Yet oft I dream, that once a wifeClose in my heart was locked,And in the sweet repose of lifeA blessed child I rocked.I wake! Away that dream,—away!Too long did it remain!So long, that both by night and dayIt ever comes again.The end lies ever in my thought;To a grave so cold and deepThe mother beautiful was brought;Then dropt the child asleep.But now the dream is wholly o'er,I bathe mine eyes and see;And wander through the world once more,A youth so light and free.Two locks—and they are wondrous fair—Left me that vision mild;The brown is from the mother's hair,The blond is from the child.And when I see that lock of gold,Pale grows the evening-red;And when the dark lock I behold,I wish that I were dead.THE HEMLOCK TREE.O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!Green not alone in summer time,But in the winter's frost and rime!O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!To love me in prosperity,And leave me in adversity!O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!So long as summer laughs she sings,But in the autumn spreads her wings.The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!It flows so long as falls the rain,In drought its springs soon dry again.The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!ANNIE OF THARAWBY SIMON DACHAnnie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow.Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,—So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,—Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes,Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one.Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOORBY JULIUS MOSENForms of saints and kings are standingThe cathedral door above;Yet I saw but one among themWho hath soothed my soul with love.In his mantle,—wound about him,As their robes the sowers wind,—Bore he swallows and their fledglings,Flowers and weeds of every kind.And so stands he calm and childlike,High in wind and tempest wild;O, were I like him exalted,I would be like him, a child!And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,—To the doors of heaven would hear,Calling even in storm and tempest,Round me still these birds of air.THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILLBY JULIUS MOSENOn the cross the dying SaviourHeavenward lifts his eyelids calm,Feels, but scarcely feels, a tremblingIn his pierced and bleeding palm.And by all the world forsaken,Sees he how with zealous careAt the ruthless nail of ironA little bird is striving there.Stained with blood and never tiring,With its beak it doth not cease,From the cross 't would free the Saviour,Its Creator's Son release.And the Saviour speaks in mildness:"Blest be thou of all the good!Bear, as token of this moment,Marks of blood and holy rood!"And that bird is called the crossbill;Covered all with blood so clear,In the groves of pine it singethSongs, like legends, strange to hear.THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLSBY HEINRICH HEINEThe sea hath its pearls,The heaven hath its stars;But my heart, my heart,My heart hath its love.Great are the sea and the heaven;Yet greater is my heart,And fairer than pearls and starsFlashes and beams my love.Thou little, youthful maiden,Come unto my great heart;My heart, and the sea, and the heavenAre melting away with love!POETIC APHORISMSFROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAUMONEYWhereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair.THE BEST MEDICINESJoy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose.SINMan-like is it to fall into sin, Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave.POVERTY AND BLINDNESSA blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.LAW OF LIFELive I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbor honestly. Die I, so die I.CREEDSLutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.THE RESTLESS HEARTA millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.CHRISTIAN LOVEWhilom Love was like a tire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.ART AND TACTIntelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.RETRIBUTIONThough the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.TRUTHWhen by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.RHYMESIf perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.SILENT LOVEWho love would seek,Let him love evermoreAnd seldom speak;For in love's domainSilence must reign;Or it brings the heartSmartAnd pain.BLESSED ARE THE DEADBY SIMON DACHOh, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still in prison.We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.Ye meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial.Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavor. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Who here would languish Longer in bewailing and in anguish?Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With Thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGSBY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHEIThou that from the heavens art, Every pain and sorrow stillest, And the doubly wretched heart Doubly with refreshment fillest, I am weary with contending! Why this rapture and unrest? Peace descending Come, ah, come into my breast!IIO'er all the hill-tops Is quiet now, In all the tree-tops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest.REMORSEBY AUGUST VON PLATENHow I started up in the night, in the night,Drawn on without rest or reprieval!The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight,As I wandered so lightIn the night, in the night,Through the gate with the arch mediaeval.The mill-brook rushed from the rocky height,I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,As they glided so lightIn the night, in the night,Yet backward not one was returning.O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,The stars in melodious existence;And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;—They sparkled so lightIn the night, in the night,Through the magical, measureless distance.And upward I gazed in the night, in the night,And again on the waves in their fleeting;Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight,Now silence thou light,In the night, in the night,The remorse in thy heart that is beating.FORSAKEN.Something the heart must have to cherish,Must love and joy and sorrow learn,Something with passion clasp or perish,And in itself to ashes burn.So to this child my heart is clinging,And its frank eyes, with look intense,Me from a world of sin are bringingBack to a world of innocence.Disdain must thou endure forever;Strong may thy heart in danger be!Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be neverFalse as thy father was to me.Never will I forsake thee, faithless,And thou thy mother ne'er forsake,Until her lips are white and breathless,Until in death her eyes shall break.ALLAHBY SIEGFRIED AUGUST MAHLMANNAllah gives light in darkness,Allah gives rest in pain,Cheeks that are white with weepingAllah paints red again.The flowers and the blossoms wither,Years vanish with flying fleet;But my heart will live on forever,That here in sadness beat.Gladly to Allah's dwellingYonder would I take flight;There will the darkness vanish,There will my eyes have sight.FROM THE ANGLO-SAXONTHE GRAVEFor thee was a house builtEre thou wast born,For thee was a mould meantEre thou of mother camest.But it is not made ready,Nor its depth measured,Nor is it seenHow long it shall be.Now I bring theeWhere thou shalt be;Now I shall measure thee,And the mould afterwards.Thy house is notHighly timbered,It is unhigh and low;When thou art therein,The heel-ways are low,The side-ways unhigh.The roof is builtThy breast full nigh,So thou shalt in mouldDwell full cold,Dimly and dark.Doorless is that house,And dark it is within;There thou art fast detainedAnd Death hath the key.Loathsome is that earth-house,And grim within to dwell.There thou shalt dwell,And worms shall divide thee.Thus thou art laid,And leavest thy friends Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee; For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.BEOWULF'S EXPEDITION TO HEORT.Thus then, much care-worn,The son of HealfdenSorrowed evermore,Nor might the prudent heroHis woes avert.The war was too hard,Too loath and longsome,That on the people came,Dire wrath and grim,Of night-woes the worst.This from home heardHigelac's Thane,Good among the Goths,Grendel's deeds.He was of mankindIn might the strongest,At that dayOf this life,Noble and stalwart.He bade him a sea-ship,A goodly one, prepare.Quoth he, the war-king,Over the swan's road,Seek he wouldThe mighty monarch,Since he wanted men.For him that journeyHis prudent fellowsStraight made ready,Those that loved him.They excited their souls,The omen they beheld.Had the good-manOf the Gothic peopleChampions chosen,Of those that keenestHe might find,Some fifteen men.The sea-wood sought he.The warrior showed,Sea-crafty man!The land-marks,And first went forth.The ship was on the waves,Boat under the cliffs.The barons readyTo the prow mounted.The streams they whirledThe sea against the sands.The chieftains boreOn the naked breastBright ornaments,War-gear, Goth-like.The men shoved off,Men on their willing way,The bounden wood.Then went over the sea-waves,Hurried by the wind,The ship with foamy neck,Most like a sea-fowl,Till about one hourOf the second dayThe curved prowHad passed onwardSo that the sailorsThe land saw,The shore-cliffs shining,Mountains steep,And broad sea-noses.Then was the sea-sailingOf the Earl at an end.Then up speedilyThe Weather peopleOn the land went,The sea-bark moored,Their mail-sarks shook,Their war-weeds.God thanked they,That to them the sea-journeyEasy had been.Then from the wall beheldThe warden of the Scyldings,He who the sea-cliffsHad in his keeping,Bear o'er the balksThe bright shields,The war-weapons speedily.Him the doubt disturbedIn his mind's thought,What these men might be.Went then to the shore,On his steed riding,The Thane of Hrothgar.Before the host he shookHis warden's-staff in hand,In measured words demanded:"What men are yeWar-gear wearing,Host in harness,Who thus the brown keelOver the water-streetLeading comeHither over the sea?I these boundariesAs shore-warden hold,That in the Land of the DanesNothing loathsomeWith a ship-crewScathe us might. . . .Ne'er saw I mightierEarl upon earthThan is your own,Hero in harness.Not seldom this warriorIs in weapons distinguished;Never his beauty belies him,His peerless countenance!Now would I fainYour origin know,Ere ye forthAs false spiesInto the Land of the DanesFarther fare.Now, ye dwellers afar-off!Ye sailors of the sea!Listen to myOne-fold thought.Quickest is bestTo make knownWhence your coming may be."THE SOUL'S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODYFROM THE ANGLO-SAXONMuch it behoveth Each one of mortals, That he his soul's journey In himself ponder, How deep it may be. When Death cometh, The bonds he breaketh By which were united The soul and the body.Long it is thenceforth Ere the soul taketh From God himself Its woe or its weal; As in the world erst, Even in its earth-vessel, It wrought before.The soul shall come Wailing with loud voice, After a sennight, The soul, to find The body That it erst dwelt in;— Three hundred winters, Unless ere that worketh The Eternal Lord, The Almighty God, The end of the world.Crieth then, so care-worn, With cold utterance, And speaketh grimly, The ghost to the dust: "Dry dust! thou dreary one! How little didst thou labor for me! In the foulness of earth Thou all wearest away Like to the loam! Little didst thou think How thy soul's journey Would be thereafter, When from the body It should be led forth."FROM THE FRENCHSONGFROM THE PARADISE OF LOVEHark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!But if to these longing armsPitying Love would yield the charmsOf the fairWith smiling air,Blithe would beat my heart again.Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!Love may force me still to bear,While he lists, consuming care;But in anguishThough I languish,Faithful shall my heart remain.Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!Then cease, Love, to torment me so;But rather than all thoughts foregoOf the fairWith flaxen hair,Give me back her frowns again.Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!SONGAnd whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?Say, dost thou bear his fate severeTo Love's poor martyr doomed to die?Come, tell me quickly,—do not lie;What secret message bring'st thou here?And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?May heaven conduct thee to thy willAnd safely speed thee on thy way;This only I would humbly pray,—Pierce deep,—but oh! forbear to kill.And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?THE RETURN OF SPRINGBY CHARLES D'ORLEANSNow Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again. Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.SPRINGBY CHARLES D'ORLEANSGentle Spring! in sunshine clad,Well dost thou thy power display!For Winter maketh the light heart sad,And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay.He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,Their beards of icicles and snow;And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,We must cower over the embers low;And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,Mope like birds that are changing feather.But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy skyWrap him round with a mantle of cloud;But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,Who has toiled for naught both late and early,Is banished afar by the new-born year,When thy merry step draws near.THE CHILD ASLEEPBY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLESweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face,Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!Sleep, little one; and closely, gently placeThy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.Upon that tender eye, my little friend,Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright!Awake, and chase this fatal thought! UncloseThine eye but for one moment on the light!Even at the price of thine, give me repose!Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPINFROM THE CHANSON DE ROLANDThe Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, And a faint shudder through his members ran. Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. Then raising in his arms the man of God, Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. "Rest, Sire," he cried,—"for rest thy suffering needs." The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds! The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! But death steals on,—there is no hope of life; In paradise, where Almoners live again, There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain."Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, "O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! Beloved France! how have the good and brave Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!" Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, "My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe! Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;— Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee! Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, The Hebrew Prophets from the second death." Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, He went, and one by one unaided drew To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore;— No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, He blessed them in God's name, with faith that He Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;— His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, And many a wound his swollen visage bore. Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, Death comes apace,—no hope of cure relieves. Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed That God, who for our sins was mortal made, Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, In paradise would place him by His side.Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, In battle great and eke great orison;— 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; God grant to him His holy benison.THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLEBY JACQUES JASMINOnly the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright; Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.IAt the foot of the mountain heightWhere is perched Castel Cuille,When the apple, the plum, and the almond treeIn the plain below were growing white,This is the song one might perceiveOn a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,Seemed from the clouds descending;When lo! a merry companyOf rosy village girls, clean as the eye,Each one with her attendant swain,Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;Resembling there, so near unto the sky,Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sentFor their delight and our encouragement.Together blending,And soon descendingThe narrow sweepOf the hillside steep,They wind aslantTowards Saint Amant,Through leafy alleysOf verdurous valleysWith merry salliesSinging their chant:"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden!The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,The sun of March was shining brightly,And to the air the freshening wind gave lightlyIts breathings of perfume.When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,A rustic bridal, oh! how sweet it is!To sounds of joyous melodies,That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,A band of maidensGayly frolicking,A band of youngstersWildly rollicking!Kissing,Caressing,With fingers pressing,Till in the veriestMadness of mirth, as they dance,They retreat and advance,Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;While the bride, with roguish eyes,Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:"Those who catch meMarried verilyThis year shall be!"And all pursue with eager haste,And all attain what they pursue,And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,And the linen kirtle round her waist.Meanwhile, whence comes it that amongThese youthful maidens fresh and fair,So joyous, with such laughing air,Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?And yet the bride is fair and young!Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall?O no! for a maiden frail, I trow,Never bore so lofty a brow!What lovers! they give not a single caress!To see them so careless and cold to-day,These are grand people, one would say.What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?It is, that half-way up the hill,In yon cottage, by whose wallsStand the cart-house and the stalls,Dwelleth the blind orphan still,Daughter of a veteran old;And you must know, one year ago,That Margaret, the young and tender,Was the village pride and splendor,And Baptiste her lover bold.Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;For them the altar was prepared;But alas! the summer's blight,The dread disease that none can stay,The pestilence that walks by night,Took the young bride's sight away.All at the father's stern command was changed;Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled;Returned but three short days ago,The golden chain they round him throw,He is enticed, and onward ledTo marry Angela, and yetIs thinking ever of Margaret.Then suddenly a maiden cried,"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's sideA woman, bent and gray with years,Under the mulberry-trees appears,And all towards her run, as fleetAs had they wings upon their feet.It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.She telleth fortunes, and none complain.She promises one a village swain,Another a happy wedding-day,And the bride a lovely boy straightway.All comes to pass as she avers;She never deceives, she never errs.But for this once the village seerWears a countenance severe,And from beneath her eyebrows thin and whiteHer two eyes flash like cannons brightAimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,Who, like a statue, stands in view;Changing color as well he might,When the beldame wrinkled and grayTakes the young bride by the hand,And, with the tip of her reedy wandMaking the sign of the cross, doth say:—"Thoughtless Angela, beware!Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!"And she was silent; and the maidens fairSaw from each eye escape a swollen tear;But on a little streamlet silver-clear,What are two drops of turbid rain?Saddened a moment, the bridal trainResumed the dance and song again;The bridegroom only was pale with fear;—And down green alleysOf verdurous valleys,With merry sallies,They sang the refrain:—"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"IIAnd by suffering worn and weary,But beautiful as some fair angel yet,Thus lamented Margaret,In her cottage lone and dreary;—"He has arrived! arrived at last!Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far!And knows that of my night he is the star!Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,And count the moments since he went away!Come! keep the promise of that happier day,That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!What joy have I without thee? what delight?Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;Day for the others ever, but for meForever night! forever night!When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad!I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!Within them shines for me a heaven of love,A heaven all happiness, like that above,No more of grief! no more of lassitude!Earth I forget,—and heaven, and all distresses,When seated by my side my hand he presses;But when alone, remember all!Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call!A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,I need some bough to twine around!In pity come! be to my suffering kind!True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!What then—when one is blind?"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!O God! what thoughts within me waken!Away! he will return! I do but rave!He will return! I need not fear!He swore it by our Saviour dear;He could not come at his own will;Is weary, or perhaps is ill!Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,Prepares for me some sweet surprise!But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!"And the door ajar is set,And poor, confiding MargaretRises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:—"Angela the bride has passed!I saw the wedding guests go by;Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?For all are there but you and I!""Angela married! and not sendTo tell her secret unto me!O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?""My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!"A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;An icy hand, as heavy as lead,Descending, as her brother speaks,Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,Suspends awhile its life and heat.She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.At length, the bridal song againBrings her back to her sorrow and pain."Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!Sister, dost thou hear them singing?How merrily they laugh and jest!Would we were bidden with the rest!I would don my hose of homespun gray,And my doublet of linen striped and gay;Perhaps they will come; for they do not wedTill to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!""I know it!" answered Margaret;Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,Mastered again; and its hand of iceHeld her heart crushed, as in a vice!"Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holiday;To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!But leave me now for a while alone."Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,And, as he whistled along the hall,Entered Jane, the crippled crone."Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!But thou art cold,—art chill as death;My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?""Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;And, as I listened to the song,I thought my turn would come erelong,Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.Thy cards forsooth can never lie,To me such joy they prophesy,Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wideWhen they behold him at my side.And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!"Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:"Thy love I cannot all approve;We must not trust too much to happiness;—Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!""The more I pray, the more I love!It is no sin, for God is on my side!"It was enough; and Jane no more replied.Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;But to deceive the beldame oldShe takes a sweet, contented air;Speak of foul weather or of fair,At every word the maiden smiles!Thus the beguiler she beguiles;So that, departing at the evening's close,She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!"Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!IIINow rings the bell, nine times reverberating,And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,How differently!Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,The one puts on her cross and crown,Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,And flaunting, fluttering up and down,Looks at herself, and cannot rest,The other, blind, within her little room,Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;But in their stead for something gropes apart,That in a drawer's recess doth lie,And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,Convulsive clasps it to her heart.The one, fantastic, light as air,'Mid kisses ringing,And joyous singing,Forgets to say her morning prayer!The other, with cold drops upon her brow,Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,And whispers, as her brother opes the door,"O God! forgive me now!"And then the orphan, young and blind,Conducted by her brother's hand,Towards the church, through paths unscanned,With tranquil air, her way doth wind.Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,Round her at times exhale,And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,But brumal vapors gray.Near that castle, fair to see,Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,Marvels of nature and of art,And proud of its name of high degree,A little chapel, almost bareAt the base of the rock, is builded there;All glorious that it lifts aloof,Above each jealous cottage roof,Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,And its blackened steeple high in air,Round which the osprey screams and sails."Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!"Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend!""Yes; seest thou not our journey's end?Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!Dost thou remember when our father said,The night we watched beside his bed,'O daughter, I am weak and low;Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!'And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;And here they brought our father in his shroud.There is his grave; there stands the cross we set;Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?Come in! The bride will be here soon:Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!"She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary!A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"—and she started,And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;But Paul, impatient, urges evermoreHer steps towards the open door;And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maidCrushes the laurel near the house immortal,And with her head, as Paul talks on again,Touches the crown of filigraneSuspended from the low-arched portal,No more restrained, no more afraid,She walks, as for a feast arrayed,And in the ancient chapel's sombre nightThey both are lost to sight.At length the bell,With booming sound,Sends forth, resounding round.Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;And yet the guests delay not long,For soon arrives the bridal train,And with it brings the village throng.In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, "How beautiful! how beautiful she is!".
