Chapter XXVI: Act V (1)

_A drawing-room in the_ QUEEN's _apartments. A window to the right. Three doors, centre, right, and left. Tables and chairs. Candles on the tables, playing-cards, and tea service_.

SCENE I

KAMKE _stands on a step-ladder fastening a large curtain over the window. Two lackeys are assisting him_.

KAMKE (_on the ladder_).

There! And now be ready to receive the ladies at the little side stairway. They will arrive in sedan chairs. No noise, do you hear--softly--softly. [_The lackeys go out_.]

SONNSFELD (_comes in from the left_).

Ah, at last a festival of which the Prussian Court need not be ashamed. Kamke, why are you draping that window?

KAMKE.

So that our festival may not be observed. [_Coming down off the ladder_.] Then you too are concerned in this conspiracy?

SONNSFELD.

The Queen has taken all responsibility. She risks her own freedom for that of her daughter, and will receive the Prince of Wales tonight in strictest incognito. Is everything in readiness?

KAMKE.

You're planning to free the Princess from her imprisonment? That is high treason, remember.

SONNSFELD.

It must succeed, at whatever cost. The Queen wishes to see the Princess amid the circle of friends whom she has invited this evening for a secret purpose. The Princess has been instructed. She knows that I will come to her room and remain there in her place to deceive the sentry. She will meet you in the Blue Room.

KAMKE.

The Blue Room--where--for the last few nights the White Lady has been seen?

SONNSFELD.

She will meet you there--

KAMKE (_horrified_).

Me?

SONNSFELD.

She will speak to you--

KAMKE.

Me?

SONNSFELD (_pulling him to the door at the right_).

Yes, me--I mean you--and you will lead her from the Blue Room--you will take her hand and bring her safely hither by the surest and quickest route.

KAMKE.

My lady--whom--whom? The Princess Wilhelmine?

SONNSFELD (_going out_).

No, no, Kamke, the White Lady--but come quickly now, quickly.

[_They both go out_.]

SCENE II

FRAU VON VIERECK, FRAU VON HOLZENDORF, _and about six more ladies enter cautiously, one by one, through the centre door_.

VIERECK.

Hush! Step cautiously!

HOLZENDORF (_whispering_).

It's all quiet here--if only these wretched shoes of mine didn't creak so.

VIERECK (_whispering_).

What can Her Majesty the Queen be planning for tonight?

HOLZENDORF.

Has His Majesty the King gone from home?

VIERECK.

I heard it said, at the French Embassy, that His Highness, the Crown Prince, had come from Rheinsberg--

HOLZENDORF.

Doubtless at the same time with His Highness, the Prince of Wales

VIERECK (_low_).

At the moment both are at the King's Smoker.--They say the Crown Prince has again disagreed with his father on questions concerning the future administration of the state.

HOLZENDORF.

Is it possible?

VIERECK.

And they say that the Prince of Baireuth tried to bring about a reconciliation, but that the Prince of Wales took the part of the Crown Prince.

HOLZENDORF.

The Prince of Wales? Then he has been received?

VIERECK.

And the King, so they say, in the heat of the argument, commanded that Princess Wilhelmine, the cause of the quarrel, be sent to Küstrin at once.

HOLZENDORF.

Good Heavens, ladies! There are cards on the table. Hush! I hear a noise.

VIERECK.

It is the Queen.

[_The_ QUEEN _comes in in full toilet. She is excited and yet timorous. The ladies bow_.]

QUEEN.

Welcome, ladies. I am happy to have about me once again the circle of those who, I know, are devoted to me. Pray sit down. I have decided to be more sociable in future and to have you with me oftener than I have done of late. Will you have a game of cards, Frau von Viereck?

VIERECK.

Cards, Your Majesty? For eighteen years now I cannot recall having seen a card in the palace.

QUEEN.

We will change all that. Ladies, you have not yet heard my plans, you do not yet know what surprises this evening has in store for you--

HOLZENDORF.

Surprises, Your Majesty?

QUEEN (_indicating a card-table near the window_).

