Chapter II: Preface: To the Translations (2)

Hyacinth lived a long time after with Rosebud and his happy parents and old playmates; and numberless grandchildren thanked the wonderful old wise woman for her counsel and her uprousing; for in those days people had as many children as they pleased.

FROM SCHILLER.

THE TRYST
HOPE
THE WORDS OF FAITH
THE WORDS OF VANITY
THE METAPHYSICIAN
THE PHILOSOPHERS
SAYINGS OF CONFUCIUS
KNOWLEDGE
MY FAITH
FRIEND AND FOE
EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT
THE DIVER
KNIGHT TOGGENBURG
LONGING

_THE TRYST._

That was the sound of the wicket!
That was the latch as it rose!
No--the wind that through the thicket
Of the poplars whirring goes.

Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
Her to receive: with silent welcome grace her;
Ye branches build a shadowy room, eye-proof,
With lovely night and stillness to embrace her,
Ye airs caressing, wake, nor keep aloof,
In sport and gambol turning still to face her,
As, with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and dawns my morn.

What is that rustling the hedges?
She, with her hurrying pace?
No, a bird among the sedges,
Startled from its hiding-place!

Quench thy sunk torch, O Day! Steal out, appear,
Dim, ghostly Night, with dumbness us entrancing!
Spread thy rose-purple veil about us here;
Weave round us twigs, the mystery enhancing:
Love’s rapture flees the lurking listening ear--
Flies from the Day, so indiscreetly glancing;
Hesper alone--no tattling tell-tale he--
Far-gazing, still, her confidant may be.

That was a voice, but far distant,
Faint, like a whispering low!
No; the swan that draws persistent
Through the pond his circles slow!

About mine ears harmonious breathings flow;
The fountain falls in sweetly wavering rushes;
The flower beneath the west wind’s kiss bends slow;
Delight from each to every thing outgushes;
Grape-clusters beckon; peaches luring glow,
And hide half in their leaves, up-swelling luscious;
The air, which aromatic odours streak,
Drinks up the glow upon my burning cheek.

Hear I not echoing footfalls
Hither adown the pleach’d walk?
No; the over-ripened fruit falls,
Heavy-swollen, from off its stalk!

Day’s flaming eye at last is quenchéd quite;
In gentle death its colours all are paling;
Now boldly open in the fair twilight
The cups which in his blaze had long been quailing;
Slow lifts the moon her visage calmly bright;
Into great masses molten, earth sinks failing;
From every charm the zone drops unaware,
And shrouded beauty dawns upon me bare.

Yonder I see a white shimmer--
Silky--of robe or of shawl?
No; it is the column’s glimmer
‘Gainst the clipt yews’ gloomy wall!

O longing heart, no more thyself befool,
Flouted by Fancy’s loveliness unreal!
The empty arm no burning heart will cool,
No shadow-joy hold place for Love’s Ideal!
O bring my live love all my heart to rule!
Give me her hand to hold, my every weal!
Or but the shadow of her mantle’s hem--
And straight my dreams shall live, and I in them!

And soft as, from hills rosy-golden
The dews of still gladness descend,
So had she drawn nigh unbeholden,
And wakened with kisses her friend.

* * * * *

_HOPE_.

Men talk with their lips and dream with their soul
Of better days hitherward pacing;
To a happy, a glorious, golden goal
See them go running and chasing!
The world grows old and to youth returns,
But still for the Better man’s bosom burns.

It is Hope leads him into life and its light;
She haunts the little one merry;
The youth is inspired by her magic might;
Her the graybeard cannot bury:
When he finds at the grave his ended scope,
On the grave itself he planteth Hope.

She was never begotten in Folly’s brain,
An empty illusion, to flatter;
In the Heart she cries, aloud and plain:
We are born to something better!
And that which the inner voice doth say
The hoping spirit will not betray.

_THE WORDS OF FAITH_.

Three words I will tell you, of meaning full:
The lips of the many shout them;
Yet were they born of no sect or school,
The heart only knows about them:
That man is of everything worth bereft
Who in those three words has no faith left:

_Man_ is born free--and is free alway
Even were he born in fetters!
Let not the mob’s cry lead you astray,
Or the misdeeds of frantic upsetters:
Fear not the slave when he breaks his bands;
Fear nothing from any free man’s hands.

And _Virtue_--it is no empty sound;
That a man can obey her, no folly;
Even if he stumble all over the ground
He yet can follow the Holy;
And what never wisdom of wise man knew
A child-like spirit can simply do.

