I.

On the mountain summit darklingLies the castle, veil’d in night;Lights are in the valley sparkling,Clashing swords are gleaming bright.Brothers ’tis, who in fierce duelFight, with wrath to fury fann’d;Tell me why these brothers cruelStrive thus madly, sword in hand?By the eyes of Countess LauraWere they thus in strife array’d;Both with glowing love adore her,—Her, the noble, beauteous maid.Unto which now of the brothersIs her heart the most inclined?She her secret feelings smothers,—Out, then, sword, the truth to find!And they fight with rage despairing,Blows exchange with savage might;Take good heed, ye gallants daring,—Mischief walks abroad by night.Woe, O woe, ye brothers cruel!Woe, O woe, thou vale abhorr’d!Both fall victims in the duel,Falling on each other’s sword.Races are to dust converted,Many centuries have flown,And the castle, now deserted,Sadly from the mount looks down.But at night-time in the valleyWondrous forms appear again;At the stroke of twelve, forth sallyTo the fight the brothers twain.

On the mountain summit darklingLies the castle, veil’d in night;Lights are in the valley sparkling,Clashing swords are gleaming bright.

Brothers ’tis, who in fierce duelFight, with wrath to fury fann’d;Tell me why these brothers cruelStrive thus madly, sword in hand?

By the eyes of Countess LauraWere they thus in strife array’d;Both with glowing love adore her,—Her, the noble, beauteous maid.

Unto which now of the brothersIs her heart the most inclined?She her secret feelings smothers,—Out, then, sword, the truth to find!

And they fight with rage despairing,Blows exchange with savage might;Take good heed, ye gallants daring,—Mischief walks abroad by night.

Woe, O woe, ye brothers cruel!Woe, O woe, thou vale abhorr’d!Both fall victims in the duel,Falling on each other’s sword.

Races are to dust converted,Many centuries have flown,And the castle, now deserted,Sadly from the mount looks down.

But at night-time in the valleyWondrous forms appear again;At the stroke of twelve, forth sallyTo the fight the brothers twain.

While Hans and Grettel are dancing with glee,And each of them loudly rejoices,Poor Peter looks as pale as can be,And perfectly mute his voice is.While Hans and Grettel are bridegroom and bride,And glitter in smart ostentation,Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide,And bites his nails with vexation.Then softly Peter said to himself,As he gazed on the couple sadly:“Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf,It had fared with my life but badly!”

While Hans and Grettel are dancing with glee,And each of them loudly rejoices,Poor Peter looks as pale as can be,And perfectly mute his voice is.

While Hans and Grettel are bridegroom and bride,And glitter in smart ostentation,Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide,And bites his nails with vexation.

Then softly Peter said to himself,As he gazed on the couple sadly:“Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf,It had fared with my life but badly!”

“Within my breast there sits a woeThat seems my breast to sever;Where’er I stand, where’er I go,It drives me onward ever.“It makes me tow’rd my loved one fly,As if she could restore me;Yet when I gaze upon her eye,My sorrows rise before me.“I clamber up the mountain now,In lonely sorrow creeping,And standing silent on its brow,I cannot cease from weeping.”

“Within my breast there sits a woeThat seems my breast to sever;Where’er I stand, where’er I go,It drives me onward ever.

“It makes me tow’rd my loved one fly,As if she could restore me;Yet when I gaze upon her eye,My sorrows rise before me.

“I clamber up the mountain now,In lonely sorrow creeping,And standing silent on its brow,I cannot cease from weeping.”

Poor Peter slowly totters by,Pale as a corpse, and stealthily;The very people in the streetStand still, when his sad form they meet.The maidens whisper’d as they pitied:“The grave he has this moment quitted.”Ah no, my dear young maidens fair,He’s just about to lie down there!As he is of his love bereft,The grave’s the best place that is left,Where he his aching heart may lay,And sleep until the Judgment Day.

Poor Peter slowly totters by,Pale as a corpse, and stealthily;The very people in the streetStand still, when his sad form they meet.

The maidens whisper’d as they pitied:“The grave he has this moment quitted.”Ah no, my dear young maidens fair,He’s just about to lie down there!

As he is of his love bereft,The grave’s the best place that is left,Where he his aching heart may lay,And sleep until the Judgment Day.

When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl,The mob would have burnt her quite readily;But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl,She refused to confess her crime steadily.And when in the caldron they held her fast,She shouted and yell’d like a craven;But when the black vapour arose, she at lastFlew up in the air as a raven.My black and feathery grandmother dear,O visit me soon in this tower!Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here,And bring me some cakes to devour!My black and feathery grandmother dear,O prythee protect me from sorrow!For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear,When I merrily soar hence to-morrow.

