FRESCO-SONNETS TO CHRISTIAN S—.

When I thy book, friend, open hastily,Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,And many a golden image that I knewIn boyish dreams and days of infancy.Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I seeThe pious dome, rotted by religion true,I bear the sound of bell and organ too,Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joyThe beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.But though the oak of foliage we may strip,And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.

I take no notice of the blockheads tameWho, seeming to be golden, are but sand;I never offer to that rogue my handWho secretly would injure my good name;I bow not to the harlots who proclaimBoldly their infamy throughout the land;And when in victor-cars the rabble bandDraw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came.Well know I that the oak must fall indeed,Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reedStands in all winds and weathers, fearing not;But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot?What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy,Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.

Give me a mask, I’ll join the masqueradeAs country clown, so that the rabble rotWho in their proud disguises strut aboutMay not suppose me one of their vile trade.Give me low manners, words on purpose madeTo show vulgarity beyond all doubt;All sparks of spirit I’ll with care put outWherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid.So will I dance then at the great mask’d ball,By German knights, monks, kings surrounded too,By Harlequin saluted, known to few.With wooden swords they’ll strike me, one and all.That is the joke. For if I show my face,The rascals will be silenced in disgrace.

I laugh at all the fools who at me gape,And whom with prying goat-like face I see;I laugh at every fox who knavishlyAnd idly snuffs me like a very grape;I laugh at every vain pretentious ape,Who a proud judge of genius claims to be;I laugh at all the knaves who threaten meWith poisonous weapons whence there’s no escape.For when the charming fancies joy once gaveAre wrested from us by the hands of fate,And at our feet in thousand atoms cast,And when our very heart is torn at last,All torn and cut and pierced and desolate,A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save.

A strange and charming tale still haunts my mind,Wherein a song the leading part assumes,And in the song there lives and twines and bloomsA lovely specimen of womankind;And in this maiden is a heart enshrined,And yet no love that little heart illumes;Her loveless frosty disposition doomsHer life to suffer from her pride so blind.Hear’st thou how in my head the tale comes back?And how the song sounds solemnly and sad?And how the maiden titters softly yet?I only fear lest my poor head should crack.Alas! it would indeed be far too bad,If my unlucky reason were upset.

At evening’s silent, melancholy hour,Long buried songs around me take their place,And burning tears course swiftly down my face,And my old heart-wounds bleed with greater power.My love’s dear image like a beauteous flowerAs in a magic glass again I trace;In bodice red she sits and sews apace,And silence reigns around her blissful bower.But on a sudden springs she from her seat,And cuts from her dear head a beauteous lock,And gives it me—the very joy’s a shock.The Evil One soon spoilt my rapture sweet:The hair he twisted in a rope full strong,And many a year has dragg’d me thus along.

“When I a year ago again met thee,“No kiss thou gav’st me in that moment blest;”—Thus spake I, and my love a kiss impress’dWith rosy mouth upon my lips with glee.With a sweet smile she from a myrtle treeHard by us pluck’d a twig, and said in jest:“Take thou this twig, in fresh earth let it rest,“And o’er it place a glass,”—then nodded she.Twas long ago. The twig died in the pot.’Tis many a year since she hath cross’d my sight;Yet in my head that kiss still burneth hot.Lately returning home, I sought the placeWhere dwells my love. Before her house all nightI stood, and left when morning show’d its face.

Of savage devils’-brats, my friend, beware,But gentle angels’-brats more hearts will break;Once such a one a sweet kiss bid me take,But when I came, I felt sharp talons there.Of black and ancient cats, my friend, take care,But white young kittens are still more awake;Once such a one my sweetheart did I make,—My heart my sweetheart savagely did tear.O darling brat! O maiden passing sweet!How could thy clear eye e’er deceive me so?How could thy paw e’er give me such a blow?O my dear kitten’s paw so soft and neat!Could I but press thee to my glowing lip!And could my life-blood meanwhile cease to drip!