Yet oft I dream, that once a wifeClose in my heart was locked,And in the sweet repose of lifeA blessed child I rocked.
I wake! Away that dream,—away!Too long did it remain!So long, that both by night and dayIt ever comes again.
The end lies ever in my thought;To a grave so cold and deepThe mother beautiful was brought;Then dropt the child asleep.
But now the dream is wholly o'er,I bathe mine eyes and see;And wander through the world once more,A youth so light and free.
Two locks—and they are wondrous fair—Left me that vision mild;The brown is from the mother's hair,The blond is from the child.
And when I see that lock of gold,Pale grows the evening-red;And when the dark lock I behold,I wish that I were dead.
O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!Green not alone in summer time,But in the winter's frost and rime!O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!
O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!To love me in prosperity,And leave me in adversity!O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!So long as summer laughs she sings,But in the autumn spreads her wings.The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!It flows so long as falls the rain,In drought its springs soon dry again.The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!
BY SIMON DACH
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.
Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.
Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!
Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow.
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,—
So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.
Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,—
Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes,
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.
How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?
Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.
It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.
BY JULIUS MOSEN
Forms of saints and kings are standingThe cathedral door above;Yet I saw but one among themWho hath soothed my soul with love.
In his mantle,—wound about him,As their robes the sowers wind,—Bore he swallows and their fledglings,Flowers and weeds of every kind.
And so stands he calm and childlike,High in wind and tempest wild;O, were I like him exalted,I would be like him, a child!
And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,—To the doors of heaven would hear,Calling even in storm and tempest,Round me still these birds of air.
BY JULIUS MOSEN
On the cross the dying SaviourHeavenward lifts his eyelids calm,Feels, but scarcely feels, a tremblingIn his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,Sees he how with zealous careAt the ruthless nail of ironA little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring,With its beak it doth not cease,From the cross 't would free the Saviour,Its Creator's Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness:"Blest be thou of all the good!Bear, as token of this moment,Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the crossbill;Covered all with blood so clear,In the groves of pine it singethSongs, like legends, strange to hear.
BY HEINRICH HEINE
The sea hath its pearls,The heaven hath its stars;But my heart, my heart,My heart hath its love.
Great are the sea and the heaven;Yet greater is my heart,And fairer than pearls and starsFlashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,Come unto my great heart;My heart, and the sea, and the heavenAre melting away with love!
FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU
MONEY
Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair.
THE BEST MEDICINES
Joy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose.
SIN
Man-like is it to fall into sin, Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave.
POVERTY AND BLINDNESS
A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.
LAW OF LIFE
Live I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbor honestly. Die I, so die I.
CREEDS
Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.
THE RESTLESS HEART
A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
CHRISTIAN LOVE
Whilom Love was like a tire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.
ART AND TACT
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
RETRIBUTION
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.
TRUTH
When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.
RHYMES
If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.
Who love would seek,Let him love evermoreAnd seldom speak;For in love's domainSilence must reign;Or it brings the heartSmartAnd pain.
BY SIMON DACH
Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still in prison.
We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.
Ye meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial.
Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavor. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.
Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Who here would languish Longer in bewailing and in anguish?
Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With Thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.
BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
Thou that from the heavens art, Every pain and sorrow stillest, And the doubly wretched heart Doubly with refreshment fillest, I am weary with contending! Why this rapture and unrest? Peace descending Come, ah, come into my breast!
O'er all the hill-tops Is quiet now, In all the tree-tops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest.
BY AUGUST VON PLATEN
How I started up in the night, in the night,Drawn on without rest or reprieval!The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight,As I wandered so lightIn the night, in the night,Through the gate with the arch mediaeval.
The mill-brook rushed from the rocky height,I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,As they glided so lightIn the night, in the night,Yet backward not one was returning.
O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,The stars in melodious existence;And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;—They sparkled so lightIn the night, in the night,Through the magical, measureless distance.
And upward I gazed in the night, in the night,And again on the waves in their fleeting;Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight,Now silence thou light,In the night, in the night,The remorse in thy heart that is beating.
Something the heart must have to cherish,Must love and joy and sorrow learn,Something with passion clasp or perish,And in itself to ashes burn.
So to this child my heart is clinging,And its frank eyes, with look intense,Me from a world of sin are bringingBack to a world of innocence.
Disdain must thou endure forever;Strong may thy heart in danger be!Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be neverFalse as thy father was to me.
