He lives! he’s risen from the dead!To every man I shout;His presence over us is spread,Goes with us in and out.To each I say it; each apaceHis comrades telleth too—That straight will dawn in every placeThe heavenly kingdom new.Now, to the new mind, first appearsThe world a fatherland;A new life men receive, with tearsOf rapture, from his hand.Down into deepest gulfs of seaGrim Death hath sunk away;And now each man with holy glee,Can face his coming day.The darksome road that he hath goneLeads out on heaven’s floor:Who heeds the counsel of the SonEnters the Father’s door.Down here weeps no one any moreFor friend that shuts his eyes;For, soon or late, the parting soreWill change to glad surprise.And now to every friendly deedEach heart will warmer glow;For many a fold the fresh-sown seedIn lovelier fields will blow.He lives—will sit beside our hearths,The greatest with the least;Therefore this day shall be our Earth’sGlad Renovation-feast.
The times are all so wretched!The heart so full of cares!The future, far outstretched,A spectral horror wears.Wild terrors creep and hoverWith foot so ghastly soft!Our souls black midnights coverWith mountains piled aloft.Firm props like reeds are waving;For trust is left no stay;Our thoughts, like whirlpool raving,No more the will obey!Frenzy, with eye resistless,Decoys from Truth’s defence;Life’s pulse is flagging listless,And dull is every sense.Who hath the cross upheavedTo shelter every soul?Who lives, on high received,To make the wounded whole?Go to the tree of wonder;Give silent longing room;Issuing flames asunderThy bad dream will consume.Draws thee an angel tenderIn saftey to the strand:Lo, at thy feet in splendourLies spread the Promised Land!
I know not what were left to draw me,Had I but him who is my bliss;If still his eye with pleasure saw me,And, dwelling with me, me would miss.So many search, round all ways going,With face distorted, anxious eye,Who call themselves the wise and knowing,Yet ever pass this treasure by!One man believes that he has found it,And what he has is nought but gold;One takes the world by sailing round it:The deed recorded, all is told!One man runs well to gain the laurel;Another, in Victory’s fane a niche:By different Shows in bright apparelAll are befooled, not one made rich!Hath He not then to you appeared?Have ye forgot Him turning wanWhose side for love of us was speared—The scorned, rejected Son of Man?Of Him have you not read the story—Heard one poor word upon the wind?What heavenly goodness was his glory,Or what a gift he left behind?How he descended from the Father,Of loveliest mother infant grand?What Word the nations from him gather?How many bless his healing hand?How, thereto urged by mere love, whollyHe gave himself to us away,And down in earth, foundation lowly,First stone of God’s new city, lay?Can such news fail to touch us mortals?Is not to know the man pure bliss?Will you not open all your portalsTo him who closed for you the abyss?Will you not let the world go faring?For Him your dearest wish deny?To him alone your heart keep baring,Who you has shown such favour high?Hero of love, oh, take me, take me!Thou art my life! my world! my gold!Should every earthly thing forsake me,I know who will me scatheless hold!I see Thee my lost loves restoring!True evermore to me thou art!Low at thy feet heaven sinks adoring,And yet thou dwellest in my heart!
Earth’s Consolation, why so slow?Thy inn is ready long ago;Each lifts to thee his hungering eyes,And open to thy blessing lies.O Father, pour him forth with might;Out of thine arms, oh yield him quite!Shyness alone, sweet shame, I know,Kept him from coming long ago!Haste him from thine into our armTo take him with thy breath yet warm;Thick clouds around the baby wrap,And let him down into our lap.In the cool streams send him to us;In flames let him glow tremulous;In air and oil, in sound and dew,Let him pierce all Earth’s structure through.So shall the holy fight be fought,So come the rage of hell to nought;And, ever blooming, dawn againThe ancient Paradise of men.Earth stirs once more, grows green and live;Full of the Spirit, all things striveTo clasp with love the Saviour-guest,And offer him the mother-breast.Winter gives way; a year new-bornStands at the manger’s alter-horn;‘Tis the first year of that new EarthClaimed by the child in right of birth.Our eyes they see the Saviour well,Yet in them doth the Saviour dwell;With flowers his head is wreathed about;From every flower himself smiles out.He is the star; he is the sun;Life’s well that evermore will run;From herb, stone, sea, and light’s expanseGlimmers his childish countenance.His childlike labour things to mend,His ardent love will never end;He nestles, with unconscious art,Divinely fast to every heart.To us a God, to himself a child,He loves us all, self un-defiled;Becomes our drink, becomes our food—His dearest thanks, a heart that’s good.The misery grows yet more and more;A gloomy grief afflicts us sore:Keep him no longer, Father, thus;He will come home again with us!