When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl,The mob would have burnt her quite readily;But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl,She refused to confess her crime steadily.

And when in the caldron they held her fast,She shouted and yell’d like a craven;But when the black vapour arose, she at lastFlew up in the air as a raven.

My black and feathery grandmother dear,O visit me soon in this tower!Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here,And bring me some cakes to devour!

My black and feathery grandmother dear,O prythee protect me from sorrow!For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear,When I merrily soar hence to-morrow.

Two grenadiers travell’d tow’rds France one day,On leaving their prison in Russia,And sadly they hung their heads in dismayWhen they reach’d the frontiers of Prussia.For there they first heard the story of woe,That France had utterly perish’d,The grand army had met with an overthrow,They had captured their Emperor cherish’d.Then both of the grenadiers wept full soreAt hearing the terrible story;And one of them said: “Alas! once moreMy wounds are bleeding and gory.”The other one said: “The game’s at an end,With thee I would die right gladly,But I’ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend,For without me they’ll fare but badly.“What matters my child, what matters my wife?A heavier care has arisen;Let them beg, if they’re hungry, all their life,—My Emperor sighs in a prison!“Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer:If my hours I now must number,O take my corpse to my country fair,That there it may peacefully slumber.“The legion of honour, with ribbon red,Upon my bosom place thou,And put in my hand my musket dread,And my sword around me brace thou.“And so in my grave will I silently lie,And watch like a guard o’er the forces,Until the roaring of cannon hear I,And the trampling of neighing horses.“My Emperor then will ride over my grave,While the swords glitter brightly and rattle;Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave,For my Emperor hasting to battle!”

Two grenadiers travell’d tow’rds France one day,On leaving their prison in Russia,And sadly they hung their heads in dismayWhen they reach’d the frontiers of Prussia.

For there they first heard the story of woe,That France had utterly perish’d,The grand army had met with an overthrow,They had captured their Emperor cherish’d.

Then both of the grenadiers wept full soreAt hearing the terrible story;And one of them said: “Alas! once moreMy wounds are bleeding and gory.”

The other one said: “The game’s at an end,With thee I would die right gladly,But I’ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend,For without me they’ll fare but badly.

“What matters my child, what matters my wife?A heavier care has arisen;Let them beg, if they’re hungry, all their life,—My Emperor sighs in a prison!

“Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer:If my hours I now must number,O take my corpse to my country fair,That there it may peacefully slumber.

“The legion of honour, with ribbon red,Upon my bosom place thou,And put in my hand my musket dread,And my sword around me brace thou.

“And so in my grave will I silently lie,And watch like a guard o’er the forces,Until the roaring of cannon hear I,And the trampling of neighing horses.

“My Emperor then will ride over my grave,While the swords glitter brightly and rattle;Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave,For my Emperor hasting to battle!”

Good servant! up, and saddle quick,And leap upon thy steed,And to King Duncan’s castle thenThrough plain and forest speed.Into the stable creep, and wait,’Till by the helper spied;Then say: “Of Duncan’s daughters, whichHas just become a bride?”And if he says: “The brown one ’tis,”The news bring quickly home;But if he says: “The fair one ’tis,”More slowly thou mayst come.Then go to the ropemaker’s shop,And buy a rope for me;And riding slowly, bring it here,And mute and silent be.

Good servant! up, and saddle quick,And leap upon thy steed,And to King Duncan’s castle thenThrough plain and forest speed.

Into the stable creep, and wait,’Till by the helper spied;Then say: “Of Duncan’s daughters, whichHas just become a bride?”

And if he says: “The brown one ’tis,”The news bring quickly home;But if he says: “The fair one ’tis,”More slowly thou mayst come.

Then go to the ropemaker’s shop,And buy a rope for me;And riding slowly, bring it here,And mute and silent be.

I’ll go not alone, my sweetheart dear!With me thou must go nowTo the cheery, old, and cosy roomIn the dreary cold abode of gloom,Where at the door my mother keeps guard,And for her son’s return looks hard.“Away from me, thou gloomy man!Who bid thee come hither?Thy hand’s like ice, thine eye glows bright,Thy breath is burning, thy cheek is white;—But I would rather my time beguileWith smell of roses and sun’s sweet smile.”The roses may smell, and the sun may shine,My darling sweetheart!Throw thy spreading white veil thy figure around,Make the chords of the echoing lyre resound,And sing a wedding song to me;The night-wind pipes the melody.

“Away from me, thou gloomy man!Who bid thee come hither?Thy hand’s like ice, thine eye glows bright,Thy breath is burning, thy cheek is white;—But I would rather my time beguileWith smell of roses and sun’s sweet smile.”