Never will I forsake thee, faithless,And thou thy mother ne'er forsake,Until her lips are white and breathless,Until in death her eyes shall break.
BY SIEGFRIED AUGUST MAHLMANN
Allah gives light in darkness,Allah gives rest in pain,Cheeks that are white with weepingAllah paints red again.
The flowers and the blossoms wither,Years vanish with flying fleet;But my heart will live on forever,That here in sadness beat.
Gladly to Allah's dwellingYonder would I take flight;There will the darkness vanish,There will my eyes have sight.
For thee was a house builtEre thou wast born,For thee was a mould meantEre thou of mother camest.But it is not made ready,Nor its depth measured,Nor is it seenHow long it shall be.Now I bring theeWhere thou shalt be;Now I shall measure thee,And the mould afterwards.Thy house is notHighly timbered,It is unhigh and low;When thou art therein,The heel-ways are low,The side-ways unhigh.The roof is builtThy breast full nigh,So thou shalt in mouldDwell full cold,Dimly and dark.Doorless is that house,And dark it is within;There thou art fast detainedAnd Death hath the key.Loathsome is that earth-house,And grim within to dwell.There thou shalt dwell,And worms shall divide thee.Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee; For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.
Thus then, much care-worn,The son of HealfdenSorrowed evermore,Nor might the prudent heroHis woes avert.The war was too hard,Too loath and longsome,That on the people came,Dire wrath and grim,Of night-woes the worst.This from home heardHigelac's Thane,Good among the Goths,Grendel's deeds.He was of mankindIn might the strongest,At that dayOf this life,Noble and stalwart.He bade him a sea-ship,A goodly one, prepare.Quoth he, the war-king,Over the swan's road,Seek he wouldThe mighty monarch,Since he wanted men.For him that journeyHis prudent fellowsStraight made ready,Those that loved him.They excited their souls,The omen they beheld.Had the good-manOf the Gothic peopleChampions chosen,Of those that keenestHe might find,Some fifteen men.The sea-wood sought he.The warrior showed,Sea-crafty man!The land-marks,And first went forth.The ship was on the waves,Boat under the cliffs.The barons readyTo the prow mounted.The streams they whirledThe sea against the sands.The chieftains boreOn the naked breastBright ornaments,War-gear, Goth-like.The men shoved off,Men on their willing way,The bounden wood.Then went over the sea-waves,Hurried by the wind,The ship with foamy neck,Most like a sea-fowl,Till about one hourOf the second dayThe curved prowHad passed onwardSo that the sailorsThe land saw,The shore-cliffs shining,Mountains steep,And broad sea-noses.Then was the sea-sailingOf the Earl at an end.Then up speedilyThe Weather peopleOn the land went,The sea-bark moored,Their mail-sarks shook,Their war-weeds.God thanked they,That to them the sea-journeyEasy had been.Then from the wall beheldThe warden of the Scyldings,He who the sea-cliffsHad in his keeping,Bear o'er the balksThe bright shields,The war-weapons speedily.Him the doubt disturbedIn his mind's thought,What these men might be.Went then to the shore,On his steed riding,The Thane of Hrothgar.Before the host he shookHis warden's-staff in hand,In measured words demanded:"What men are yeWar-gear wearing,Host in harness,Who thus the brown keelOver the water-streetLeading comeHither over the sea?I these boundariesAs shore-warden hold,That in the Land of the DanesNothing loathsomeWith a ship-crewScathe us might. . . .Ne'er saw I mightierEarl upon earthThan is your own,Hero in harness.Not seldom this warriorIs in weapons distinguished;Never his beauty belies him,His peerless countenance!Now would I fainYour origin know,Ere ye forthAs false spiesInto the Land of the DanesFarther fare.Now, ye dwellers afar-off!Ye sailors of the sea!Listen to myOne-fold thought.Quickest is bestTo make knownWhence your coming may be."
FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON
Much it behoveth Each one of mortals, That he his soul's journey In himself ponder, How deep it may be. When Death cometh, The bonds he breaketh By which were united The soul and the body.
Long it is thenceforth Ere the soul taketh From God himself Its woe or its weal; As in the world erst, Even in its earth-vessel, It wrought before.
The soul shall come Wailing with loud voice, After a sennight, The soul, to find The body That it erst dwelt in;— Three hundred winters, Unless ere that worketh The Eternal Lord, The Almighty God, The end of the world.
Crieth then, so care-worn, With cold utterance, And speaketh grimly, The ghost to the dust: "Dry dust! thou dreary one! How little didst thou labor for me! In the foulness of earth Thou all wearest away Like to the loam! Little didst thou think How thy soul's journey Would be thereafter, When from the body It should be led forth."
Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!But if to these longing armsPitying Love would yield the charmsOf the fairWith smiling air,Blithe would beat my heart again.
Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!Love may force me still to bear,While he lists, consuming care;But in anguishThough I languish,Faithful shall my heart remain.Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!Then cease, Love, to torment me so;But rather than all thoughts foregoOf the fairWith flaxen hair,Give me back her frowns again.Hark! hark!Pretty lark!Little heedest thou my pain!
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?Say, dost thou bear his fate severeTo Love's poor martyr doomed to die?Come, tell me quickly,—do not lie;What secret message bring'st thou here?And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?May heaven conduct thee to thy willAnd safely speed thee on thy way;This only I would humbly pray,—Pierce deep,—but oh! forbear to kill.And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,Breathed so softly in my ear?
BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again. Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad,Well dost thou thy power display!For Winter maketh the light heart sad,And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay.He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,Their beards of icicles and snow;And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,We must cower over the embers low;And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,Mope like birds that are changing feather.But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,When thy merry step draws near.Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy skyWrap him round with a mantle of cloud;But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,Who has toiled for naught both late and early,Is banished afar by the new-born year,When thy merry step draws near.
BY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE
Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face,Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!Sleep, little one; and closely, gently placeThy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.Upon that tender eye, my little friend,Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?
Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright!Awake, and chase this fatal thought! UncloseThine eye but for one moment on the light!Even at the price of thine, give me repose!Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND
The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, And a faint shudder through his members ran. Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. Then raising in his arms the man of God, Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. "Rest, Sire," he cried,—"for rest thy suffering needs." The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds! The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! But death steals on,—there is no hope of life; In paradise, where Almoners live again, There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain."
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, "O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! Beloved France! how have the good and brave Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!" Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, "My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe! Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;— Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee! Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, The Hebrew Prophets from the second death." Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, He went, and one by one unaided drew To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore;— No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, He blessed them in God's name, with faith that He Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;— His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, And many a wound his swollen visage bore. Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, Death comes apace,—no hope of cure relieves. Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed That God, who for our sins was mortal made, Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, In paradise would place him by His side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, In battle great and eke great orison;— 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; God grant to him His holy benison.
BY JACQUES JASMIN
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright; Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
At the foot of the mountain heightWhere is perched Castel Cuille,When the apple, the plum, and the almond treeIn the plain below were growing white,This is the song one might perceiveOn a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,Seemed from the clouds descending;When lo! a merry companyOf rosy village girls, clean as the eye,Each one with her attendant swain,Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;Resembling there, so near unto the sky,Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sentFor their delight and our encouragement.Together blending,And soon descendingThe narrow sweepOf the hillside steep,They wind aslantTowards Saint Amant,Through leafy alleysOf verdurous valleysWith merry salliesSinging their chant:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,The sun of March was shining brightly,And to the air the freshening wind gave lightlyIts breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,A rustic bridal, oh! how sweet it is!To sounds of joyous melodies,That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,A band of maidensGayly frolicking,A band of youngstersWildly rollicking!Kissing,Caressing,With fingers pressing,Till in the veriestMadness of mirth, as they dance,They retreat and advance,Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;While the bride, with roguish eyes,Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:"Those who catch meMarried verilyThis year shall be!"And all pursue with eager haste,And all attain what they pursue,And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,And the linen kirtle round her waist.Meanwhile, whence comes it that amongThese youthful maidens fresh and fair,So joyous, with such laughing air,Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?And yet the bride is fair and young!Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall?O no! for a maiden frail, I trow,Never bore so lofty a brow!What lovers! they give not a single caress!To see them so careless and cold to-day,These are grand people, one would say.What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?It is, that half-way up the hill,In yon cottage, by whose wallsStand the cart-house and the stalls,Dwelleth the blind orphan still,Daughter of a veteran old;And you must know, one year ago,That Margaret, the young and tender,Was the village pride and splendor,And Baptiste her lover bold.Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;For them the altar was prepared;But alas! the summer's blight,The dread disease that none can stay,The pestilence that walks by night,Took the young bride's sight away.