Thou oft hast seen me boldly strive with those,—Both spectacled old fop and painted dame,—Who gladly would destroy my honest name,And gladly see my last expiring throes.Thou oft hast seen bow pedants round me close,How fools with cap and bells my life defame,How poisonous serpents gnaw my sinking frame,Whilst from a thousand wounds my life-blood flowsBut firm as any tower there stood thy form;Thy head a lighthouse was amid the storm,Thy faithful heart a haven was for me;Though round that haven roars the raging main,And few the ships the landing place that gain,Once there, we slumber in security.

Fain would I weep, but, ah, I cannot weep;Fain would I upwards full of vigour springBut cannot; to the earth I needs must cling,Spurn’d by the reptiles that around me creep.Fain would I near my beauteous mistress keep,Near my bright light of life be hovering,And in her dear sweet breath be revelling,But cannot; for my heart with sorrow deepIs breaking; from my broken heart doth flowMy burning blood, my strength within me fadesAnd darker, darker grows the world to me.With secret awe I yearn unceasinglyFor yonder misty realm, where silent shadesTheir gentle loving arms around me throw.

There once lived a knight, who was mournful and bent,His cheeks white as snow were, and hollow;He totter’d and stagger’d wherever he went,A vain vision attempting to follow.He seem’d so clumsy and awkward and gauche,That the flowers and girls, when they saw him approach,Their merriment scarcely could swallow.From his room’s darkest corner he often ne’er stirr’d,Esteeming the sight of men shocking,And extended his arms, without speaking a word,As though some vain phantom were mocking.But scarce had the hour of midnight drawn near,When a wonderful singing and noise met his ear,And he heard at the door a strange knocking.His mistress then secretly enters the room,In a dress made of foam of the ocean;She glows like a rosebud, so sweet is her bloom,Her jewell’d veil’s ever in motion;Her golden locks play round her form slim and tall,Their eyes meet with rapture, and straightway they fallIn each other’s arms with devotion.In his loving embraces the knight holds her fast,The dullard with passion is glowing;He reddens, the dreamer awakens at last,And bolder and bolder he’s growing.But she grows more saucy and mocking instead,And gently and softly she covers his head,Her white jewell’d veil o’er him throwing.To a watery palace of crystal brightThe knight on a sudden is taken;His eyes are dazzled by radiant light,By his wits he is well-nigh forsaken.But the nymph holds him closely embraced by her sideThe knight is the bridegroom, the nymph is the brideWhile her maidens the lute’s notes awaken.So sweetly they play and so sweetly they sing,In the dance they are moving so lightly,That the knight before long finds his senses take wing,He embraces his sweet one more tightly—When all of a sudden the lights disappear,And the knight’s once more sitting in solitude drearIn his poet’s low garret unsightly.

From his room’s darkest corner he often ne’er stirr’d,Esteeming the sight of men shocking,And extended his arms, without speaking a word,As though some vain phantom were mocking.But scarce had the hour of midnight drawn near,When a wonderful singing and noise met his ear,And he heard at the door a strange knocking.

His mistress then secretly enters the room,In a dress made of foam of the ocean;She glows like a rosebud, so sweet is her bloom,Her jewell’d veil’s ever in motion;Her golden locks play round her form slim and tall,Their eyes meet with rapture, and straightway they fallIn each other’s arms with devotion.

In his loving embraces the knight holds her fast,The dullard with passion is glowing;He reddens, the dreamer awakens at last,And bolder and bolder he’s growing.But she grows more saucy and mocking instead,And gently and softly she covers his head,Her white jewell’d veil o’er him throwing.

To a watery palace of crystal brightThe knight on a sudden is taken;His eyes are dazzled by radiant light,By his wits he is well-nigh forsaken.But the nymph holds him closely embraced by her sideThe knight is the bridegroom, the nymph is the brideWhile her maidens the lute’s notes awaken.