And a _God_ there is--a steadfast Will,
However the human shrinketh!
High over space and time He still,
The live Thought, doth what He thinketh;
And though all things keep circling, to change confined,
He keeps, in all changes, a changeless mind.

These three words cherish--of meaning full:
From mouth to mouth send them faring;
For, although they spring from no sect or school,
Your hearts them witness are bearing;
And man is never of worth bereft
While yet he has faith in those three words left.

Three words there are of weighty sound,
And from good men’s lips they hail us;
But a tinkling cymbal, a drum’s rebound,
For help or for comfort they fail us!
His Life’s fruit away he forfeit flings
Who catches after those shadows of things;

Who still believes in a Golden Age,
Where the Right and the Good reign in splendour:
The Right and the Good war ever must wage--
Their foe will never surrender;
And chok’st thou him not in the upper air,
His strength he will still on the earth repair.

Who yet believes that Fortune, the jilt,
To the noble will bind herself ever:
Her love-looks follow the man of guilt;
The world to the good belongs never;
He is in it a stranger; he wanders away
Seeking a house that will not decay.

Who still believes that no human gaze
Truth ever her visage discloses:
Her veil no mortal hand shall raise;
Man only thinks and supposes:
Thou mayst prison the spirit in sounding form,
But the Fetterless walks away on the storm.

Then, noble spirit, from folly break free,
This heav’nly faith holding and handing:
What the ear never heard, what no eye can see,
Is the lovely, the true, notwithstanding;
Outside, the fool seeks for it evermore;
The wise man finds it with closed door!

THE METAPHYSICIAN.

“How far the world lies under me!
Scarce can I see the men below there crawling!
How high it bears me up, my lofty calling!
How near the heavenly canopy!”
Thus, from tower-roof where he doth clamber,
Calls out the slater; and with him the small big man,
Jack Metaphysicus, down in his writing-chamber!
Tell me, thou little great big man,--
The tower, whence thou so grandly all things hast inspected,
Of what is it?--Whereon is it erected?
How cam’st thou up thyself? Its heights so smooth and bare--
How serve they thee but thence into the vale to stare?

_THE PHILOSOPHERS_.

The principle whence everything
To life and shape ascended--
The pulley whereon Zeus the ring
Of Earth, which else in sherds would spring,
Has carefully suspended--
To genius I yield him a claim
Who fathoms for me what its name,
Save I withdraw its curtain:
It is--ten is not thirteen.

That snow makes cold, that fire burns,
That man on two feet goeth,
That in the heavens the sun sojourns--
This much the man who logic spurns
Through his own senses knoweth;
But metaphysics who has got,
Knows he that burneth, freezeth not;
Knows ‘tis the moist that wetteth,
And ‘tis the rough that fretteth.

Great Homer sings his epic high;
The hero fronts his dangers;
The brave his duty still doth ply--
And did it while, I won’t deny,
Philosophers were strangers:
But grant by heart and brain achiev’d
What Locke and Des Cartes ne’er conceiv’d--
By them yet, as behovéd,
It possible was provéd.

Strength for the Right is counted still;
Bold laughs the strong hyena;
Who rule not, servants’ parts must fill;
It goes quite tolerably ill
Upon this world’s arena;
But how it would be, if the plan
Of the universe now first began,
In many a moral system
All men may read who list ‘em.

“Man needs with man must linked be
To reach the goal of growing;
In the whole only worketh he;
Many drops go to make the sea;
Much water sets mills going.
Then with the wild wolves do not stand,
But knit the state’s enduring band:”
From doctor’s chair thus, tranquil,
Herr Pufendorf and swan-quill.

But since to all, what doctors say
Flies not as soon as spoken,
Nature will use her mother-way,
See that her chain fly not in tway,
The circle be not broken:
Meantime, until the world’s great round
Philosophy in one hath bound,
She keeps it on the move, sir,
By hunger and by love, sir.

_SAYINGS OF CONFUCIUS_.

I.

Threefold is of Time the tread:
Lingering comes the Future pacing hither;
Dartlike is the Now gone thither;
Stands the Past aye moveless, foot and head.

No impatience wings its idle
Tread of leisurely delay;
Fear or doubt it cannot bridle
Should it headlong run away;
No remorse, no incantation
Moves the standing from its station.

Wouldst thou end thy earthly journey
Wise and of good fortune full,
Make the Lingering thine attorney
Thee to counsel--not thy tool;
Not for friend the Flying take,
Nor thy foe the Standing make.

II.

Threefold is of Space the way:
On unresting, without stay,
Strives the Length into the distance;
Ceaseless pours the Breadth’s insistence
Bottomless the Depth goes down.