When in hours of fear and failing,All but quite our heart despairs;When, with sickness driven to wailing.Anguish at our bosom tears;Then our loved ones we remember;All their grief and trouble rue;Clouds close in on our DecemberAnd no beam of hope shines through!Oh but then God bends him o’er us!Then his love comes very near!Long we heavenward then—before usLo, his angel standing clear!Life’s cup fresh to us he reaches;Whispers comfort, courage new;Nor in vain our prayer beseechesRest for our beloved ones too.
Who once hath seen thee, Mother fair,Destruction him shall never snare;His fear is, from thee to be parted;He loves thee evermore, true-hearted;Thy grace remembered is the sourceWhereout springs hence his spirit’s highest force.My heart is very true to thee;My ever failing thou dost see:Let me, sweet mother, yet essay thee—Give me one happy sign, I pray thee.My whole existence rests in thee:One moment, only one, be thou with me.I used to see thee in my dreams,So fair, so full of tenderest beams!The little God in thine arms lyingTook pity on his playmate crying:But thou with high look me didst awe,And into clouds of glory didst withdraw.What have I done to thee, poor wretch?To thee my longing arms I stretch!Are not thy holy chapels everMy resting-spots in life’s endeavour?O Queen, of saints and angels blest,This heart and life take up into thy rest!Thou know’st that I, beloved Queen,All thine and only thine have been!Have I not now, years of long measure,In silence learned thy grace to treasure?While to myself yet scarce confest,Even then I drew milk from thy holy breast.Oh, countless times thou stood’st by me!I, merry child, looked up to thee!His hands thy little infant gave meIn sign that one day he would save me;Thou smiledst, full of tenderness,And then didst kiss me: oh the heavenly bliss!Afar stands now that gladness brief;Long have I companied with grief;Restless I stray outside the garden!Have I then sinned beyond thy pardon?Childlike thy garment’s hem I pull:Oh wake me from this dream so weariful!If only children see thy face,And, confident, may trust thy grace,From age’s bonds, oh, me deliver,And make me thine own child for ever!The love and truth of childhood’s primeDwell in me yet from that same golden time.
In countless pictures I behold thee,O Mary, lovelily expressed,But of them all none can unfold theeAs I have seen thee in my breast!I only know the world’s loud splendourSince then is like a dream o’erblown;And that a heaven, for words too tender,My quieted spirit fills alone.