So sweetly they play and so sweetly they sing,In the dance they are moving so lightly,That the knight before long finds his senses take wing,He embraces his sweet one more tightly—When all of a sudden the lights disappear,And the knight’s once more sitting in solitude drearIn his poet’s low garret unsightly.

’Twas in the beauteous month of May,When all the flowers were springing,That first within my bosomI heard love’s echo ringing.’Twas in the beauteous month of May,When all the birds were singing,That first I to my sweetheartMy vows of love was bringing.

’Twas in the beauteous month of May,When all the flowers were springing,That first within my bosomI heard love’s echo ringing.

’Twas in the beauteous month of May,When all the birds were singing,That first I to my sweetheartMy vows of love was bringing.

From out of my tears all burningMany blooming flowerets break,And all my sighs combiningA chorus of nightingales make.And if thou dost love me, my darling,To thee shall the flowerets belong;Before thy window shall echoThe nightingale’s tuneful song.

From out of my tears all burningMany blooming flowerets break,And all my sighs combiningA chorus of nightingales make.

And if thou dost love me, my darling,To thee shall the flowerets belong;Before thy window shall echoThe nightingale’s tuneful song.

The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun,I loved them all dearly once, every one;I love them no longer, I love now aloneThe small one, the neat one, the pure one, mine own.Yes, she herself, the fount of all love,Is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove.

When gazing on thy beauteous eyesAll thought of sorrow straightway flies;But when I kiss thy mouth so sweet,My cure is perfect and complete.When leaning on thy darling breast,I feel with heavenly rapture blest;But when thou sayest: “I love thee!”I begin weeping bitterly.

When gazing on thy beauteous eyesAll thought of sorrow straightway flies;But when I kiss thy mouth so sweet,My cure is perfect and complete.

When leaning on thy darling breast,I feel with heavenly rapture blest;But when thou sayest: “I love thee!”I begin weeping bitterly.

Thy face, so lovely and serene,In vision I have lately seen;So like an angel’s ’tis, and meek,Though bitter grief has blanch’d thy cheek.Thy lips alone, they still are red;Death soon will kiss them pale and dead;The heavenly light will soon be o’erThat from thine eyes is wont to pour.

Thy face, so lovely and serene,In vision I have lately seen;So like an angel’s ’tis, and meek,Though bitter grief has blanch’d thy cheek.

Thy lips alone, they still are red;Death soon will kiss them pale and dead;The heavenly light will soon be o’erThat from thine eyes is wont to pour.

O lean thy beauteous cheek on mine,That our tears together may mingle!Against my bosom press thou thine,That their flames may no longer be singleAnd when with the flame is mingled at lastThe stream of our tears all burning,And mine arm is lovingly round thee cast,—I’ll die of my love’s sweet yearning.

O lean thy beauteous cheek on mine,That our tears together may mingle!Against my bosom press thou thine,That their flames may no longer be single

And when with the flame is mingled at lastThe stream of our tears all burning,And mine arm is lovingly round thee cast,—I’ll die of my love’s sweet yearning.

I’ll dip my spirit discreetlyIn the cup of the lily down here;The lily shall sing to me sweetlyA song of my mistress dear.The song shall tremble and quiver,Like that delicious kiss,Of which her mouth was the giverIn a wondrous moment of bliss.

I’ll dip my spirit discreetlyIn the cup of the lily down here;The lily shall sing to me sweetlyA song of my mistress dear.

The song shall tremble and quiver,Like that delicious kiss,Of which her mouth was the giverIn a wondrous moment of bliss.

The stars in yonder heavensImmovably have stoodFor thousands of years, regardingEach other in sad loving mood.They speak a mysterious languageThat’s rich and sweet to the ear;Yet no philologist livingCan make its meaning clear.But I’ve learnt it, and ne’er will forget it,Whatever the time and place;As my grammar I used for the purposeMy own dear mistress’s face.

The stars in yonder heavensImmovably have stoodFor thousands of years, regardingEach other in sad loving mood.