Sit down there, my dear Holzendorf. Try your luck with Frau von Viereck.

VIERECK (_aside_).

Heavens--play cards there? When every outline of my shadow can plainly be seen through that curtain?

QUEEN (_sitting_).

Why do you hesitate?

VIERECK.

Have we Your Majesty's permission to draw the tables nearer together? There--there is so much air at this window.

[_The lackeys place the table farther from the window_.]

QUEEN.

Yes, ladies, this evening a new era begins for our monarchy. I will break at last with the established etiquette. [_Lackeys come in with trays_.] Order what pleases you. The beverages of China and the Levant shall from now on no longer be strangers to our court.

HOLZENDORF.

What is this? Tea?

VIERECK.

And coffee? These forbidden beverages?

HOLZENDORF.

If His Majesty the King--

QUEEN.

Have no fear. Give your feelings full sway--express yourself without fear, in assurance of perfect safety--[_There is a knock at the door, right_.] Was not that a knock?

VIERECK (_aside, trembling_).

What does this mean?

[_The knock is repeated. The ladies all rise as if frightened_.]

QUEEN.

Be calm, ladies. There is no danger. The evening will offer one surprise after another. Who, do you imagine, is at that door now?

[_The knock is repeated. The ladies all rise as if frightened_.]

HOLZENDORF.

The hand seems none of the most delicate.

QUEEN.

And yet it is. That knock expresses the impetuous longing of a being whom my courage has freed from a humiliating situation. You may resume your seats, ladies. Do not allow yourselves to be disturbed by anything that may occur, not even by any surprise. This is but the beginning of many things that will come to pass this evening. And so I cry--in overflowing emotion--[_There is another knock_.] "Moderate your impatience, beloved being; you shall find here what you seek--your mother!" [_She opens the door_.]

SCENE III

_The_ KING _steps in. He is wrapped in a white cloak, his hat pulled down over his face_.

KING.

Yes, your mother.

[_The ladies all rise with exclamations of horror. The_ KING _removes his hat_.]

QUEEN (_aside, crushed_).

The King!

KING (_angry, but forcing himself to be affable_).

On my word, how fine we are here, very fine indeed! And how nice it does look with so many lights burning. [_He blows out several_.] Why are you hiding yourselves, ladies? Did you expect such a visitor?

QUEEN.

Your Majesty

[_The ladies place themselves so that they screen the table. They hide the cards quickly_.]

KING.

Do not let me disturb you, ladies. What is your particular entertainment this evening? Enjoying a cup of soup, Frau von Holzendorf? [_Comes nearer_.] Oho--the silver service? [_He looks into cups_.] What's that? Tea? Chocolate? Coffee?

QUEEN.

Your Majesty will surely--permit us--to keep pace with our age.

KING.

Frau von Viereck, you, I imagine, have been keeping pace with your age long enough. About thirty years ago you'd give an old boy like myself a handshake occasionally.

[_Slyly he holds out his hand to her_.]

VIERECK (_tries to hide the cards behind her back_).

Your Majesty--such graciousness--

[_She holds out one hand_.]

KING.

Both, Fran von Viereck--let me have both.

[VIERECK _lets the cards fall behind her back_.]

KING.

What's that? Did you not drop something? My God! Cards! [_He stands as if speechless_.] Playing-cards! [_To the_ QUEEN.] Cards, madam--a Christian court--and cards! I am sure, Frau von Viereck, you were merely prophesying from those cards. I know, ladies, that you were only telling your fortunes from the cards. I am quite sure, Frau von Viereck, that you were merely endeavoring to ascertain whether you would bury your fifth husband also. Surely--or--is it possible? Money on the tables! [_He clasps his hands in horror_.] You--have-been-playing?--at my court?--playing-cards? [_There is a knock at the door to the left_.] Who knocks there?

QUEEN (_aside_).

It is Wilhelmine or the Prince of Wales! I am lost!

[_Another gentle knock is heard_.]

KING.

You are awaiting more visitors? Come in!

[_He goes to the door himself and opens it_.]

SCENE IV

WILHELMINE, _wearing a white veil and domino, comes in cautiously_.