Long ago, there lived far to the west a very young man, good, but extremely odd. He tormented himself continually about this nothing and that nothing, always walked in silence and straight before him, sat down alone when the others were at their sports and merry-makings, and brooded over strange things. Caves and woods were his dearest haunts; and there he talked on and on with beasts and birds, with trees and rocks—of course not one rational word, but mere idiotic stuff, to make one laugh to death. He continued, however, always moody and serious, in spite of the utmost pains that the squirrel, the monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch could take to divert him, and set him in the right way. The goose told stories, the brook jingled a ballad between, a great thick stone cut ridiculous capers, the rose stole lovingly about him from behind and crept through his locks, while the ivy stroked his troubled brow. But his melancholy and gravity were stubborn. His parents were much troubled, and did not know what to do. He was in good health, and ate well enough; they had never caused him any offence; and, until a few years ago, he had been the liveliest and merriest of them all, foremost in all their games, and a favourite with all the maidens. He was very handsome, looked like a picture, and danced like an angel. Amongst the maidens was one, a charming and beautiful creature, who looked like wax, had hair like golden silk, and cherry-red lips, was a doll for size, and had coal-black, yes, raven-black eyes. Whoever saw her was ready to swoon, she was so lovely. Now Rosebud, for that was her name, was heartily fond of the handsome Hyacinth, for that was his name, and he loved her fit to die. The other children knew nothing of it. A violet told them of it first. The little house-cats had been quite aware of it, for the houses of their parents lay near each other. So when Hyacinth stood at night by his window, and Rosebud at hers, and the cats ran past mouse-hunting, they saw the two standing there, and often laughed and tittered so loud that they heard it and were offended. The violet told it in confidence to the strawberry, and she told it to her friend, the raspberry, who never ceased rasping when Hyacinth came along; so that by and by the whole garden and wood were in the secret, and when Hyacinth went out, he heard on all sides the cry: “Little Rosy is my posy!” This vexed him; but the next moment he could not help laughing from the bottom of his heart, when the little lizard came slipping along, sat down on a warm stone, waggled his tail, and sang—
“Little Rosebud, good and wise,All at once has lost her eyes:Taking Hyacinth for her mother,Round his neck her arms she flings;Then perceiving ‘tis another—Starts with terror?—no, but clings—Think of that!—fast as before,Only kissing all the more!”
Alas, how soon was the grand time over! There came a man out of strange lands, who had travelled wondrous far and wide, had a long beard, deep eyes, frightful eyebrows, and a strange garment with many folds, and inwoven with curious figures. He seated himself before the house of Hyacinth’s parents. Hyacinth at once became very inquisitive, and sat down beside him, and brought him bread and wine. Then parted he his white beard, and told stories deep into the night; and Hyacinth never stirred or tired of listening. This much they learned afterward, that he talked a great deal about strange lands, unknown countries, and amazingly wonderful things; stopped there three days, and crept with Hyacinth down into deep shafts. Little Rosebud execrated the old sorcerer pretty thoroughly, for Hyacinth was altogether absorbed in his conversation, and paid no heed to anything else, hardly even to the swallowing of a mouthful of food. At length the man took his departure, but left with Hyacinth a little book which no man could read. Hyacinth gave him fruit, and bread, and wine to take with him, and accompanied him a long way. Then he came back sunk in thought, and thereafter took up a quite new mode of life. Rosebud was in a very sad way about him, for from that time forward he made little of her, and kept himself always to himself. But it came to pass that one day he came home, and was like one born again. He fell on his parents’ neck and wept. “I must away to a foreign land!” he said: “the strange old woman in the wood has told me what I must do to get well; she has thrown the book into the fire, and has made me come to you to ask your blessing. Perhaps I shall be back soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Rosebud for me. I should have been glad to have a talk with her; I do not know what has come to me: I must go! When I would think to recall old times, immediately come thoughts more potent in between; my rest is gone, and my heart and love with it; and I must go find them! I would gladly tell you whither, but do not myself know; it is where dwells the mother of things, the virgin with the veil; for her my spirit is on fire. Farewell!” He tore himself from them, and went out. His parents lamented and shed tears. Rosebud kept her chamber, and wept bitterly.
Hyacinth now ran, as fast as he could, through valleys and wildernesses, over mountains and streams, toward the land of mystery. Everywhere he inquired—of men and beasts, of rocks and trees,—after the sacred goddess Isis. Many laughed, many held their peace; nowhere did he get an answer. At first he passed through a rugged wild country; mists and clouds threw themselves in his way, but he rushed on impetuously. Then he came to boundless deserts of sand—mere glowing dust; and as he went his mood changed also; the time became tedious to him, and his inward unrest abated; he grew gentler, and the stormy impulse in him passed by degrees into a mild yet powerful attraction, wherein his whole spirit was dissolved. It seemed as if many years lay behind him.