They speak a mysterious languageThat’s rich and sweet to the ear;Yet no philologist livingCan make its meaning clear.

But I’ve learnt it, and ne’er will forget it,Whatever the time and place;As my grammar I used for the purposeMy own dear mistress’s face.

On song’s exulting pinionI’ll bear thee, my sweetheart fair,Where Ganges holds his dominion,—The sweetest of spots know I there.There a red blooming garden is lyingIn the moonlight silent and clear;The lotos flowers are sighingFor their sister so pretty and dearThe violets prattle and titter,And gaze on the stars high aboveThe roses mysteriously twitterTheir fragrant stories of love.The gazelles so gentle and cleverSkip lightly in frolicsome moodAnd in the distance roars everThe holy river’s loud flood.And there, while joyously sinkingBeneath the palm by the stream,And love and repose while drinkingOf blissful visions we’ll dream.

On song’s exulting pinionI’ll bear thee, my sweetheart fair,Where Ganges holds his dominion,—The sweetest of spots know I there.

There a red blooming garden is lyingIn the moonlight silent and clear;The lotos flowers are sighingFor their sister so pretty and dear

The violets prattle and titter,And gaze on the stars high aboveThe roses mysteriously twitterTheir fragrant stories of love.

The gazelles so gentle and cleverSkip lightly in frolicsome moodAnd in the distance roars everThe holy river’s loud flood.

And there, while joyously sinkingBeneath the palm by the stream,And love and repose while drinkingOf blissful visions we’ll dream.

The lotos flower is troubledAt the sun’s resplendent lightWith sunken head and sadlyShe dreamily waits for the night.The moon appears as her wooer,She wakes at his fond embrace;For him she kindly uncoversHer sweetly flowering face.She blooms and glows and glistens,And mutely gazes above;She weeps and exhales and tremblesWith love and the sorrows of love.

The lotos flower is troubledAt the sun’s resplendent lightWith sunken head and sadlyShe dreamily waits for the night.

The moon appears as her wooer,She wakes at his fond embrace;For him she kindly uncoversHer sweetly flowering face.

She blooms and glows and glistens,And mutely gazes above;She weeps and exhales and tremblesWith love and the sorrows of love.

In the Rhine, that beautiful river,The sacred town of Cologne,With its vast cathedral, is everFull clearly mirror’d and shown.A picture on golden leatherIn that fair cathedral is seen;On my life, so sad altogether,It hath cast its rays serene.The flowers and angels hoverRound our dear Lady there;Her eyes, lips, cheeks, all overResemble my mistress fair.

In the Rhine, that beautiful river,The sacred town of Cologne,With its vast cathedral, is everFull clearly mirror’d and shown.

A picture on golden leatherIn that fair cathedral is seen;On my life, so sad altogether,It hath cast its rays serene.

The flowers and angels hoverRound our dear Lady there;Her eyes, lips, cheeks, all overResemble my mistress fair.

Thou lov’st me not, thou tellest me.—It troubles me but slightly;But when thy beauteous face I see,No king’s heart beats more lightly.Thou hatest me, thy red lips sayWith well-pretended snarling;But when sweet kisses they convey,I’m comforted, my darling.

Thou lov’st me not, thou tellest me.—It troubles me but slightly;But when thy beauteous face I see,No king’s heart beats more lightly.

Thou hatest me, thy red lips sayWith well-pretended snarling;But when sweet kisses they convey,I’m comforted, my darling.

Full lovingly thou must embrace me,My mistress beauteous and sweet!With pliant form interlace me,And with thine arms and thy feet.The fairest of snakes e’er createdWith vigour encircles anon,And clasps and twines round the elatedAnd happy Laocoon.

Full lovingly thou must embrace me,My mistress beauteous and sweet!With pliant form interlace me,And with thine arms and thy feet.

The fairest of snakes e’er createdWith vigour encircles anon,And clasps and twines round the elatedAnd happy Laocoon.