KING.

A veiled lady! And such mysterious visitors are received here? [_He lifts the veil_.] What do I see! Wilhelmine!

WILHELMINE (_throwing herself at his feet_).

Father! Forgive me!

KING.

Forgive you! This invasion of the State Prison--this attack on my sovereign will?

WILHELMINE (_rising, aside_).

This is a nice reception.

[_There is a knock from the left_.]

KING.

Was that not another knock? [_A stronger knock_.] This castle is haunted, I do believe. And I have indeed been fortunate enough to prevent the outbreak of a conspiracy! [_A louder knock_.] Who is there at that door? You will not answer? Then I must open it myself.

QUEEN (_steps before him_).

No, you will not.

KING.

You would hinder me from discovering who are enemies of the Crown? I will open that door.

QUEEN.

Never!

KING.

You defy me? You set yourself in opposition to the King?

QUEEN.

Yes. I feel within me the power to do it. Ladies, hear now why I invited you to these rooms tonight--why I asked you to appear before your queen. Yes, Sire, the purpose of this hour was that the threads of your political scheming might be torn apart by two hands destined to be united for life.

WILHELMINE.

_Two_ hands!

QUEEN.

Wilhelmine, I freed you from a captivity unworthy the daughter of a King. Open that door, Sire; you will find there my nephew, my future son-in-law, the Prince of Wales.

ALL.

The Prince of Wales!

KING (_when he has gained control of himself_).

Madame, you have achieved your purpose. You have torn asunder the ties that bound me to my family, that bound me to life. You know that my honor, that my good name, are more to me than all political calculations. You know that this scene here at night, this secret understanding with one who in my eyes is merely an adventurous stranger, has ruined Wilhelmine's reputation forever. You may enjoy your triumph at your future widow's-seat, Oranienbaum, to which place I now banish you, according to our House's laws, for the few remaining years of my life.

WILHELMINE (_hurrying to the_ KING's _side_).

No--no, not that.

KING.

Madame, admit the Prince of Wales.

SCENE V

_The_ QUEEN, _breathing heavily, staggers to the door. After a moment's upward glance she opens it. The_ PRINCE OF BAIREUTH _comes in, wrapped in a white cloak_. HOTHAM _follows, carrying a pointed metal helmet, such as belonged to the Prussian uniform of that day. The helmet must not be seen at first_.

WILHELMINE.

What? Whom do I see?

ALL.

The Prince of Baireuth?

QUEEN.

Baronet, what does this mean? Where is the Prince of Wales?

HOTHAM.

Your Majesty, I am all astonishment. I have but just learned that the prince is now on a journey to Scotland.

ALL.

What's that?

QUEEN.

The Prince is not in Berlin?

HOTHAM.

While some trustworthy witnesses insist that the Prince was actually here, others again assert that he returned to England the very moment in which he realized that his patriotic interests--the interests of the cotton industry--could not be reconciled with the inclinations of his heart.

KING.

And what is the Prince of Baireuth doing here?

HOTHAM.

He seeks, as we do, the Prince of Wales, with whom he desires a duel to the death.

[_All exclaim_.]

KING.

A duel? And why?

HOTHAM.

Because this poor Prince of a tiny country does not begrudge the heir to a World-Power his fleet, his army, nor his treasures; but he refuses to yield _one_ treasure to him except at the price of his heart's blood--and that treasure is the hand of Princess Wilhelmine, whom he loves. [_General emotion_.]

KING.

Whom he loves? My daughter's hand? But does the Prince of Baireuth understand sword-craft?

[HOTHAM _takes off the_ PRINCE'S _cloak and places the helmet on his head. The_ PRINCE _stands there in the uniform of a grenadier of the period. His hair is braided into a long pigtail. He stands motionless in a military attitude_.]

KING.

What's this I see? The Prince of Baireuth a grenadier? With--_pigtail--and--sword_--?

HOTHAM.

The equipment of the young recruit of the Glasenapp Regiment. I have the honor to present him to Your Majesty before his departure for Pasewalk.

KING.