For a sign the three are sent thee:
_Onward_ must alone content thee--
Weary, thou must not stand still
Wouldst thou thy perfection fill!
Thou must spread thee wider, bigger,
Wouldst thou have the world take figure!
To the deep the man descendeth
Who existence comprehendeth.
Leads persistence to the goal;
Leads abundance to precision;
Dwells in the abyss the Vision.

* * * * *

_In the following epigrams I have altered the form,
which in the original is the elegiac distich_.

_KNOWLEDGE_.

To this man, ‘tis a goddess tall,
Who lifts a star-encircled head;
To that, a fine cow in a stall,
Which gives him butter to his bread.

_MY FAITH_.

Which religion I profess?
None of which you mention make.
Wherefore so?--And can’t you guess?
For Religion’s sake.

_FRIEND AND FOE_.

Dear is my friend, but my foe too
Is friendly to my good;
My friend the thing shows I _can_ do,
My foe, the thing I should.

_EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT_.

Thousand-masted, mighty float,
Out to sea Youth’s navy goes:
Silent, in his one saved boat,
Age into the harbour rows.

_THE DIVER_

“Which of you, knight or squire, will dare
Plunge into yonder gulf?
A golden beaker I fling in it--there!
The black mouth swallows it like a wolf!
Who brings me the cup again, whoever,
It is his own--he may keep it for ever!”

Tis the king who speaks; and he flings from the brow
Of the cliff, that, rugged and steep,
Hangs out o’er the endless sea below,
The cup in the whirlpool’s howling heap:--
“Again I ask, what hero will follow?
What brave heart plunge into yon dark hollow?”

The knights and the squires, the king about,
Hear him, and dumbly stare
Into the wild sea’s tumbling rout;
But to win the beaker, they hardly care!
The king, for the third time, round him glaring--
“Not a soul of you has the daring?”

Speechless all, as before, they stand:
When a vassal bold, gentle, and gay,
Steps out from his comrades’ shrinking band,
Flinging his girdle and cloak away;
And all the women and men that surrounded
Gazed on the grand-looking youth, astounded.

And when he stepped to the rock’s rough brow
Looking down on the gulf so black,
The waters which it had swallowed, now
Charybdis bellowing rendered back;
And, with a roar as of distant thunder,
Foaming they burst from the dark lap under.

It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout,
As when water wrestles with fire,
Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout;
And flood upon flood keeps mounting higher:
It will never its endless coil unravel,
As the sea with another sea were in travail!

But, at last, slow sinks the writhing spasm,
And, black through the foaming white,
Downward gapes a yawning chasm--
Bottomless, cloven to hell’s wide night;
And, sucked up, see the billows roaring
Down through the whirling funnel pouring!

Then in haste, ere the out-rage return again,
The youth to his God doth pray,
And--ascends a cry of horror and pain--
Already the vortex hath swept him away!
And o’er the bold swimmer, in darkness eternal,
Close the great jaws of the gulf infernal!

Then the water above grows smooth as glass,
While, below, dull roarings ply;
And, trembling, they hear the murmur pass--
“High-hearted youth, farewell! good-bye!”
And, hollower still, comes the howl affraying,
Till their hearts are sick with the frightful delaying.

If the crown itself thou in should fling,
And say, “Who back with it hies
Himself shall wear it, and shall be king,”
I should not covet the precious prize!
What Ocean hides in that howling hell of it,
Live soul will never come back to tell of it!

Ships many, caught in that whirling surge,
Shot sheer to their dismal doom:
Keel and mast only did ever emerge,
Shattered, from out the all-gulping tomb!--
Like the bluster of tempest, clearer and clearer,
Comes its roaring nearer and ever nearer!

It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout,
As when water wrestles with fire,
Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout,
Wave upon wave’s back mounting higher;
And as with the rumble of distant thunder
Bellowing it bursts from the dark lap under.

And see, from its bosom, flowing dark,
Something heave up, swan-white!
An arm and a shining neck they mark,
And it rows with unrelaxing might!
It is he! and aloft in his left hand holden,
He swings, recovered, the beaker golden!

With long deep breaths his path he ploughed,
Glad greeting the heavenly day;
Jubilant shouted the gazing crowd,
“He lives! he is free! he has burst his way!
Out of the grave, the whirlpool uproarious,
The hero hath rescued his life victorious!”