Swear not at all, but only kiss!All woman’s oaths I hold amiss;Thy word is sweet, but sweeter farThe kisses that my guerdon are.These keep I, while thy words but seemA passing cloud, or fragrant dream.* * * *

Now then, my loved one, swear away!I’ll credit all that thou dost say;And when I sink upon thy breast,I’ll think that I am truly blest;I’ll think that, love, eternallyAnd even longer, thou’lt love me.

Upon my mistress’s eyes so clearI write the fairest cantatas;Upon my mistress’s mouth sincereI write the best of terzinas;Upon my mistress’s cheeks so dearI write the cleverest stanzas;And had my mistress a heart, upon itI soon would write a charming sonnet.

The world’s an ass, the world can’t see,And grows more stupid daily:It says, my darling child, of thee,—Thou livest far too gaily.The world’s an ass, the world can’t see,Thy character not knowing;It knows not how sweet thy kisses be,How rapturously glowing.

The world’s an ass, the world can’t see,And grows more stupid daily:It says, my darling child, of thee,—Thou livest far too gaily.

The world’s an ass, the world can’t see,Thy character not knowing;It knows not how sweet thy kisses be,How rapturously glowing.

Loved one—gladly would I know it,—Art thou but a vision fair,Such as in his brain the poetLoves in summer to prepare?No! such eyes of magic splendour,Lips so rosy and so warm,Such a child, so sweet and tender,Never did the poet form.Basilisks and vampires gory,Dragons, monsters of the earth,Suchlike evil beasts of storyIn the poet’s fire have birth.But thyself, thy wiles insidious,And thy face, so sweet and staid,And thy kindly looks perfidious,—These the poet never made.

Loved one—gladly would I know it,—Art thou but a vision fair,Such as in his brain the poetLoves in summer to prepare?

No! such eyes of magic splendour,Lips so rosy and so warm,Such a child, so sweet and tender,Never did the poet form.

Basilisks and vampires gory,Dragons, monsters of the earth,Suchlike evil beasts of storyIn the poet’s fire have birth.

But thyself, thy wiles insidious,And thy face, so sweet and staid,And thy kindly looks perfidious,—These the poet never made.

Gleams my love in beauty’s splendour,Like the child of ocean foam;As his bride my mistress tenderIs a stranger taking home.Though ’tis treason, don’t abuse it,Heart, thou much-enduring one!Bear it, bear it, and excuse it,What the beauteous fool hath done.

Gleams my love in beauty’s splendour,Like the child of ocean foam;As his bride my mistress tenderIs a stranger taking home.

Though ’tis treason, don’t abuse it,Heart, thou much-enduring one!Bear it, bear it, and excuse it,What the beauteous fool hath done.

I’ll not be angry, though my heart should break,Evermore lost one! no complaint I’ll make.Though thou may’st sparkle ’neath thy diamonds bright,No ray can pierce thy heart’s unceasing night.I’ve known it long. In vision saw I thee,How night thy heart doth fill unceasingly,And how the serpent at thy heart doth gnaw,—How wretched, love, thou art, too well I saw.

I’ve known it long. In vision saw I thee,How night thy heart doth fill unceasingly,And how the serpent at thy heart doth gnaw,—How wretched, love, thou art, too well I saw.

Thou’rt wretched, yes!—but no complaint I’ll make;—My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!Till death our poor afflicted hearts doth break,My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!I see the scorn that round thy mouth doth play,I see thine eyes that glance so haughtily,I see the pride that doth thy bosom sway,—Yet thou art wretched, wretched e’en as I.Grief lurks around thy mouth, unseen indeed,With hidden tears thine eyes can scarcely see,And secret wounds on thy proud bosom feed—My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

Thou’rt wretched, yes!—but no complaint I’ll make;—My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!Till death our poor afflicted hearts doth break,My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

I see the scorn that round thy mouth doth play,I see thine eyes that glance so haughtily,I see the pride that doth thy bosom sway,—Yet thou art wretched, wretched e’en as I.

