed to strike in their emergency ; The winter was so cold, provisions dear, at last The suburbs grew distress'd : 'tis painful oft to fast. On Saturday, the evening when we receive our pay, They take me gently by my arm and lead the way Unto the tavern where my oldest comrades wait I have before refused their several names to state And thus they say : " Our patience, father John, is o'er, Let them increase our pay, or else we work no more. We are their slaves, what else can end our woes? And therefore you, as our senior, we chose To go and gently tell our master our desire, That, if he still refuse to increase our scanty hire, Then like so many Mondays shall henceforth be each day; Speak, father John, will you then be our man 1 " I say I will, since it is useful in my comrades' aid. Lord President, I never did a street blockade ; . I08 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. I 'm old and peaceable, and I somehow dislike Those black coats who incite the working men to strike. But could I well refuse to grant them their petition ? So I engage to do it, and enter on my mission. The master 's just at dinner ; 'he bids me be shown in, I point out our distress, how hard the times have been ; The scarcity of dwellings, the price of bread ; declare We can no longer bear it; proceed then to com- pare His profits with our own, at last politely say, That he could well without great loss increase our pay. He, cracking nuts, had calmly listened ; then began And said : " You, father John, you are an honest man, And I am sure that they who sent you here well knew How wisely they were acting in selecting you ; And you will at rhy forge e'er find a ready fire ; But know, 'twould ruin me to pay what they desire : I close my shop to-morrrow, for I know most truly, T is those that will not work, that are the most unruly ; THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. 109 I have no more to say and you may tell them so." Well, sir, that 's all I say, then silently I go, With sadly heavy heart, to bear unto my friends The answer, as I promised, that the master sends. The riot now is raised : they canvass state affairs ; They swear no more to tread that hateful shop of theirs, And curse it ! I swear too, just as the others do ! Alas, not one that evening, when at home he threw Upon his squalid table the remnants of his pay, Could feel, I answer for it, his soul so free and gay, Or soundly sleep that night and not once even think, That he for weeks perhaps might hear no money clink That he must now get used to hunger and to cold. For me, the blow was hard, for I am getting old, And I am not alone. And when at home, oppress'd, I clasped my two grandchildren fondly to my breast My son-in-law had failed, they never knew their mother And pensively I gazed on one and on the other Of those sweet hung' ring mouths, my lords, then I did weep To think how I had sworn such holiday to keep. I to MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. But I was not worse off than all the others were, And, as we can well keep the oaths that we do swear, I felt as I should never in my duty fail. My poor old wife return'd now from washing, with her pail And bundle of damp linen, bending beneath their weight, And timidly I told her the whole truth of the state. Poor thing ! she had ro heart to utter a rebuke ; She stood, and to the ground she cast her troubled look, Stood long immovable, and then this answer gave : " My husband, well you know how I have tried to save ; I'll still do what I can, but sure the times are sore, And we have barely bread to last a fortnight more." I said : " Perhaps we may still find a remedy ; " Though well I was aware, unless by treachery, I could do nothing more. The rioters were bent On carrying resistance to the last extent, And would severely punish the traitors to their words. Now misery set in. Oh, my lords ! my lords ! Believe me, even in our greatest need and grief, I never for one moment thought of turning thief; THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. Ill Even at the very thought I should have died of shame ; Nor do I think much credit is due to even them, Who, wretchedly desponding, have before their sight Naught but^ despair and famine from morning unto night, And never once a sinful and wicked thought did feel. Still, when the season come of bitterest frost and chill As if defiant of my oft-proved honesty My fearless wife and two grandchildren I did see All shivering by the hearth, that flameless mass of stones, Before those infants' cries, before that woman's groans, Before that piteous group, benumbed and petri- fied, Not once I boldly swear it, by Jesus crucified Not even once appeared before my gloomy sight That deed so base and furtive of darkness and the night In which the eye espies, the hand doth trembling seize. Alas, if now my heart subdued and vanquished is, 112 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. If I before you stand depress'd and weeping here, It is because I see those piteous forms appear Of whom I spoke, for whom I did e'en what I did. And now we all behaved as proper in our need ; We lived upon dry bread and pawned our little all ; I suffered much. Our chamber was a cage so small, We could no longer stay within that dismal room ; And see, I since have tasted the prison's dreary gloom, And found the difference not even so very great, For to do nothing is a greater evil yet. One scarcely would believe it, but if one is de- creed To stay at home by force, ah, then 't is felt indeed How much one loves the shop, and that the at- mosphere Of iron-dust and smoke is that which is most dear. At the end of fourteen days, we not a farthing had : I had passed all this time in going about like mad, Alone, straight on and aimlessly among the throng : The din of cities bears one dreamingly along, And better e'en than spirits deadens hunger's throes. But once, on reaching home, it was towards the close THE STRIKE OK THE SMITHS. 