And now the country became again richer and more varied, the air soft and blue, the way smoother. Green bushes enticed him with their pleasant shadows, but he did not understand their speech; they seemed indeed not to speak, and yet they filled his heart with their green hues, and their cool, still presence. Ever higher in him waxed that same sweet longing, and ever broader and juicier grew the leaves, ever louder and more jocund the birds and beasts, balmier the fruits, darker the heavenly blue, warmer the air, and more ardent his love. The time went ever faster, as if it knew itself near the goal.
One day he met a crystal rivulet, and a multitude of flowers, coming down into a valley between dark, columnar cliffs. They greeted him friendlily, with familiar words. “Dear country-folk,” said he, “where shall I find the sacred dwelling of Isis? Hereabouts it must be, and here, I guess, you are more at home than I.” “We also are but passing through,” replied the flowers; “a spirit-family is on its travels, and we are preparing for them their road and quarters. A little way back, however, we passed through a country where we heard her name mentioned. Only go up, where we came down, and thou wilt soon learn more.” The flowers and the brook smiled as they said it, offered him a cool draught, and went on their way. Hyacinth followed their counsel, kept asking, and came at last to that dwelling he had sought so long, which lay hid among palms and other rare plants. His heart beat with an infinite longing, and the sweetest apprehension thrilled him in this abode of the eternal seasons. Amid heavenly odours he fell asleep, for Dream alone could lead him into the holy of holies. In marvellous mode Dream conducted him through endless rooms full of strange things, by means of witching sounds and changeful harmonies. All seemed to him so familiar, and yet strange with an unknown splendour; then vanished the last film of the perishable as if melted into air, and he stood before the celestial virgin. Then he lifted the thin glistening veil, and— Rosebud sank into his arms. A far-off music surrounded the mysteries of love’s reunion and the outpouring of their longings, and shut out from the scene of their rapture everything alien to it.
Hyacinth lived a long time after with Rosebud and his happy parents and old playmates; and numberless grandchildren thanked the wonderful old wise woman for her counsel and her uprousing; for in those days people had as many children as they pleased.
THE TRYSTHOPETHE WORDS OF FAITHTHE WORDS OF VANITYTHE METAPHYSICIANTHE PHILOSOPHERSSAYINGS OF CONFUCIUSKNOWLEDGEMY FAITHFRIEND AND FOEEXPECTATION AND FULFILMENTTHE DIVERKNIGHT TOGGENBURGLONGING
THE TRYST.That was the sound of the wicket!That was the latch as it rose!No—the wind that through the thicketOf the poplars whirring goes.Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,Her to receive: with silent welcome grace her;Ye branches build a shadowy room, eye-proof,With lovely night and stillness to embrace her,Ye airs caressing, wake, nor keep aloof,In sport and gambol turning still to face her,As, with its load of beauty, lightly borne,Glides in the fairy foot, and dawns my morn.What is that rustling the hedges?She, with her hurrying pace?No, a bird among the sedges,Startled from its hiding-place!Quench thy sunk torch, O Day! Steal out, appear,Dim, ghostly Night, with dumbness us entrancing!Spread thy rose-purple veil about us here;Weave round us twigs, the mystery enhancing:Love’s rapture flees the lurking listening ear—Flies from the Day, so indiscreetly glancing;Hesper alone—no tattling tell-tale he—Far-gazing, still, her confidant may be.That was a voice, but far distant,Faint, like a whispering low!No; the swan that draws persistentThrough the pond his circles slow!About mine ears harmonious breathings flow;The fountain falls in sweetly wavering rushes;The flower beneath the west wind’s kiss bends slow;Delight from each to every thing outgushes;Grape-clusters beckon; peaches luring glow,And hide half in their leaves, up-swelling luscious;The air, which aromatic odours streak,Drinks up the glow upon my burning cheek.Hear I not echoing footfallsHither adown the pleach’d walk?No; the over-ripened fruit falls,Heavy-swollen, from off its stalk!Day’s flaming eye at last is quench�d quite;In gentle death its colours all are paling;Now boldly open in the fair twilightThe cups which in his blaze had long been quailing;Slow lifts the moon her visage calmly bright;Into great masses molten, earth sinks failing;From every charm the zone drops unaware,And shrouded beauty dawns upon me bare.Yonder I see a white shimmer—Silky—of robe or of shawl?No; it is the column’s glimmer‘Gainst the clipt yews’ gloomy wall!O longing heart, no more thyself befool,Flouted by Fancy’s loveliness unreal!The empty arm no burning heart will cool,No shadow-joy hold place for Love’s Ideal!O bring my live love all my heart to rule!Give me her hand to hold, my every weal!Or but the shadow of her mantle’s hem—And straight my dreams shall live, and I in them!And soft as, from hills rosy-goldenThe dews of still gladness descend,So had she drawn nigh unbeholden,And wakened with kisses her friend.