He comes; they surround him with shouts of glee;
At the king’s feet he sinks on the sod,
And hands him the beaker upon his knee.
To his lovely daughter the king gives a nod:
She fills it brim-full of wine sparkling and raying;
And then to the monarch the youth turned, saying:

“Long live the king!--Ah, well doth he fare
Who breathes in this rosy light!
For frightful, yea, horrible is it down there;
And man ought not to tempt the heavenly Might,
Or long to see, with prying unwholesome,
What He graciously covers with darkness dolesome!

“It tore me down as on lightning’s wing--
When a shaft in a rock outpours,
Wild-rushing against me, a torrent spring:
Its conflict seized me with raging force
And like a top, with giddy twisting,
Spun me about: there was no resisting!

“Then God did show me, sore beseeching
In deepest, frightfullest need,
Up from the bottom a rock-ledge reaching--
At it I caught, and from death was freed!
And behold, on spiked corals the beaker suspended
Which had else to the very abyss descended!

“For below me it lay yet mountain-deep
The purply darksome maw!
And, though to the ear it was dead asleep,
The ghasted eye, down staring, saw
How, with dragons, lizards, salamanders, crawling,
The hell-jaws horrible were sprawling!

“Black-swarming, in medley miscreate,
In masses lumped hideously,
Wallowed the conger, the thorny skate,
The lobster’s grisly deformity;
And, baring its teeth with cruel sheen, a
Terrible shark, the sea’s hyena.

“So there I hung, and shuddering knew
That human help was none;
One thinking soul mid the horrid crew,
In the ghastly desert I was alone--
Deeper than human speech e’er sounded,
By the sad waste’s dismal monsters surrounded!

“Thus thought I, and shivered. Then a something crept near
Upon legs with a hundred joints!
It snaps at me suddenly: frantic with fear
I lost my grasp of the coral points:
Away the whirl in its raging tore me--
But it was my salvation, and upward bore me!”

The king at the tale is filled with amaze:--
“The beaker, well won, is thine;
And this ring I will give thee too,” he says,
“Precious with gems that are more than fine,
If thou dare it yet once, and bring me the story
Of what’s in the sea’s lowest repertory.”

His daughter she hears him with tender dismay,
And with sweet words suasive doth plead:
“Father, enough of this cruel play!
For you he has done an unheard-of deed!
If you may not master your heart’s desire,
‘Tis the knights’ turn now to shame the squire!”

The king sudden snatches and hurls the cup
Into the swirling pool:--
“If thou bring me once more that beaker up,
Thou art best of my knights, the most worshipful!
And this very day to thy home thou shalt lead her
Who stands there--for thee such a pitiful pleader.”

A passion divine his being invades;
His eyes dart a lightning ray;
He sees of her blushes the changeful shades,
He sees her grow pallid and sink away!
Determination thorough him flashes,
And downward for life or for death he dashes!

They hear the dull roar: ‘tis returning again,
Announced by the thunderous brawl!
Downward they bend with loving strain:
They come! they are coming, the waters all!--
They rush up!--they rush down! they rush ever and ever:
The youth to the daylight rises never!

_KNIGHT TOGGENBURG_.

True love, knight, as to a brother,
Yield I you again;
Ask me not for any other,
For it gives me pain.
Calmly I behold you come in,
Calm behold you go;
Your sad eyes the weeping dumb in
I nor read nor know.

And he hears her uncomplaining,
Tears him free by force;
To his heart but once her straining,
Flings him on his horse;
Sends to all his vassals merry
In old Switzerland;
To the holy grave they hurry,
White-crossed pilgrim band.

Mighty deeds, the foe outbraving,
Works their hero-arm;
From their helms the plumes float waving
Mid the heathen swarm;
Still his “_Toggenburg_” upwaking
Frays the Mussulman;
But his heart its grievous aching
Quiet never can.

One whole year he did endure it,
Then his patience lost;
Peace, he never could secure it,
And forsakes the host;
Sees a ship by Joppa’s entry
At her cable saw;
Sails him home to that dear country
Where she breath doth draw.

At the gate, her castle under,
Pilgrim sad, he knocked;
Straight, as with a word of thunder
Was the gate unlocked:
“She you seek, with rites most solemn
Is betrothed to heaven;
Yesterday, beneath that column,
She to Christ was given.”

Then the halls he leaves for ever
Of his ancestors;
Shield or sword sets eyes on never,
Or his faithful horse.
Down from Toggenburg he fareth,
None to see or care;
On his noble limbs he weareth
Sackcloth made of hair:

And himself a hovel buildeth
That same cloister nigh,
Where the lime-tree thicket yieldeth
Cover whence to spy.
There, from morning’s earliest traces
Till red evening shone,
Thither turned his hoping face is,
There he sits alone.