113 Of a bleak afternoon, in cold and grey December, My wife was sitting in a corner of the chamber, The children, faintly moaning, in her arms did lie, And then it flashed across me : THEIR MURDERER AM I ! My wife then said to me, faintly, almost confused : " My poor dear husband, think, the pawnhouse has refused Our last and only mattress, it was too bad they said; Where will you now contrive to find the needful bread?" Then boldly taking courage, I answer'd : " I will go, 1 will resume my work and thereby end our woe." And though I was prepared to meet resistance there, Still to the well-known tavern I instant did repair, For there, I knew, the leaders of this sad strike did scheme. I entered, and, my faith ! I thought it was a dream, They drank, while we at home were grappling with starvation ! They drank ! Oh, they that paid those caitiffs their collation, And to prolong the torture of this our sta'te did tend, Oh, may upon them still an old man's curse descend ! i I 14 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN" POETRY. And when towards the drinkers I advanced now And they perceived my red, hot eyes, my troubled brow, They understood right well what chance had led me here ; But caring little for their scowls and eyes severe, I thus addressed them : " To tell you this I came : I am past sixty years of age, my wife the same, I have two infant children entrusted to my care ; And in an humble garret together we do fare ; All that we had is sold and we have no more bread. A pallet in the poor house, the lancet when I 'm dead, That, I suppose, must be the doom of one like me; But for my wife and infants it must not, cannot be. I therefore, now resume my work alone again, But first of all I fain would your permission gain, Lest that in calumny they speak behind my back ; For see, my hair is white, my hands are hard and black, For forty years I now my honest bread do earn, Then let me to my work, let me alone return ; I tried to beg my bread, but found I was not able, For I am now too old ; oh, it is pitiable, THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. 115 To see one, on whose brow the deepening lines are ploughed, By long continued labour, already bent and bowed, Extending to the passers a hand still firm, robust. Oh, let me, I implore you, if 't is not too unjust, That as the oldest of you, I am the first to cede ; Let me return alone, to the workshop in my need. I 've done. Speak, have I vexed you, that you look so grave?" Then one, advancing towards me, cried : " Cowardly slave ! " I felt my heart grow cold, my blood flew to my head, I looked into his face who had this insult said : It was a big young fellow, bloated with the air Of tavern balls, a wretch, unwashed, who wore his hair In curls, like any girl, upon his craven brow. He sneered and fixed his eyes with scorn upon me now, While all the rest in silence stood eagerly around ; The beating of my heart was there the only sound. Then seizing in both hands my fev'rish head, I cry : " In God's name then, my wife and little ones shall die; Il6 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. 'T is good and I shall work no more ! But this I swear, That thou shalt justify this insult that I bear, And that we two shall fight, just as the townsmen use ! The hour ? Here, at once. My weapon ? I shall choose, And zounds ! the ponderous sledge-hammer shall be ta'en, That 's lighter for our arms than rapier or pen ; And you, our fellow-workmen, you shall the seconds be. Then form a circle round us, search and bring to me, Two of those trusty iron knockers lying there, And thou, thou vile insulter of old age, lay bare Thy dastard chest and arms, and spit into thy hand!" Then forcing for myself a way amid the band Of workmen, I espied two stout sledge-hammers thrust Among a heap of iron, old and brown with rust, And with a practised eye examined them, then flung The best to him, who had done me this mortal wrong. With sneers he stood and caught the weapon I had thrown; His posture, erewhile careless, had defensive grown, THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. 1 17 And then he cried : " Old man, dost think I am afraid ? " I here advanced towards him, no other answer made, But fixed my eye upon him, so deep, so keen, so dread And whirled aloft my hammer high above my head, That tool of honest trade of deadly combat now! The dog that crouches trembling beneath the fall- ing blow Has in his frightened eye that mutely pleads for grace No look of supplication half so vile or base As that which I beheld that moment in the eye Of that pale villain, who recoiled and tremblingly Seeking support against the room-wall, sickening fell. But alas, it was too late ! A crimson veil, A bloody mist arose betwixt my sight And that foul being, felled to the earth by fright; And with one blow, one single blow, his skull I crushed ! I know it is a murder the blood to Heaven gushed ; And I stand here condemned, nor do I wish at last That cool assassination for duelling be passed. Il8 MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN POETRY. Dead at my feet he lay, a mutilated corse, While I stood there like one in whom th' intense remorse Which Cain so keenly felt, now seemed at once to rise. Ay, I stood there and buried within my hand my eyes. My fellow- work men now approaching, tried to lay Their trembling hands upon me and lead me thence away, But with a wafture of my hand preventing them, I said : "Leave me alone, I will myself condemn." They understood, and then uncovering my head And holding out my cap, with faltering voice I said : "'Tis for my wife and for my little ones, my men." It was ten francs, a comrade gave it them, and then I went and yielded up myself to the police. You now have heard the story, such as it really is, Of this my crime, and truly you need not much attend To what the counsel, pleading for me, may yet pretend. THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. 119 I have minutely told you the whole truth of the case, To let you see how often the cause of deeds so base Lies in events concurring which we cannot prevent. My little ones are now to the workhouse sent, In which my valiant wife to sorrow did succumb. I little care if prison or the galleys be my doom And even liberty no blessing more affords ; But if it be the scaffold then take my thanks, my lords. THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 3 115801081 4274 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 001 302 331 2