HOPE.Men talk with their lips and dream with their soulOf better days hitherward pacing;To a happy, a glorious, golden goalSee them go running and chasing!The world grows old and to youth returns,But still for the Better man’s bosom burns.It is Hope leads him into life and its light;She haunts the little one merry;The youth is inspired by her magic might;Her the graybeard cannot bury:When he finds at the grave his ended scope,On the grave itself he planteth Hope.She was never begotten in Folly’s brain,An empty illusion, to flatter;In the Heart she cries, aloud and plain:We are born to something better!And that which the inner voice doth sayThe hoping spirit will not betray.
THE WORDS OF FAITH.Three words I will tell you, of meaning full:The lips of the many shout them;Yet were they born of no sect or school,The heart only knows about them:That man is of everything worth bereftWho in those three words has no faith left:Manis born free—and is free alwayEven were he born in fetters!Let not the mob’s cry lead you astray,Or the misdeeds of frantic upsetters:Fear not the slave when he breaks his bands;Fear nothing from any free man’s hands.AndVirtue—it is no empty sound;That a man can obey her, no folly;Even if he stumble all over the groundHe yet can follow the Holy;And what never wisdom of wise man knewA child-like spirit can simply do.And aGodthere is—a steadfast Will,However the human shrinketh!High over space and time He still,The live Thought, doth what He thinketh;And though all things keep circling, to change confined,He keeps, in all changes, a changeless mind.These three words cherish—of meaning full:From mouth to mouth send them faring;For, although they spring from no sect or school,Your hearts them witness are bearing;And man is never of worth bereftWhile yet he has faith in those three words left.Three words there are of weighty sound,And from good men’s lips they hail us;But a tinkling cymbal, a drum’s rebound,For help or for comfort they fail us!His Life’s fruit away he forfeit flingsWho catches after those shadows of things;Who still believes in a Golden Age,Where the Right and the Good reign in splendour:The Right and the Good war ever must wage—Their foe will never surrender;And chok’st thou him not in the upper air,His strength he will still on the earth repair.Who yet believes that Fortune, the jilt,To the noble will bind herself ever:Her love-looks follow the man of guilt;The world to the good belongs never;He is in it a stranger; he wanders awaySeeking a house that will not decay.Who still believes that no human gazeTruth ever her visage discloses:Her veil no mortal hand shall raise;Man only thinks and supposes:Thou mayst prison the spirit in sounding form,But the Fetterless walks away on the storm.Then, noble spirit, from folly break free,This heav’nly faith holding and handing:What the ear never heard, what no eye can see,Is the lovely, the true, notwithstanding;Outside, the fool seeks for it evermore;The wise man finds it with closed door!