On the walls so high above him,
His eyes waiting hang,
Waiting, though she would not love him,
For her lattice-clang--
Waiting till the loved should send her
Glance into the vale,
And, unthinking, toward it bend her
Visage, angel-pale.

Then he laid him, sadness scorning,
Comforted to sleep;
Quietly joyous till the morning
Out again should peep.
And so sat he, years a many,
Years without a pang,
Waiting without murmur any
Till her window rang--

For the lovely one to send her
Glance into the vale,
And, unseeing, toward him bend her
Angel visage pale.
And thus sat he, staring wanly,
His last morning there:
Toward her window still the manly
Silent face did stare.

_LONGING_.

Ah, from out this valley hollow,
By cold fogs always oppressed,
Could I but the outpath follow--
Ah, how were my spirit blest!
Hills I see there, glad dominions,
Ever young, and green for aye!
Had I wings, oh, had I pinions,
To the hills were I away!

Harmonies I hear there ringing,
Tones of sweetest heavenly rest;
And the gentle winds are bringing
Balmy odours to my breast!
Golden fruits peep out there, glowing
Through the leaves to Zephyr’s play;
And the flowers that there are blowing
Will become no winter’s prey!

Oh, what happy things are meeting
There, in endless sunshine free!
And the airs on those hills greeting,
How reviving must they be!
But me checks yon raving river
That betwixt doth chafe and roll;
And its dark waves rising ever
Strike a horror to my soul!

See a skiff on wild wave heaving!
But no sailor walks the mole.
Quick into it, firm believing,
For its sails they have a soul!
Thou must trust, nor wait to ponder:
God will give no pledge in hand;
Nought but miracle bears yonder
To the lovely wonderland!

FROM GOETHE.

POEMS
LEGEND
THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

POEMS.

Poems are painted window-panes:
Look from the square into the church--
Gloom and dusk are all your gains!
Sir Philistine is left in the lurch:
Outside he stands--spies nothing or use of it,
And nought is left him save the abuse of it.

But you, I pray you, just step in;
Make in the chapel your obeisance:
All at once ‘tis a radiant pleasaunce:
Device and story flash to presence;
A gracious splendour works to win.
This to God’s children is full measure:
It edifies and gives them pleasure.

_LEGEND_.

AFTER THE MANNER OF HANS SACHS.

While yet unknown, and very low,
Our Lord on earth went to and fro;
And some of his scholars his word so good
Very strangely misunderstood--
He much preferred to hold his court
In streets and places of resort,
Because under the heaven’s face
Words better and freer flow apace;
There he gave them the highest lore
Out of his holy mouth in store;
Wondrously, by parable and example,
Made every market-place a temple.

So faring, in his heart content,
Once with them to a town he went--
Saw something blinking on the way,
And there a broken horse-shoe lay!
He said thereon St. Peter to,
“Prithee now, pick up that shoe.”
St. Peter was not in fitting mood:
He had been dreaming all the road
Some stuff about ruling of the world,
Round which so many brains are twirled--
For in the head it seems so easy!
And with it his thoughts were often busy;
Therefore the finding was much too mean;
Crown and sceptre it should have been!
He was not one his back to bow
After half an iron-shoe!
Therefore aside his head he bended,
And that he had not heard pretended.

In his forbearance the Lord did stoop
And lift himself the horse-shoe up;
Then for the present he did wait.
But when they reach the city-gate,
He goes up to a blacksmith’s door,
Receives three pence the horse-shoe for;
And as they through the market fare,
Seeing for sale fine cherries there,
He buys of them so few or so many
As they will give for a three-penny;
Which he, thereon, after his way,
Up in his sleeve did quietly lay.

Now, from the other gate, they trod
Through fields and meads a housless road;
The path of trees was desolate,
The sun shone out, the heat was great;
So that one in a region such
For a drink of water had given much.
The Lord goes ever before them all,
And as by chance lets a cherry fall:
In a trice St. Peter was after it there
As if a golden apple it were!
Sweet to his palate was the berry.
Then by and by, another cherry
Down on the ground the Master sends,
For which St. Peter as quickly bends.
So, many a time, the Lord doth let
Him bend his back a cherry to get.
A long time thus He let him glean;
Then said the Lord, with look serene:
“If at the right time thou hadst bent,
Thou hadst found it more convenient!
Of little things who little doth make
For lesser things must trouble take.”

_THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN_.