The roses may smell, and the sun may shine,My darling sweetheart!Throw thy spreading white veil thy figure around,Make the chords of the echoing lyre resound,And sing a wedding song to me;The night-wind pipes the melody.

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Through long years the hotly-loved oneThou hast will’d now my destruction,Will’d it, too, without compassion.“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Very sweet the gift of life is!But beneath us all is fearful,In the tomb so dark and chilly.“Donna Clara, joy! to-morrowWill Fernando at the altarAs his wedded bride salute thee,—Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?”“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro!Bitterly thy words are sounding,Bitt’rer than you stars’ decree is,Scoffing at my heart’s own wishes.“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro!Shake thy gloomy sadness from thee;On the earth are many maidens,But by God have we been parted.“Don Ramiro, who so bravelyMany Moors hast overpower’d,Overpower now thyself too,—Come to-morrow to my wedding.”“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Yes, I swear it, yes, I’ll come there!And the dance will lead off with thee;—So good night, I’ll come to-morrow.”“So good night!”—The window rattled;Sighing stood below Ramiro,Seeming turn’d to stone long stood he;Then he vanish’d in the darkness.Lastly, after lengthen’d conflict,Night to day in turn surrender’d;Like a blooming flowery gardenLies extended fair Toledo.Palaces and splendid buildingsGlitter in the radiant sunlight,And the churches’ domes so loftyGlisten proudly, as though gilded.Humming like a busy beehive,Merrily the bells are sounding;Sweetly rise the solemn psalm-tunesFrom the God-devoted churches.But look yonder! but look yonder!Where from out the market chapel,Midst the heaving crowd and uproar,Streams the throng in chequer’d masses.Glittering knights and stately ladiesIn gay courtly dresses sparkle,And the clear-toned bells are ringing,And the organ peals between times.But with reverence saluted,In the people’s midst are walking,Nobly clad, the youthful couple,Donna Clara, Don Fernando.To the bridegroom’s palace entranceSlowly moves the gay procession;There begin the ceremonies,Stately, and in olden fashion.Knightly games and merry feastingInterchange with loud rejoicing;Swiftly fly the hours thus gladlyTill the shades of night have fallen.And the wedding-guests assembleIn the hall, to hold the dances,And their chequer’d gala dressesMidst the glittering lights are sparkling.On a high-exalted daisBride and bridegroom are reclining,Donna Clara, Don Fernando,Holding loving conversation.In the hall are gaily movingAll the festal crowd of people,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.“Wherefore, O my heart’s fair mistress.Are thy glances so directedTow’rd the hall’s most distant corner?”Thus the knight exclaim’d with wonder.“Seest thou not, then, Don Fernando,Yonder man in dark cloak hidden?”And the knight with smiling answered:“Ah, ’tis nothing but a shadow.”But the shadow soon approach’d them,And a man was in the mantle,And Ramiro recognising,Clara greeted him with blushes.And the dancing has begun now,And the dancers whirl round gailyIn the waltz’s giddy mazes,And the ground beneath them trembles.“Gladly will I, Don Ramiro,In the dance become thy partner,But thou didst not well to come hereIn a black and nightlike mantle.”But with eyes all fix’d and piercingLooks Ramiro on the fair one;Clasping her, with gloom thus speaks he:“At thy bidding have I come here!”And the pair of dancers vanishIn the dance’s giddy mazes,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.“Snow-white are thy cheeks, Ramiro,”Clara speaks with secret trembling.“At thy bidding have I come here!”In a hollow voice replies he.In the hall the wax-lights glimmerThrough the ebbing, flowing masses,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.“Ice-cold are thy hands, Ramiro,”Clara speaks with shudd’ring terror.“At thy bidding have I come here!”And within the whirl they vanish.“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro!Ah, thy breath is like a corpse’s!”Once again the dark words speaks he“At thy bidding have I come here!”And the very ground seems glowing.Fiddle, viol sound right merry;Like a wondrous weft of magicAll within the hall is whirling.“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro!”Sadly sounds amidst the tumult;Don Ramiro ever answers:“At thy bidding have I come here!”“In the name of God depart, then!”Clara with a firm voice utters,And the words she scarce had spokenWhen Ramiro vanish’d from her.Clara, death in every feature,Chilly, night-surrounded, stood there,And a swoon her lightsome figureTo its darksome kingdom carries.But at last her misty slumberYields, at last her eyelids open,But again, with deep amazement,Would she fain have closed her fair eyes.For since they began the dancing,From her seat had she not moved once,And she still sits by the bridegroom,And the anxious knight thus asks her“Say, why are thy cheeks so pallid?Wherefore is thine eye so darksome?”—“And Ramiro?”—stammers Clara,And her tongue is mute with horror.But with deep and solemn wrinklesIs the bridegroom’s brow now furrow’d:“Lady, bloody news why seek’st thou?This day’s noontide died Ramiro.”