THE METAPHYSICIAN.“How far the world lies under me!Scarce can I see the men below there crawling!How high it bears me up, my lofty calling!How near the heavenly canopy!”Thus, from tower-roof where he doth clamber,Calls out the slater; and with him the small big man,Jack Metaphysicus, down in his writing-chamber!Tell me, thou little great big man,—The tower, whence thou so grandly all things hast inspected,Of what is it?—Whereon is it erected?How cam’st thou up thyself? Its heights so smooth and bare—How serve they thee but thence into the vale to stare?
THE PHILOSOPHERS.The principle whence everythingTo life and shape ascended—The pulley whereon Zeus the ringOf Earth, which else in sherds would spring,Has carefully suspended—To genius I yield him a claimWho fathoms for me what its name,Save I withdraw its curtain:It is—ten is not thirteen.That snow makes cold, that fire burns,That man on two feet goeth,That in the heavens the sun sojourns—This much the man who logic spurnsThrough his own senses knoweth;But metaphysics who has got,Knows he that burneth, freezeth not;Knows ‘tis the moist that wetteth,And ‘tis the rough that fretteth.Great Homer sings his epic high;The hero fronts his dangers;The brave his duty still doth ply—And did it while, I won’t deny,Philosophers were strangers:But grant by heart and brain achiev’dWhat Locke and Des Cartes ne’er conceiv’d—By them yet, as behov�d,It possible was prov�d.Strength for the Right is counted still;Bold laughs the strong hyena;Who rule not, servants’ parts must fill;It goes quite tolerably illUpon this world’s arena;But how it would be, if the planOf the universe now first began,In many a moral systemAll men may read who list ‘em.“Man needs with man must linked beTo reach the goal of growing;In the whole only worketh he;Many drops go to make the sea;Much water sets mills going.Then with the wild wolves do not stand,But knit the state’s enduring band:”From doctor’s chair thus, tranquil,Herr Pufendorf and swan-quill.But since to all, what doctors sayFlies not as soon as spoken,Nature will use her mother-way,See that her chain fly not in tway,The circle be not broken:Meantime, until the world’s great roundPhilosophy in one hath bound,She keeps it on the move, sir,By hunger and by love, sir.
SAYINGS OF CONFUCIUS.
I.Threefold is of Time the tread:Lingering comes the Future pacing hither;Dartlike is the Now gone thither;Stands the Past aye moveless, foot and head.No impatience wings its idleTread of leisurely delay;Fear or doubt it cannot bridleShould it headlong run away;No remorse, no incantationMoves the standing from its station.Wouldst thou end thy earthly journeyWise and of good fortune full,Make the Lingering thine attorneyThee to counsel—not thy tool;Not for friend the Flying take,Nor thy foe the Standing make.
II.Threefold is of Space the way:On unresting, without stay,Strives the Length into the distance;Ceaseless pours the Breadth’s insistenceBottomless the Depth goes down.For a sign the three are sent thee:Onwardmust alone content thee—Weary, thou must not stand stillWouldst thou thy perfection fill!Thou must spread thee wider, bigger,Wouldst thou have the world take figure!To the deep the man descendethWho existence comprehendeth.Leads persistence to the goal;Leads abundance to precision;Dwells in the abyss the Vision.
In the following epigrams I have altered the form,which in the original is the elegiac distich.
KNOWLEDGE.To this man, ‘tis a goddess tall,Who lifts a star-encircled head;To that, a fine cow in a stall,Which gives him butter to his bread.
MY FAITH.Which religion I profess?None of which you mention make.Wherefore so?—And can’t you guess?For Religion’s sake.
FRIEND AND FOE.Dear is my friend, but my foe tooIs friendly to my good;My friend the thing shows Icando,My foe, the thing I should.
EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT.Thousand-masted, mighty float,Out to sea Youth’s navy goes:Silent, in his one saved boat,Age into the harbour rows.