Grief lurks around thy mouth, unseen indeed,With hidden tears thine eyes can scarcely see,And secret wounds on thy proud bosom feed—My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

The flutes and fiddles are sounding,The trumpets ringing clear;In the wedding dance is boundingMy heart’s own mistress dear.The shawms and kettle-drums vyingIn noisy chorus I hear;But meanwhile good angels are sighingAnd weeping many a tear.

The flutes and fiddles are sounding,The trumpets ringing clear;In the wedding dance is boundingMy heart’s own mistress dear.

The shawms and kettle-drums vyingIn noisy chorus I hear;But meanwhile good angels are sighingAnd weeping many a tear.

Thou scarcely could’st have forgotten it faster,That I of thine heart so long was the master;Thine heart so false, so small, and so sweet,A sweeter and falser I never shall meet.Thou now hast forgotten the love and disasterThat made my heart throb all the faster;I know not if love was the greatest, or woe;That both were great, full well I know.

Thou scarcely could’st have forgotten it faster,That I of thine heart so long was the master;Thine heart so false, so small, and so sweet,A sweeter and falser I never shall meet.

Thou now hast forgotten the love and disasterThat made my heart throb all the faster;I know not if love was the greatest, or woe;That both were great, full well I know.

O if the tiny flowersBut knew of my wounded heart,Their tears, like mine, in showersWould fall, to cure the smart.If knew the nightingales onlyThat I’m so mournful and sad,They would cheer my misery lonelyWith their notes so tuneful and glad.If the golden stars high o’er usBut knew of my bitter woe,They would speak words of comfort in chorus,Descending hither below.Not one of these can allay it,One only knows of my smart;’Tis she, I grieve to say it,Who thus hath wounded my heart.

O if the tiny flowersBut knew of my wounded heart,Their tears, like mine, in showersWould fall, to cure the smart.

If knew the nightingales onlyThat I’m so mournful and sad,They would cheer my misery lonelyWith their notes so tuneful and glad.

If the golden stars high o’er usBut knew of my bitter woe,They would speak words of comfort in chorus,Descending hither below.

Not one of these can allay it,One only knows of my smart;’Tis she, I grieve to say it,Who thus hath wounded my heart.

O why have the roses lost their hue,Sweet love, O tell me why?Why mutely thus do the violets blueIn the verdant meadows sigh?O why doth the lark up high in the airWith a voice so mournful sing?O why doth each fragrant floweret fairExhale like a poisonous thing?O wherefore looks the sun to-dayOn the fields, so full of gloom?O why doth the earth appear so grey,And dreary as a tomb?Why feel I myself so mournful and weak,—Sweet love, I put it to thee?My own sweet darling, sweet love, O speak,—O wherefore leavest thou me?

O why have the roses lost their hue,Sweet love, O tell me why?Why mutely thus do the violets blueIn the verdant meadows sigh?

O why doth the lark up high in the airWith a voice so mournful sing?O why doth each fragrant floweret fairExhale like a poisonous thing?

O wherefore looks the sun to-dayOn the fields, so full of gloom?O why doth the earth appear so grey,And dreary as a tomb?

Why feel I myself so mournful and weak,—Sweet love, I put it to thee?My own sweet darling, sweet love, O speak,—O wherefore leavest thou me?

For thine ear many tales they invented,And loud complaints preferred;But how my soul was tormented,Of this they said not a word.They prated of mischief and evil,And mournfully shook their head;They liken’d poor me to the devil,And thou didst believe what they said.But, O; the worst and the saddest,Of this they nothing knew;The saddest and the maddestIn my heart was hidden from view.

For thine ear many tales they invented,And loud complaints preferred;But how my soul was tormented,Of this they said not a word.

They prated of mischief and evil,And mournfully shook their head;They liken’d poor me to the devil,And thou didst believe what they said.