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Through long years the hotly-loved oneThou hast will’d now my destruction,Will’d it, too, without compassion.

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Very sweet the gift of life is!But beneath us all is fearful,In the tomb so dark and chilly.

“Donna Clara, joy! to-morrowWill Fernando at the altarAs his wedded bride salute thee,—Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?”

“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro!Bitterly thy words are sounding,Bitt’rer than you stars’ decree is,Scoffing at my heart’s own wishes.

“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro!Shake thy gloomy sadness from thee;On the earth are many maidens,But by God have we been parted.

“Don Ramiro, who so bravelyMany Moors hast overpower’d,Overpower now thyself too,—Come to-morrow to my wedding.”

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara!Yes, I swear it, yes, I’ll come there!And the dance will lead off with thee;—So good night, I’ll come to-morrow.”

“So good night!”—The window rattled;Sighing stood below Ramiro,Seeming turn’d to stone long stood he;Then he vanish’d in the darkness.

Lastly, after lengthen’d conflict,Night to day in turn surrender’d;Like a blooming flowery gardenLies extended fair Toledo.

Palaces and splendid buildingsGlitter in the radiant sunlight,And the churches’ domes so loftyGlisten proudly, as though gilded.

Humming like a busy beehive,Merrily the bells are sounding;Sweetly rise the solemn psalm-tunesFrom the God-devoted churches.

But look yonder! but look yonder!Where from out the market chapel,Midst the heaving crowd and uproar,Streams the throng in chequer’d masses.

Glittering knights and stately ladiesIn gay courtly dresses sparkle,And the clear-toned bells are ringing,And the organ peals between times.

But with reverence saluted,In the people’s midst are walking,Nobly clad, the youthful couple,Donna Clara, Don Fernando.

To the bridegroom’s palace entranceSlowly moves the gay procession;There begin the ceremonies,Stately, and in olden fashion.

Knightly games and merry feastingInterchange with loud rejoicing;Swiftly fly the hours thus gladlyTill the shades of night have fallen.

And the wedding-guests assembleIn the hall, to hold the dances,And their chequer’d gala dressesMidst the glittering lights are sparkling.

On a high-exalted daisBride and bridegroom are reclining,Donna Clara, Don Fernando,Holding loving conversation.

In the hall are gaily movingAll the festal crowd of people,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Wherefore, O my heart’s fair mistress.Are thy glances so directedTow’rd the hall’s most distant corner?”Thus the knight exclaim’d with wonder.

“Seest thou not, then, Don Fernando,Yonder man in dark cloak hidden?”And the knight with smiling answered:“Ah, ’tis nothing but a shadow.”

But the shadow soon approach’d them,And a man was in the mantle,And Ramiro recognising,Clara greeted him with blushes.

And the dancing has begun now,And the dancers whirl round gailyIn the waltz’s giddy mazes,And the ground beneath them trembles.

“Gladly will I, Don Ramiro,In the dance become thy partner,But thou didst not well to come hereIn a black and nightlike mantle.”

But with eyes all fix’d and piercingLooks Ramiro on the fair one;Clasping her, with gloom thus speaks he:“At thy bidding have I come here!”

And the pair of dancers vanishIn the dance’s giddy mazes,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Snow-white are thy cheeks, Ramiro,”Clara speaks with secret trembling.“At thy bidding have I come here!”In a hollow voice replies he.

In the hall the wax-lights glimmerThrough the ebbing, flowing masses,And the kettle-drums sound loudly,And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Ice-cold are thy hands, Ramiro,”Clara speaks with shudd’ring terror.“At thy bidding have I come here!”And within the whirl they vanish.

“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro!Ah, thy breath is like a corpse’s!”Once again the dark words speaks he“At thy bidding have I come here!”

And the very ground seems glowing.Fiddle, viol sound right merry;Like a wondrous weft of magicAll within the hall is whirling.

“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro!”Sadly sounds amidst the tumult;Don Ramiro ever answers:“At thy bidding have I come here!”

“In the name of God depart, then!”Clara with a firm voice utters,And the words she scarce had spokenWhen Ramiro vanish’d from her.

Clara, death in every feature,Chilly, night-surrounded, stood there,And a swoon her lightsome figureTo its darksome kingdom carries.

But at last her misty slumberYields, at last her eyelids open,But again, with deep amazement,Would she fain have closed her fair eyes.