THE DIVER“Which of you, knight or squire, will darePlunge into yonder gulf?A golden beaker I fling in it—there!The black mouth swallows it like a wolf!Who brings me the cup again, whoever,It is his own—he may keep it for ever!”Tis the king who speaks; and he flings from the browOf the cliff, that, rugged and steep,Hangs out o’er the endless sea below,The cup in the whirlpool’s howling heap:—“Again I ask, what hero will follow?What brave heart plunge into yon dark hollow?”The knights and the squires, the king about,Hear him, and dumbly stareInto the wild sea’s tumbling rout;But to win the beaker, they hardly care!The king, for the third time, round him glaring—“Not a soul of you has the daring?”Speechless all, as before, they stand:When a vassal bold, gentle, and gay,Steps out from his comrades’ shrinking band,Flinging his girdle and cloak away;And all the women and men that surroundedGazed on the grand-looking youth, astounded.And when he stepped to the rock’s rough browLooking down on the gulf so black,The waters which it had swallowed, nowCharybdis bellowing rendered back;And, with a roar as of distant thunder,Foaming they burst from the dark lap under.It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout,As when water wrestles with fire,Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout;And flood upon flood keeps mounting higher:It will never its endless coil unravel,As the sea with another sea were in travail!But, at last, slow sinks the writhing spasm,And, black through the foaming white,Downward gapes a yawning chasm—Bottomless, cloven to hell’s wide night;And, sucked up, see the billows roaringDown through the whirling funnel pouring!Then in haste, ere the out-rage return again,The youth to his God doth pray,And—ascends a cry of horror and pain—Already the vortex hath swept him away!And o’er the bold swimmer, in darkness eternal,Close the great jaws of the gulf infernal!Then the water above grows smooth as glass,While, below, dull roarings ply;And, trembling, they hear the murmur pass—“High-hearted youth, farewell! good-bye!”And, hollower still, comes the howl affraying,Till their hearts are sick with the frightful delaying.If the crown itself thou in should fling,And say, “Who back with it hiesHimself shall wear it, and shall be king,”I should not covet the precious prize!What Ocean hides in that howling hell of it,Live soul will never come back to tell of it!Ships many, caught in that whirling surge,Shot sheer to their dismal doom:Keel and mast only did ever emerge,Shattered, from out the all-gulping tomb!—Like the bluster of tempest, clearer and clearer,Comes its roaring nearer and ever nearer!It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout,As when water wrestles with fire,Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout,Wave upon wave’s back mounting higher;And as with the rumble of distant thunderBellowing it bursts from the dark lap under.And see, from its bosom, flowing dark,Something heave up, swan-white!An arm and a shining neck they mark,And it rows with unrelaxing might!It is he! and aloft in his left hand holden,He swings, recovered, the beaker golden!With long deep breaths his path he ploughed,Glad greeting the heavenly day;Jubilant shouted the gazing crowd,“He lives! he is free! he has burst his way!Out of the grave, the whirlpool uproarious,The hero hath rescued his life victorious!”He comes; they surround him with shouts of glee;At the king’s feet he sinks on the sod,And hands him the beaker upon his knee.To his lovely daughter the king gives a nod:She fills it brim-full of wine sparkling and raying;And then to the monarch the youth turned, saying:“Long live the king!—Ah, well doth he fareWho breathes in this rosy light!For frightful, yea, horrible is it down there;And man ought not to tempt the heavenly Might,Or long to see, with prying unwholesome,What He graciously covers with darkness dolesome!“It tore me down as on lightning’s wing—When a shaft in a rock outpours,Wild-rushing against me, a torrent spring:Its conflict seized me with raging forceAnd like a top, with giddy twisting,Spun me about: there was no resisting!“Then God did show me, sore beseechingIn deepest, frightfullest need,Up from the bottom a rock-ledge reaching—At it I caught, and from death was freed!And behold, on spiked corals the beaker suspendedWhich had else to the very abyss descended!