Up there, upon yonder mountain,
Stands a castle old, in the gorse,
Where once, behind doors and portals,
Lurking lay knight and horse.

Burnt are the doors and the portals;
All round it is very still;
Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,
I scramble about at my will.

Close hereby lay a cellar
Full of wine that was old and rare;
But the cheery maid with the pitchers
No more comes down the stair;

No more in the hall, sedately
Sets the beaker before the guest;
No more at the festival stately,
The flagon fills for the priest;

No more to the page so thirsty
Gives a draught in the corridor;
And receives for the hurried favour
The hurried thanks no more.

For every rafter and ceiling
Long ago were to ashes burned,
And stair and passage and chapel
To rubbish and ruin turned.

Yet when, with flask and cittern,
On a day in the summer’s prime,
Up to the rocky summit
I watched my darling climb--

Out came the old joy reviving
On the face of the ancient rest,
And on went the old life driving,
In its lordliness and zest;

It seemed as for strangers distinguished
Their state-rooms they did prepare,
And out of that brave time, shadowy
Came stepping a youthful pair.

And the worthy priest in his chapel
Stood already in priestly dress,
And asked--Will you two take one another?
And smiling we answered--Yes;

And the hymns with deep pulsation
Stirred every heart at once;
And instead of the congregation
The echo yelled response.

And when, in the gathered evening,
Profound the stillness grew,
And the red-glowing sun at the broken
Gable came peering through,

Then damsel and page, in his rays, are
Grandees of the olden prime;
She tastes of his cup at her leisure,
And he to thank her takes time.

FROM UHLAND.

THE LOST CHURCH
THE DREAM

THE LOST CHURCH.

In the far forest, overhead,
A bell is often heard obscurely;
How long since first, no one can tell--
Nor can report explain it surely:
From the lost church, the rumour hath,
Out on the winds the ringing goeth;
Once full of pilgrims was the path--
Now where to find it, no one knoweth.

Deep in the wood I lately went
Where no foot-trodden way is lying;
From times corrupt, on evil bent,
My heart to God went out in sighing:
There, in the wild wood’s deep repose,
I heard the ringing somewhat nearer;
The higher that my longing rose
Its peal grew fuller and came clearer.

My thoughts upon themselves did brood;
My sense was with the sound so busy
That I have never understood
How I did climb that steep so dizzy.
It seemed more than a hundred years
Had passed me over, dreaming, sighing--
When far above the clouds appears
An open space in sunlight lying.

Dark-blue the heavens above it bowed;
The sun was radiant, large, and glowing;
And, see, a minister’s structure proud
Stood in the rich light, golden showing.
The clouds around it, sunny-clear,
Seemed bearing it aloft like pinions;
Its spire-point seemed to disappear,
Slow vanishing in heaven’s dominions.

The bell’s clear tones, of rapture full,
Boomed in the tower and made it quiver;
No mortal hand that rope did pull--
A dumb storm made it swing and shiver.
It seemed to heave my throbbing breast,
That heavenly storm with torrent blended:
With wavering step, yet hopeful quest,
Into the church my way I wended.

What met me there as in I trode
With syllables cannot be painted;
Darksome yet clear, the windows glowed
With forms of all the martyrs sainted.
Then saw I, radiantly unfurled,
Form swell to life and break its barriers;
I looked abroad into a world
Of holy women and God’s warriors.

Down at the alter I kneeled soft,
With love and prayer my heart allegiant:
Upon the ceiling, far aloft,
Was painted Heaven’s resplendent pageant;
But when again I lift mine eyes,
Lo, the high vault has flown asunder!
The upward gate wide open lies,
And every veil unveils a wonder.

What gloriousness I then beheld
With silent worship, speechless wonder;
What blessed sounds upon me swelled,
Like organs’ and like trumpets’ thunder--
No human words could ever tell!--
But who for such is sighing sorest,
Let him give heed unto the bell
That dimly soundeth in the forest.

_THE DREAM_.

In a garden sweet went walking
Two lovers hand in hand;
Two pallid figures, low talking,
They sat in the flowery land.

They kissed on the cheek one another,
And they kissed upon the mouth;
They held in their arms each the other,
And back came their health and youth.

Two little bells rang shrilly--
And the lovely dream was dead!
She lay in the cloister chilly;
He afar on his dungeon-bed.

FROM HEINE.

LIEDER, IV.
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO, XXXVIII.
“ “ XLI.
“ “ XLV.
“ “ LXIV.
DIE HEIMKEHR, LX.
“ LXII.
DIE NORDSEE, FIRST CYCLE, XII.

LIEDER.

IV.

Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:
What a knocking in that little chamber!--dost hear?
There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he
Is hard at work on a coffin for me.

He hammers and knocks by night and by day;
‘Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:
Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,
That I the sooner may go to sleep!

LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.

XXXVIII.

The phantoms of times forgotten
Arise from out their grave,
And show me how once in thy presence
I lived the life it gave.

In the day I wandered dreaming,
Through the streets with unsteady foot;
The people looked at me in wonder,
I was so mournful and mute.

At night, then it was better,
For empty was the town;
I and my shadow together
Walked speechless up and down.

My way, with echoing footstep,
Over the bridge I took;
The moon broke out of the waters,
And gave me a meaning look.

I stopped before thy dwelling,
And gazed, and gazed again--
Stood staring up at thy window,
My heart was in such pain.

I know that thou from thy window
Didst often look downward--and
Sawest me, there in the moonlight,
A motionless pillar stand.

LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.

XLI.

I dreamt of the daughter of a king,
With white cheeks tear-bewetted;
We sat ‘neath the lime tree’s leavy ring,
In love’s embraces netted.

“I would not have thy father’s throne,
His crown or his golden sceptre;
I want my lovely princess alone--
From Fate that so long hath kept her.”

“That cannot be,” she said to me:
“I lie in the grave uncheerly;
And only at night I come to thee,
Because I love thee so dearly.”

LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.

XLV.

In the sunny summer morning
Into the garden I come;
The flowers are whispering and talking,
But for me, I wander dumb.

The flowers are whispering and talking;
They pity my look so wan:
“Thou must not be cross with our sister,
Thou sorrowful, pale-faced man!”

LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO.

LXIV.

Night lay upon mine eyelids;
Upon my mouth lay lead;
With rigid brain and bosom,
I lay among the dead.

How long it was I know not
That sleep oblivion gave;
I wakened up, and, listening,
Heard a knocking at my grave.

“Tis time to rise up, Henry!
The eternal day draws on;
The dead are all arisen--
The eternal joy’s begun.”

“My love, I cannot raise me;
For I have lost my sight;
My eyes with bitter weeping
They are extinguished quite.”

“From thy dear eyelids, Henry,
I’ll kiss the night away;
Thou shalt behold the angels,
And Heaven’s superb display.”

“My love, I cannot raise me;
Still bleeds my bosom gored,
Where thou heart-deep didst stab me
With a keen-pointed word.”

“Soft I will lay it, Henry,
My hand soft on thy heart;
And that will stop its bleeding
And soothe at once the smart.”

“My love, I cannot raise me--
My head is bleeding too;
When thou wast stolen from me
I shot it through and through!”

“I with my tresses, Henry,
Will stop the fountain red;
Press back again the blood-stream,
And heal thy wounded head.”

She begged so sweetly, dearly,
I could no more say no;
I tried, I strove to raise me,
And to my darling go.

Then the wounds again burst open;
With torrent force outbrake
From head and breast the blood-stream,
And, lo, I came awake!

_DIE HEIMKEHR_.

LX.

They have company this evening,
And the house is full of light;
Up there at the shining window
Moves a shadowy form in white.

Thou seest me not--in the darkness
I stand here below, apart;
Yet less, ah less thou seest
Into my gloomy heart!

My gloomy heart it loves thee,
Loves thee in every spot:
It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders--But
into it thou seest not!

LXII.

Diamonds hast thou, and pearls,
And all by which men lay store;
And of eyes thou hast the fairest--
Darling, what wouldst thou more?

Upon thine eyes so lovely
Have I a whole army-corps
Of undying songs composed--
Dearest, what wouldst thou more?

And with thine eyes so lovely
Thou hast tortured me very sore,
And hast ruined me altogether--
Darling, what wouldst thou more?

_DIE NORDSEE_

FIRST CYCLE.

XII.

_PEACE_.

[Footnote: I have here used rimes although the original has none. With
notions of translating severer now than when, many years ago, I attempted
this poem, I should not now take such a liberty. In a few other points
also the translation is not quite close enough to please me; but it must
stand.]

High in heaven the sun was glowing,
White cloud-waves were round him flowing;
The sea was still and grey.
Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay:
Half waking, half in slumber, then
Saw I Christ, the Saviour of men.
In undulating garments white
He walked in giant shape and height
Over land and sea.
High in the heaven up towered his head;
His hands in blessing forth he spread
Over land and sea.
And for a heart, in his breast
He bore the sun; there did it rest.
The red, flaming heart of the Lord
Out its gracious radiance poured,
Its fair and love-caressing light
With illuminating and warming might
Over land and sea.