For since they began the dancing,From her seat had she not moved once,And she still sits by the bridegroom,And the anxious knight thus asks her

“Say, why are thy cheeks so pallid?Wherefore is thine eye so darksome?”—“And Ramiro?”—stammers Clara,And her tongue is mute with horror.

But with deep and solemn wrinklesIs the bridegroom’s brow now furrow’d:“Lady, bloody news why seek’st thou?This day’s noontide died Ramiro.”

The midnight hour was coming on,In deathlike calm lay Babylon.But in the monarch’s castle highHeld the monarch’s attendants gay revelry.And in the regal hall upstairsA regal feast Belshazzar shares.The servants in glittering circles recline,And empty the goblets of sparkling wine.The servants are shouting, the goblets ring,Delighting the heart of the ruthless king.The king’s cheeks feel a ruddy glow,The wine doth swell his ardour so.And blindly led on by his ardour’s wiles,The Godhead with blasphemous words he reviles.And wildly he curses and raves aloud,Approvingly bellow the serving crowd.The king commands with a look that burns,The servant hastens and soon returns.Many golden vessels he bears on his head,The spoils of Jehovah’s temple dread.And the monarch straight seized on a sacred cupWith impious hand, and fill’d it up.And down to the dregs he drains it fast,And with foaming mouth exclaims at last:“Jehovah, thy power I here defy,The King of Babylon am I.”But scarcely had sounded the fearful word,When the heart of the king with terror was stirr’d.The yelling laughter is silenced all,And deathlike silence fills the hall.And see! And see! On the wall so whiteA human hand appears in sight.And letters of flame on the wall so whiteIt wrote, and wrote, and vanish’d from sight.The king the writing with wonderment sees,As pale as death, and with trembling knees.The awestruck servants sat around,And silent sat, and utter’d no sound.The magicians appear’d, but none ’mongst them allCould rightly interpret the words on the wall.But Belshazzar the king the selfsame nightWas slain by his servants,—a ghastly sight.

The midnight hour was coming on,In deathlike calm lay Babylon.

But in the monarch’s castle highHeld the monarch’s attendants gay revelry.

And in the regal hall upstairsA regal feast Belshazzar shares.

The servants in glittering circles recline,And empty the goblets of sparkling wine.

The servants are shouting, the goblets ring,Delighting the heart of the ruthless king.

The king’s cheeks feel a ruddy glow,The wine doth swell his ardour so.

And blindly led on by his ardour’s wiles,The Godhead with blasphemous words he reviles.

And wildly he curses and raves aloud,Approvingly bellow the serving crowd.

The king commands with a look that burns,The servant hastens and soon returns.

Many golden vessels he bears on his head,The spoils of Jehovah’s temple dread.

And the monarch straight seized on a sacred cupWith impious hand, and fill’d it up.

And down to the dregs he drains it fast,And with foaming mouth exclaims at last:

“Jehovah, thy power I here defy,The King of Babylon am I.”

But scarcely had sounded the fearful word,When the heart of the king with terror was stirr’d.

The yelling laughter is silenced all,And deathlike silence fills the hall.

And see! And see! On the wall so whiteA human hand appears in sight.

And letters of flame on the wall so whiteIt wrote, and wrote, and vanish’d from sight.

The king the writing with wonderment sees,As pale as death, and with trembling knees.

The awestruck servants sat around,And silent sat, and utter’d no sound.

The magicians appear’d, but none ’mongst them allCould rightly interpret the words on the wall.

But Belshazzar the king the selfsame nightWas slain by his servants,—a ghastly sight.

In the minstrels’ strife engagingPass the Minnesingers by;Strange the war that they are waging,Strange the tourney where they vie.Fancy, that for battle nerves him,Is the Minnesinger’s steed;Art as trusty buckler serves him,And his word’s a sword indeed.Beauteous dames, with glances pleasant,From the balcony look down;But the right one is not presentWith the proper laurel crown.Other combatants, when springingTo the lists, at least are sound;Minnesingers must be bringingTo the fray a deadly wound.He from whom the most there drainethSong’s blood from the inmost breast,—He is victor, and obtainethFrom fair lips the praise most blest,

In the minstrels’ strife engagingPass the Minnesingers by;Strange the war that they are waging,Strange the tourney where they vie.

Fancy, that for battle nerves him,Is the Minnesinger’s steed;Art as trusty buckler serves him,And his word’s a sword indeed.

Beauteous dames, with glances pleasant,From the balcony look down;But the right one is not presentWith the proper laurel crown.

Other combatants, when springingTo the lists, at least are sound;Minnesingers must be bringingTo the fray a deadly wound.