A German Prince, who deems it an honor to serve up from the ranks in my army? [_Commands_.] Battalion--left wheel! Battalion--forward march!

[PRINCE _executes manoeuvers and marches to_ WILHELMINE.]

KING.

Halt! [_To_ WILHELMINE] Is the enemy yonder disposed to accept the capitulation on this side?

WILHELMINE.

Until death!

KING.

Entire regiment--right wheel! Forward march--right, left, twenty-one, twenty-two--

[_All three march over to the_ QUEEN _who stands to the left of the room_.]

KING.

Halt!

WILHELMINE AND THE PRINCE (_kneeling at the_ QUEEN'S _feet_).

Mother!

KING.

There was no such order given.

PRINCE.

But it was the hearts' impulse.

HOTHAM (_good-naturedly, whispering to the_ QUEEN).

Your Majesty, won't you correct the mistakes of these two young recruits?

QUEEN.

Out of my sight, you traitor to your Royal House! Arise, Wilhelmine. [_To the_ KING, _hesitating_.] But we still have Austria....

KING.

But Austria hasn't us. The minions--eh, prince! Tomorrow there'll be dismissals--dismissals and pensionings! Well, mother, shall we take him for a son-in-law?

QUEEN.

On the condition that I--that I fix the amount of the dowry.

KING.

And also that you [_embracing the_ QUEEN] remain close to my heart. Now only Friedrich is lacking. And all this is the result of your--your cotton industries! Baronet Hotham? Thanks for this splendid recruit. [_In_ HOTHAM'S _ear, audibly_] How did he sober up so soon?

PRINCE.

I crave your forgiveness Your Majesty--I am still drunk with joy.

KING.

Forgiveness? For your speech, my son? If that which you have said shall one day be written into the book of history, then my old heart is quite content, and has but the wish that they might add: "With his Sword he would be King, but with his Pigtail--merely the first citizen of his State."

* * * * *

GERMAN LYRIC POETRY FROM 1830 to 1848

BY JOHN S. NOLLEN, PH.D.

President of Lake Forest College

The years from 1830 to 1848 were distinctively revolutionary years in Germany, which until then had remained strongly conservative. The spirit of political and social reformation, which had caused the great upheaval of the French Revolution late in the eighteenth century, had made itself felt much more slowly across the Rhine. Even the generous enthusiasm that animated the German people in the War of Liberation against Napoleon in 1813 had ebbed away into disappointment and lethargy when the German princes forgot their pledges of internal reform. The policy of the German and Austrian rulers was dominated by the reactionary Austrian Prime Minister, Prince Metternich, a consistent champion of aristocratic ideas and of the "divine right of Kings." The "Revolution of July," 1830, however, which overthrew the Bourbon dynasty in France, had its counterpart in popular movements that forced the granting of constitutions or other liberal concessions in several German states; and, though the policy of Metternich still remained dominant, the liberal sentiment grew in power until the February revolution of 1848 in Paris inspired similar upheavals in all Germany. Metternich himself was now compelled to retire, Frederick William IV. of Prussia granted his people a constitution, and the other German states seethed with revolt; but the great liberal plan to unify Germany under the leadership of Prussia was nullified by Frederick William's refusal to accept the imperial crown from a democratic assembly.