But, O; the worst and the saddest,Of this they nothing knew;The saddest and the maddestIn my heart was hidden from view.

The linden blossom’d, the nightingale sung,The sun was laughing with radiance bright;Thou kissed’st me then, while thine arm round me clung,To thy heaving bosom thou pressed’st me tight.The raven was screeching, the leaves fast fell,The sun gazed cheerlessly down on the sight;We coldly said to each other “Farewell!”Thou politely didst make me a curtsey polite.

The linden blossom’d, the nightingale sung,The sun was laughing with radiance bright;Thou kissed’st me then, while thine arm round me clung,To thy heaving bosom thou pressed’st me tight.

The raven was screeching, the leaves fast fell,The sun gazed cheerlessly down on the sight;We coldly said to each other “Farewell!”Thou politely didst make me a curtsey polite.

We have felt for each other emotions soft,And yet our tempers always were matching,At “man and wife” we have play’d full oft,And yet ne’er took to fighting and scratching.We have shouted together, together been gay,And tenderly kiss’d and fondled away.At last we play’d in forest and dellAt hide and seek, like sister and brother.And managed to hide ourselves so well,That never since then have we seen each other.

I’ve no belief in the heavensOf which the parsons rave;In thine eyes believe I only,In their heavenly light I lave.I’ve no belief in the MakerOf whom the parsons rave;In thine heart believe I only,No other God will I have.I’ve no belief in the devil,In hell or the pains of hell;In thine eyes believe I only,And thine evil heart as well.

I’ve no belief in the heavensOf which the parsons rave;In thine eyes believe I only,In their heavenly light I lave.

I’ve no belief in the MakerOf whom the parsons rave;In thine heart believe I only,No other God will I have.

I’ve no belief in the devil,In hell or the pains of hell;In thine eyes believe I only,And thine evil heart as well.

To me thou wert faithful and steady,And madest for me supplication;In my troubles and sad tribulationThy comfort always was ready.Food and drink thou gav’st me in payment,And plenty of money didst lend me,And also a passport didst send me,As well as some changes of raiment.From heat and from coldness unpleasantMay heaven, my dear one, long guard thee,And may it never reward theeThe kindness shown me at present!

To me thou wert faithful and steady,And madest for me supplication;In my troubles and sad tribulationThy comfort always was ready.

Food and drink thou gav’st me in payment,And plenty of money didst lend me,And also a passport didst send me,As well as some changes of raiment.

From heat and from coldness unpleasantMay heaven, my dear one, long guard thee,And may it never reward theeThe kindness shown me at present!

The earth had long been avaricious,But May, when she came, gave with great prodigality,And all things now smile with rapture delicious,But I for laughter have no partiality.The blue bells are ringing, their beauty displaying,The birds, as in fables, talk sentimentality;I take no pleasure in all they are saying,And I am quite wretched in sober reality.All men I detest, and now cannot meet one,Not even my friend, with the least cordiality,And this all because my amiable sweet oneThey “madam” entitle, with chilling formality.

The earth had long been avaricious,But May, when she came, gave with great prodigality,And all things now smile with rapture delicious,But I for laughter have no partiality.

The blue bells are ringing, their beauty displaying,The birds, as in fables, talk sentimentality;I take no pleasure in all they are saying,And I am quite wretched in sober reality.

All men I detest, and now cannot meet one,Not even my friend, with the least cordiality,And this all because my amiable sweet oneThey “madam” entitle, with chilling formality.

And when I so long, so long had delay’d,In foreign lands had in reveries stay’d,My loved one found it too long to wait,And sew’d herself a wedding-dress straight,And then embraced in her arms, willy-nilly,As bridegroom, the youth in the world the most silly.My loved one is so beauteous and soft,Before me still hovers her image oft;Her rosy cheeks, her violet eyesThat all the year round glow bright as the skies.That I could fly from such charming attractionsWas the silliest far of my silliest actions.