He from whom the most there drainethSong’s blood from the inmost breast,—He is victor, and obtainethFrom fair lips the praise most blest,

Fair Hedwig lay at the window, to seeIf pale Henry would chance to detect her;She said half aloud: “Why goodness me!The man is as pale as a spectre!”With yearning pale Henry look’d aboveAt her window, in hopes to detect her;Fair Hedwig now felt the torments of love,And she became pale as a spectre.Love-sick, now stood fair Hedwig all dayAt her window, lest he should reject her;But soon in pale Henry’s arms she layAll night, at the time for a spectre.

Fair Hedwig lay at the window, to seeIf pale Henry would chance to detect her;She said half aloud: “Why goodness me!The man is as pale as a spectre!”

With yearning pale Henry look’d aboveAt her window, in hopes to detect her;Fair Hedwig now felt the torments of love,And she became pale as a spectre.

Love-sick, now stood fair Hedwig all dayAt her window, lest he should reject her;But soon in pale Henry’s arms she layAll night, at the time for a spectre.

I know a story of anguish,A tale of the times of old;A knight with love doth languish,His mistress is faithless and cold.As faithless must he esteem nowHer whom in his heart he adored;His loving pangs must he deem nowDisgraceful and abhorr’d.In vain in the lists would he wander,And challenge to battle each knight;“Let him who my mistress dares slanderMake ready at once for the fight!”But all are silent, save onlyHis grief, that so fiercely doth burn;His lance he against his own lonelyAccusing bosom must turn.

I know a story of anguish,A tale of the times of old;A knight with love doth languish,His mistress is faithless and cold.

As faithless must he esteem nowHer whom in his heart he adored;His loving pangs must he deem nowDisgraceful and abhorr’d.

In vain in the lists would he wander,And challenge to battle each knight;“Let him who my mistress dares slanderMake ready at once for the fight!”

But all are silent, save onlyHis grief, that so fiercely doth burn;His lance he against his own lonelyAccusing bosom must turn.

I leaning stood against the mast,And told each wave of ocean;Farewell, my beauteous fatherland!My bark, how swift thy motion!I pass’d my lovely mistress’ house,The windows gleam’d all over;But though I gazed and gazed and gazed,No sign could I discover.Ye tears, obscure not thus mine eyesOn this too-painful morrow;My love-sick heart, O do not breakWith overweight of sorrow!

I leaning stood against the mast,And told each wave of ocean;Farewell, my beauteous fatherland!My bark, how swift thy motion!

I pass’d my lovely mistress’ house,The windows gleam’d all over;But though I gazed and gazed and gazed,No sign could I discover.

Ye tears, obscure not thus mine eyesOn this too-painful morrow;My love-sick heart, O do not breakWith overweight of sorrow!

Sir Ulrich rides in the forest so green,The leaves with joy seem laden;He sees, the trees’ thick branches between,The form of a beauteous maiden.The youth then said: “Well know I thee,So blooming and glowing thy face is;Alluringly ever encircles it me,In deserts or crowded places.“Those lips, by fresh loveliness ever stirr’d,Appear a pair of roses;Yet many a hateful bitter wordThat roguish mouth discloses.“A pretty rosebush a mouth like thisResembles very closely,Where cunning poisonous serpents hissAmid the leaves morosely.“Within those beauteous cheeks there liesA sweet and beauteous dimple;That is the grave where I fell by surprise,Lured on by a yearning simple.“There see I the beauteous locks of hair,That once so lovingly pleased me;That is the net so wondrous fairWherewith the Evil One seized me.“And that blue eye, that so sweetly fell,As clear as the ocean even,It proved to be the portal of hell,Though I thought it the gateway of heaven.”In the wood still farther Sir Ulrich doth ride,The leaves make a rustling dreary,A second figure afar he spied,That seem’d so sad and weary.The youth then said: “O mother dear,Who lov’dst me to distraction,But to whom in life I caused many a tear,By evil word and action!“O would that to dry thine eyes could availMy sorrow so fiercely glowing!O could I but redden thy cheeks so paleWith the blood from my own heart flowing!”And farther rides Sir Ulrich there,The night o’er the forest is falling;Many singular voices fill the air,The evening breezes are calling.The youth then hears his sorrowing wordsFull often near him ringing;’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birdsAll twittering loudly and singing:“Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song,We call it the song of repentance:And when he has reach’d the end of his song,He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”

Sir Ulrich rides in the forest so green,The leaves with joy seem laden;He sees, the trees’ thick branches between,The form of a beauteous maiden.

The youth then said: “Well know I thee,So blooming and glowing thy face is;Alluringly ever encircles it me,In deserts or crowded places.

“Those lips, by fresh loveliness ever stirr’d,Appear a pair of roses;Yet many a hateful bitter wordThat roguish mouth discloses.