All at the father's stern command was changed;Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled;Returned but three short days ago,The golden chain they round him throw,He is enticed, and onward ledTo marry Angela, and yetIs thinking ever of Margaret.Then suddenly a maiden cried,"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's sideA woman, bent and gray with years,Under the mulberry-trees appears,And all towards her run, as fleetAs had they wings upon their feet.It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.She telleth fortunes, and none complain.She promises one a village swain,Another a happy wedding-day,And the bride a lovely boy straightway.All comes to pass as she avers;She never deceives, she never errs.But for this once the village seerWears a countenance severe,And from beneath her eyebrows thin and whiteHer two eyes flash like cannons brightAimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,Who, like a statue, stands in view;Changing color as well he might,When the beldame wrinkled and grayTakes the young bride by the hand,And, with the tip of her reedy wandMaking the sign of the cross, doth say:—"Thoughtless Angela, beware!Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!"And she was silent; and the maidens fairSaw from each eye escape a swollen tear;But on a little streamlet silver-clear,What are two drops of turbid rain?Saddened a moment, the bridal trainResumed the dance and song again;The bridegroom only was pale with fear;—And down green alleysOf verdurous valleys,With merry sallies,They sang the refrain:—
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"
And by suffering worn and weary,But beautiful as some fair angel yet,Thus lamented Margaret,In her cottage lone and dreary;—"He has arrived! arrived at last!Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far!And knows that of my night he is the star!Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,And count the moments since he went away!Come! keep the promise of that happier day,That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!What joy have I without thee? what delight?Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;Day for the others ever, but for meForever night! forever night!When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad!I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!Within them shines for me a heaven of love,A heaven all happiness, like that above,No more of grief! no more of lassitude!Earth I forget,—and heaven, and all distresses,When seated by my side my hand he presses;But when alone, remember all!Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call!A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,I need some bough to twine around!In pity come! be to my suffering kind!True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!What then—when one is blind?"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!O God! what thoughts within me waken!Away! he will return! I do but rave!He will return! I need not fear!He swore it by our Saviour dear;He could not come at his own will;Is weary, or perhaps is ill!Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,Prepares for me some sweet surprise!But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!"And the door ajar is set,And poor, confiding MargaretRises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:—"Angela the bride has passed!I saw the wedding guests go by;Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?For all are there but you and I!""Angela married! and not sendTo tell her secret unto me!O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?""My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!"
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;An icy hand, as heavy as lead,Descending, as her brother speaks,Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,Suspends awhile its life and heat.She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.At length, the bridal song againBrings her back to her sorrow and pain."Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!Sister, dost thou hear them singing?How merrily they laugh and jest!Would we were bidden with the rest!I would don my hose of homespun gray,And my doublet of linen striped and gay;Perhaps they will come; for they do not wedTill to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!""I know it!" answered Margaret;Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,Mastered again; and its hand of iceHeld her heart crushed, as in a vice!"Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holiday;To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!But leave me now for a while alone."Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,And, as he whistled along the hall,Entered Jane, the crippled crone."Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!But thou art cold,—art chill as death;My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?""Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;And, as I listened to the song,I thought my turn would come erelong,Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.Thy cards forsooth can never lie,To me such joy they prophesy,Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wideWhen they behold him at my side.And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!"Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:"Thy love I cannot all approve;We must not trust too much to happiness;—Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!""The more I pray, the more I love!It is no sin, for God is on my side!"It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;But to deceive the beldame oldShe takes a sweet, contented air;Speak of foul weather or of fair,At every word the maiden smiles!Thus the beguiler she beguiles;So that, departing at the evening's close,She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!"Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!
Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,How differently!
Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,The one puts on her cross and crown,Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,And flaunting, fluttering up and down,Looks at herself, and cannot rest,The other, blind, within her little room,Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;But in their stead for something gropes apart,That in a drawer's recess doth lie,And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,Convulsive clasps it to her heart.The one, fantastic, light as air,'Mid kisses ringing,And joyous singing,Forgets to say her morning prayer!
The other, with cold drops upon her brow,Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,And whispers, as her brother opes the door,"O God! forgive me now!"And then the orphan, young and blind,Conducted by her brother's hand,Towards the church, through paths unscanned,With tranquil air, her way doth wind.Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,Round her at times exhale,And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,But brumal vapors gray.Near that castle, fair to see,Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,Marvels of nature and of art,And proud of its name of high degree,A little chapel, almost bareAt the base of the rock, is builded there;All glorious that it lifts aloof,Above each jealous cottage roof,Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,And its blackened steeple high in air,Round which the osprey screams and sails."Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!"Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend!""Yes; seest thou not our journey's end?Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!Dost thou remember when our father said,The night we watched beside his bed,'O daughter, I am weak and low;Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!'And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;And here they brought our father in his shroud.There is his grave; there stands the cross we set;Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?Come in! The bride will be here soon:Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!"
She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary!A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"—and she started,And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;But Paul, impatient, urges evermoreHer steps towards the open door;And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maidCrushes the laurel near the house immortal,And with her head, as Paul talks on again,Touches the crown of filigraneSuspended from the low-arched portal,No more restrained, no more afraid,She walks, as for a feast arrayed,And in the ancient chapel's sombre nightThey both are lost to sight.At length the bell,With booming sound,Sends forth, resounding round.Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;And yet the guests delay not long,For soon arrives the bridal train,And with it brings the village throng.
In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.
And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, "How beautiful! how beautiful she is!".