My loved one is so beauteous and soft,Before me still hovers her image oft;Her rosy cheeks, her violet eyesThat all the year round glow bright as the skies.That I could fly from such charming attractionsWas the silliest far of my silliest actions.

The lovely eyes of violet blue,The beauteous cheeks of rosy hue,The hands so like white lilies too,—All these still sweetly blossom and bloom,The heart alone is cold as the tomb.

The earth is so fair, and the heavens so bright,The breezes are breathing with soothing mightThe blooming fields with flowers are dight,In the morning dew all radiant with light,All men are rejoicing that meet my sight—My bed in the grave I fain would be pressing,The corpse of my mistress dear caressing.

When in the tomb, my mistress fair,The chilly tomb, thou must hide thee.I’ll soon descend to rejoin thee there,And fondly nestle beside thee.I wildly will press thee, embrace thee, and kissMy pale, cold, fearful-to-see love!I’ll tremble, weep, shout with rapturous bliss,And soon be a corpse like thee, love.The dead will arise, when midnight is nigh,And dance in airy troops lightly;But we in the tomb will quietly lie,Thine arms embracing me tightly.The dead will arise, when the loud trump of doomTo bliss or to torment is calling;But regardless of all, we’ll remain in the tomb,Still clasp’d in embraces enthralling.

When in the tomb, my mistress fair,The chilly tomb, thou must hide thee.I’ll soon descend to rejoin thee there,And fondly nestle beside thee.

I wildly will press thee, embrace thee, and kissMy pale, cold, fearful-to-see love!I’ll tremble, weep, shout with rapturous bliss,And soon be a corpse like thee, love.

The dead will arise, when midnight is nigh,And dance in airy troops lightly;But we in the tomb will quietly lie,Thine arms embracing me tightly.

The dead will arise, when the loud trump of doomTo bliss or to torment is calling;But regardless of all, we’ll remain in the tomb,Still clasp’d in embraces enthralling.

A lonely fir tree is standingOn a northern barren height;It sleeps, and the ice and snow-driftCast round it a garment of white.It dreams of a slender palm-tree,Which far in the Eastern landBeside a precipice scorchingIn silent sorrow doth stand.

A lonely fir tree is standingOn a northern barren height;It sleeps, and the ice and snow-driftCast round it a garment of white.

It dreams of a slender palm-tree,Which far in the Eastern landBeside a precipice scorchingIn silent sorrow doth stand.

Fair, bright, golden constellation,Seek my love’s far habitation;Tell her that I still am true,Sick at heart and palefaced too.

(The head speaks.)Ah, were I but the footstool e’enOn which my loved one’s foot doth rest,I ne’er to grumble should be seen,However hard I might be press’d.(The heart speaks.)Ah, were I but the cushion softWherein her pins she’s wont to stick,And ’twere her will to prick me oft,I should rejoice at every prick.(The song speaks.)Ah, were I but the paper dearWherewith she’s wont her hair to curl,I’d gently whisper in her earThe thoughts that in me live and whirl.

(The head speaks.)

Ah, were I but the footstool e’enOn which my loved one’s foot doth rest,I ne’er to grumble should be seen,However hard I might be press’d.

(The heart speaks.)

Ah, were I but the cushion softWherein her pins she’s wont to stick,And ’twere her will to prick me oft,I should rejoice at every prick.

(The song speaks.)

Ah, were I but the paper dearWherewith she’s wont her hair to curl,I’d gently whisper in her earThe thoughts that in me live and whirl.

Since my darling one has left me,Power of laughing is bereft me;Blockheads fain would raise a joke,But no laughter can provoke.Since I’ve lost my darling one,Power of weeping, too, is gone;Though my heart with sorrow deepWellnigh breaks, I cannot weep.

Since my darling one has left me,Power of laughing is bereft me;Blockheads fain would raise a joke,But no laughter can provoke.

Since I’ve lost my darling one,Power of weeping, too, is gone;Though my heart with sorrow deepWellnigh breaks, I cannot weep.

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