“A pretty rosebush a mouth like thisResembles very closely,Where cunning poisonous serpents hissAmid the leaves morosely.

“Within those beauteous cheeks there liesA sweet and beauteous dimple;That is the grave where I fell by surprise,Lured on by a yearning simple.

“There see I the beauteous locks of hair,That once so lovingly pleased me;That is the net so wondrous fairWherewith the Evil One seized me.

“And that blue eye, that so sweetly fell,As clear as the ocean even,It proved to be the portal of hell,Though I thought it the gateway of heaven.”

In the wood still farther Sir Ulrich doth ride,The leaves make a rustling dreary,A second figure afar he spied,That seem’d so sad and weary.

The youth then said: “O mother dear,Who lov’dst me to distraction,But to whom in life I caused many a tear,By evil word and action!

“O would that to dry thine eyes could availMy sorrow so fiercely glowing!O could I but redden thy cheeks so paleWith the blood from my own heart flowing!”

And farther rides Sir Ulrich there,The night o’er the forest is falling;Many singular voices fill the air,The evening breezes are calling.

The youth then hears his sorrowing wordsFull often near him ringing;’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birdsAll twittering loudly and singing:

“Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song,We call it the song of repentance:And when he has reach’d the end of his song,He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”

Still think I of the magic fair one,How on her first my glances fell!How her dear tones resounded sweetly,How they my heart enthrall’d completely,How down my cheeks the tears coursed fleetlyBut how it chanced, I could not tell.There over me had crept a vision:Methought I was again a child,And in my mother’s chamber sittingIn silence, by the lamp-light flitting,And reading fairy tales befitting,Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.The tales began with life to glimmer,The knights arise from out the grave;By Roncesvall the battle rages,Sir Roland in the fight engages,And with him many a valiant page is,—And also Ganelon, the knave.By him is Roland ill entreated,He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath;Scarce can his horn, at such far distance,Call Charlemagne to his assistance:So passed away the knight’s existence,And, with him, sank my dream in death.It was a loud confusèd echoThat from my vision wakened me.The legend that she sang was ended,The people heartily commended,And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!”Low bow’d the singer gracefully.

There over me had crept a vision:Methought I was again a child,And in my mother’s chamber sittingIn silence, by the lamp-light flitting,And reading fairy tales befitting,Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.

The tales began with life to glimmer,The knights arise from out the grave;By Roncesvall the battle rages,Sir Roland in the fight engages,And with him many a valiant page is,—And also Ganelon, the knave.

By him is Roland ill entreated,He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath;Scarce can his horn, at such far distance,Call Charlemagne to his assistance:So passed away the knight’s existence,And, with him, sank my dream in death.

It was a loud confusèd echoThat from my vision wakened me.The legend that she sang was ended,The people heartily commended,And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!”Low bow’d the singer gracefully.

O my golden ducats dear,Tell me why ye are not here?Are ye with the golden fishesWhich within the stream so gailyLeap and splash and wriggle daily?Are ye with the golden flow’retsWhich, o’er green fields scattered lightly,In the morning dew gleam brightly?Are ye with the golden bird-kinsWhich we see in happy chorusIn the blue skies hov’ring o’er us?Are ye with the golden planetsWhich in radiant crowds each evenSmile in yonder distant heaven?Ye, alas, my golden ducats,Swim not in the streamlet bright,Sparkle not on meadow green,Hover not in skies serene,Smile not in the heavens by night.—Creditors, with greedy paws,Hold you safely in their claws.

O my golden ducats dear,Tell me why ye are not here?

Are ye with the golden fishesWhich within the stream so gailyLeap and splash and wriggle daily?

Are ye with the golden flow’retsWhich, o’er green fields scattered lightly,In the morning dew gleam brightly?

Are ye with the golden bird-kinsWhich we see in happy chorusIn the blue skies hov’ring o’er us?

Are ye with the golden planetsWhich in radiant crowds each evenSmile in yonder distant heaven?

Ye, alas, my golden ducats,Swim not in the streamlet bright,Sparkle not on meadow green,Hover not in skies serene,Smile not in the heavens by night.—Creditors, with greedy paws,Hold you safely in their claws.