Sounds of solemn bells that go
Through the air to and fro,
Drew, like swans in rosy traces,
With soft, solemn, stately graces,
The gliding ship to the green shore--
Peopled, for many a century hoar,
By men who dwell at rest in a mighty
Far-spreading and high-towered city.

Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town!
The hollow tumult had all gone down
Of the babbling and stifling trades;
And through each clean and echoing street
Walked men and women, and youths and maids,
White clothes wearing,
Palm branches bearing;
And ever and always when two did meet,
They gazed with eyes that plain did tell
They understood each other well;
And trembling, in self-renouncement and love,
Each a kiss on the other’s forehead laid,
And looked up to the Saviour’s sunheart above,
Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayed
Down upon all; and the people said,
From hearts with threefold gladness blest,
Lauded be Jesus Christ!

FROM VON SALIS-SEEWIS.

THE GRAVE.
PSYCHE’S MOURNING.

THE GRAVE.

The grave is deep and soundless,
Its brink is ghastly lone;
With veil all dark and boundless
It hides a land unknown.

The nightingale’s sweet closes
Down there come not at all;
And friendship’s withered roses
On the mossy hillock fall.

Their hands young brides forsaken
Wring bleeding there in vain;
The cries of orphans waken
No answer to their pain.

Yet nowhere else for mortals
Dwells their implored repose;
Through none but those dark portals
Home to his rest man goes.

The poor heart, here for ever
By storm on storm beat sore,
Its true peace gaineth never
But where it beats no more.

PSYCHES MOURNING.

Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison,
For redemption; ah! for light she aches;
Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen--
Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks.

Bound are Psyche’s pinions--airy, soaring;
Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low;
Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouring
Sprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow;

Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth;
Golden flowers spring from the desert grave
She her garland through denial gaineth,
And her strength is steeled by winds that rave.

‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth;
Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long;
Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth,
Round her tree of life the shadows throng.

Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadness
Heard from willows the moon silvereth;
Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness,
And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath!

Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation;
Much she loves for great has been her dole;
Love leads through the paths of separation,
Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal.

She endures; bravely bears every burden,
Dumb before the will of Fate bends low;
Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in;
Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow!

Preconviction--ah! the call, the token,
Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave!
‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken!
Truth’s but what she truly doth believe!

Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission;
For the eyes that tears so often gall
Reach not to the summit of completion
Where illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!

FROM CLAUDIUS.

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
CONTENTMENT

_THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE_.

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
Thy father’s very miniature!
That art thou, though thy father goes
And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he,
His face o’er thine did pose
And said--Much has he sure of me,
But no, ‘tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small,
But it is _his_ nose after all;
For if thy nose his nose be not,
Whence came the nose that thou hast got?

Sleep, boy! thy father only chose
To tease me--that’s his part!
Never you mind about his nose,
But see you have his heart.

_CONTENTMENT_.

I am content. In triumph’s tone
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.

The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show,
The hero’s bliss, who, vext
To find no other world below,
Up to the moon looked next--
I’d none of them; for things like that
Are only fit for laughing at.

My motto is--Content with this.
Gold--rank--I prize not such.
That which I have, my measure is;
Wise men desire not much.
Men wish and wish, and have their will,
And wish again, as hungry still.

And gold or honour, though it rings,
Is but a brittle glass;
Experience of changing things
Might teach a very ass!
Right often Many turns to None,
And honour has but a short run.

To do right, to be good and clear,
Is more than rank and gold;
Then art thou always of good cheer,
And blisses hast untold;
Then art thou with thyself at one,
And hatest no man, fearest none.

I am content. In triumph’s tone,
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.

FROM GENESTET.

THREE PAIRS AND ONE.

You have two ears--and but one mouth:
Let this, friend, be a token--
Much should be heard, and not so much
Be spoken.

You have two eyes--and but one mouth:
That is an indication--
Much must you see, but little serves
Relation.

You have two hands--and but one mouth:
Receive the hint you meet with--
For labour two, but only one
To eat with.

FROM THE GERMAN

_SONG OF THE LONELY_.

Son, first-born, at home abiding!
All without is cold and bare:
Hide me from the tempest’s chiding
Warm beside the Father’s chair.

I am homesick, Lord of splendour!
Twilight fills my soul with fright:
Let thy countenance befriend her,
Shining from the halls of light.

I am homesick, loving Father!
Long years hath the pain increased:
Soon, oh soon! thy children gather
To the endless marriage-feast.

FROM PETRARCH.