“For below me it lay yet mountain-deepThe purply darksome maw!And, though to the ear it was dead asleep,The ghasted eye, down staring, sawHow, with dragons, lizards, salamanders, crawling,The hell-jaws horrible were sprawling!“Black-swarming, in medley miscreate,In masses lumped hideously,Wallowed the conger, the thorny skate,The lobster’s grisly deformity;And, baring its teeth with cruel sheen, aTerrible shark, the sea’s hyena.“So there I hung, and shuddering knewThat human help was none;One thinking soul mid the horrid crew,In the ghastly desert I was alone—Deeper than human speech e’er sounded,By the sad waste’s dismal monsters surrounded!“Thus thought I, and shivered. Then a something crept nearUpon legs with a hundred joints!It snaps at me suddenly: frantic with fearI lost my grasp of the coral points:Away the whirl in its raging tore me—But it was my salvation, and upward bore me!”The king at the tale is filled with amaze:—“The beaker, well won, is thine;And this ring I will give thee too,” he says,“Precious with gems that are more than fine,If thou dare it yet once, and bring me the storyOf what’s in the sea’s lowest repertory.”His daughter she hears him with tender dismay,And with sweet words suasive doth plead:“Father, enough of this cruel play!For you he has done an unheard-of deed!If you may not master your heart’s desire,‘Tis the knights’ turn now to shame the squire!”The king sudden snatches and hurls the cupInto the swirling pool:—“If thou bring me once more that beaker up,Thou art best of my knights, the most worshipful!And this very day to thy home thou shalt lead herWho stands there—for thee such a pitiful pleader.”A passion divine his being invades;His eyes dart a lightning ray;He sees of her blushes the changeful shades,He sees her grow pallid and sink away!Determination thorough him flashes,And downward for life or for death he dashes!They hear the dull roar: ‘tis returning again,Announced by the thunderous brawl!Downward they bend with loving strain:They come! they are coming, the waters all!—They rush up!—they rush down! they rush ever and ever:The youth to the daylight rises never!
KNIGHT TOGGENBURG.True love, knight, as to a brother,Yield I you again;Ask me not for any other,For it gives me pain.Calmly I behold you come in,Calm behold you go;Your sad eyes the weeping dumb inI nor read nor know.And he hears her uncomplaining,Tears him free by force;To his heart but once her straining,Flings him on his horse;Sends to all his vassals merryIn old Switzerland;To the holy grave they hurry,White-crossed pilgrim band.Mighty deeds, the foe outbraving,Works their hero-arm;From their helms the plumes float wavingMid the heathen swarm;Still his “Toggenburg” upwakingFrays the Mussulman;But his heart its grievous achingQuiet never can.One whole year he did endure it,Then his patience lost;Peace, he never could secure it,And forsakes the host;Sees a ship by Joppa’s entryAt her cable saw;Sails him home to that dear countryWhere she breath doth draw.At the gate, her castle under,Pilgrim sad, he knocked;Straight, as with a word of thunderWas the gate unlocked:“She you seek, with rites most solemnIs betrothed to heaven;Yesterday, beneath that column,She to Christ was given.”Then the halls he leaves for everOf his ancestors;Shield or sword sets eyes on never,Or his faithful horse.Down from Toggenburg he fareth,None to see or care;On his noble limbs he wearethSackcloth made of hair:And himself a hovel buildethThat same cloister nigh,Where the lime-tree thicket yieldethCover whence to spy.There, from morning’s earliest tracesTill red evening shone,Thither turned his hoping face is,There he sits alone.On the walls so high above him,His eyes waiting hang,Waiting, though she would not love him,For her lattice-clang—Waiting till the loved should send herGlance into the vale,And, unthinking, toward it bend herVisage, angel-pale.Then he laid him, sadness scorning,Comforted to sleep;Quietly joyous till the morningOut again should peep.And so sat he, years a many,Years without a pang,Waiting without murmur anyTill her window rang—For the lovely one to send herGlance into the vale,And, unseeing, toward him bend herAngel visage pale.And thus sat he, staring wanly,His last morning there:Toward her window still the manlySilent face did stare.