Hear’st thou not far music ringing,As of double-bass and fiddle?Many fair ones there are springingGaily up and down the middle.“You’re mistaken friend, in speaking“Thus of fiddle and its brother;“I but hear young porkers squeaking,“And the grunting of their mother.”Hear’st thou not the forest bugle?Hunters in the chase are straying;Gentle lambs are feeding, frugalShepherds on their pipes are playing.“Ah, my friend, what you just now heard,“Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters;“I can only see the sow-herd“Slowly driving home his grunters.”Hear’st thou not the distant voicesIn sweet rivalry contending?Many an angel blest rejoicesStrains like these to hear ascending.“Ah, that music sweetly ringing“Is, my friend, no rival chorus;“’Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing“As they drive their geese before us.”Hear’st thou not the church-bells holy,Sweet and clear, with deep emotion?To the village-chapel slowlyWend the people with devotion.“Ah, my friend, the bells ’tis only“Of the cows and oxen also,“Who, with sunken heads and lonely,“Go back to their gloomy stalls so.”See’st thou not the veil just moving?See’st thou not those soft advances?There I see my mistress loving,Humid sorrow in her glances.“She, my friend, who nods so much, is“An old woman, Betsy namely;“Pale and haggard, on her crutches“O’er the meadow limps she lamely.”Overwhelm me with confusionAt my questions, friend, each minute;Wilt thou deem a mere illusionWhat my bosom holds within it?

Hear’st thou not far music ringing,As of double-bass and fiddle?Many fair ones there are springingGaily up and down the middle.

“You’re mistaken friend, in speaking“Thus of fiddle and its brother;“I but hear young porkers squeaking,“And the grunting of their mother.”

Hear’st thou not the forest bugle?Hunters in the chase are straying;Gentle lambs are feeding, frugalShepherds on their pipes are playing.

“Ah, my friend, what you just now heard,“Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters;“I can only see the sow-herd“Slowly driving home his grunters.”

Hear’st thou not the distant voicesIn sweet rivalry contending?Many an angel blest rejoicesStrains like these to hear ascending.

“Ah, that music sweetly ringing“Is, my friend, no rival chorus;“’Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing“As they drive their geese before us.”

Hear’st thou not the church-bells holy,Sweet and clear, with deep emotion?To the village-chapel slowlyWend the people with devotion.

“Ah, my friend, the bells ’tis only“Of the cows and oxen also,“Who, with sunken heads and lonely,“Go back to their gloomy stalls so.”

See’st thou not the veil just moving?See’st thou not those soft advances?There I see my mistress loving,Humid sorrow in her glances.

“She, my friend, who nods so much, is“An old woman, Betsy namely;“Pale and haggard, on her crutches“O’er the meadow limps she lamely.”

Overwhelm me with confusionAt my questions, friend, each minute;Wilt thou deem a mere illusionWhat my bosom holds within it?

This earth resembles a highway vast,We men are the trav’llers along it;On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast,And as runners or couriers throng it.In passing each other, we nod and we greetWith our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches;We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,And speed on, despite all reproaches.Dear Prince Alexander, as onward we go,We scarcely have met at a station,When the signal to start the postilions blow,Compelling our sad separation.

This earth resembles a highway vast,We men are the trav’llers along it;On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast,And as runners or couriers throng it.

In passing each other, we nod and we greetWith our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches;We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,And speed on, despite all reproaches.

Dear Prince Alexander, as onward we go,We scarcely have met at a station,When the signal to start the postilions blow,Compelling our sad separation.

When the spring returns with the sun’s sweet light,The flowers then bud and blossom apace;When the moon begins her radiant race,Then the stars swim after her track so bright.When the minstrel sees two beautiful eyes,Then songs from his inmost bosom arise;—But songs and stars and flowerets gay,And eyes and moonbeams and sun’s bright ray,However delightful they are,Don’t make up the world, friend, by far.

In dainty hoop, with flowers all-richly dight,With beauty-patches on her painted face,With pointed shoes all hung about with lace,With tow’ring curls, and, wasp-like, fasten’d tight,—Thus was the spurious muse equipp’d that nightWhen first she offer’d thee her fond embrace;But thou eludedst her and leftst the place,Led by a mystic impulse from her sight:A castle in the desert thou didst find,Where, like a lovely marble image shrin’d,Lay a fair maid, in magic slumber sunk;But soon the spell was loosed,—when kiss’d by thee,With smiles the lawful muse of GermanyAwoke, and sank within thine arms, love-drunk.

I have been wont to bear my head right high,My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;Even before a monarch’s cold rebuffI would not timidly avert mine eye.Yet, mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,I feel submissive and subdued enough,When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh.Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken,And soaring to the light of heaven again?By the sad recollection I’m oppress’dThat I have done so much that grieved thy breast,Which loved me, more than all things else, the best.

With foolish fancy I deserted thee;I fain would search the whole world through, to learnIf in it I perchance could love discern,That I might love embrace right-lovingly.I sought for love as far as eye could see,My hands extending at each door in turn,Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.And ever search’d I after love; yes, everSearch’d after love, but love discover’d never,And so I homeward went, with troubled thought;But thou wert there to welcome me again,And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated thenThatwas the sweet love I so long had sought.

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