The lyric poetry of Germany in these years inevitably reflected the liberal sentiment of the time; it is always the radical emotion of any revolutionary period that finds the most effective lyric expression, the conservative state of mind being more characteristically prosaic. For the group of ardent spirits who made themselves the heralds of the new day, one of their number, the novelist and dramatist Karl Gutzkow, found the name "Young Germany." Just as the "Storm and Stress" of 1770 to 1780, and the Romantic movement of the opening nineteenth century, represented a spirit of sharp revolt against the then dominant pseudo-classicism and rationalism, so "Young Germany" reacted passionately against the moonlight sentimentality of the popular romantic poets, as well as against the stupid political conservatism of the time. The aim of the Young Germans was to bring literature down from the clouds into vital contact with the immediate problems of the day. Thus there was developed a body of literature strongly polemic in purpose, quite hostile to the ideals of detachment and disinterested worship of beauty that Goethe and Schiller in their classical period had preached and practised. This literature took the form of fiction, drama, and journalism, as well as of poetry. Indeed, the only important lyric poet of the Young German group was HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856), who had begun his career with the most intimate poetry of personal confession, in which the simplicity of the folk-song and the nature-feeling of the romanticist are strongly tinged with wit and cynicism. Heine's impatience with German conditions led him to expatriate himself, and from his retreat in Paris to aim venomous shafts of satire at his native land, with its "three dozen masters" and its philistine conservative nightcaps and dumplings. This brilliant poet, with his marvelous mastery of German lyric tones, expressed a wide range of poetic inspiration; but he loved particularly to conceive of himself as an apostle of liberty, an outpost of the revolutionary army, and none so well as he could tip the barb with biting sarcasm and satire. Heine's personality was full of seemingly inconsistent traits. He was both fanciful and rational, serious and flippant, tender and cynical, reverent and impious; and he could be at once a patriot and an alien. He was, to use his own phrase, an "unfrocked romanticist"--at once a brilliant representative of the poetry of self-expression and personal caprice, and an exemplar and prophet of a new ideal, the "holy alliance of poetry with the cause of the nations."

The different attitudes of thoughtful men toward the influences of the time were variously reflected in the work of three leading poets, all older than Heine, who contributed largely to the lyric output of the period. ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO (1781-1835), of aristocratic French descent, and using all the familiar romantic forms and motives, was yet thoroughly democratic and prophetically modern in his unalloyed sympathy with the impoverished victims of the social order. It was something new for German poetry to find inspiration in the wrath of a beggar who cannot pay his dog-tax, the sardonic piety of an old widow reduced to penury by the exactions of the "gracious prince," or the laborious resignation of an aged washerwoman.--The Silesian nobleman JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF (1788-1857), Prussian officer and civil official, was a consistent conservative in his political attitude, a pious Catholic, and a romanticist in every fibre of his poetic soul. His lyrics are the purest echoes of folk-song and folk-lore, and the simplicity and genuineness of his art give an undying charm to his songs of idyllic meadows and woodlands, post-chaises, carefree wanderers, and lovely maidens in picturesque settings; all suffused with gentle yearning and melting into soft melody. Eichendorff's patriotism was of the traditional type, echoing faintly the battle-hymns of the War of Liberation. For the great liberal movement of the thirties and forties he had neither sympathy nor comprehension.--FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT (1788-1866), endowed with a fatal facility of lyric expression, a virtuoso for whom no _tour-de-force_ was too difficult, lived most of his life aloof from the political and social movements of his time. In his youth his _Sonnets in Armor_ had done sturdy service in the national awakening against Napoleon, but his maturer years were devoted to domestic and academic interests. Every impression of his life, whether deep or fleeting, was material for a poem or a cycle. He handled with consummate skill the odd or complicated metres of eastern and southern lyric forms, and he was most versatile as a translator of foreign poetry, ancient and modern, occidental and oriental. His unusual formal talent and mastery of language were a constant temptation to rapid and superficial versifying; but there are in the vast mass of his production many genuine poems of great beauty.

Two other poets of quite distinctive quality stood aloof from the political interests of the time. The talented Westphalian Catholic poetess ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF (1797-1848) has a place apart in her generation, not only for the fine religious poems of her _Christian Year_ (similar in plan to Keble's cycle), but also for her nature-lyrics and songs of common life, which are marked by minute realistic detail and refreshing originality of observation and sentiment. This pious gentlewoman, usually so maidenly in her reserve, nevertheless expressed something of the spirit of emancipation in her quiet protest against the narrow conventional limits of the feminine life. But she would have recoiled with horror from the reckless propaganda for sex-freedom that was a part of the Young German campaign, as she also repudiated the violence of the revolutionists of 1848.--If there is something masculine in Fräulein von Droste's firm and plastic touch, there is something almost feminine in the finely-chiseled lyrics of the Protestant pastor EDUARD MÖRIKE (1804-1875), whose _Poems_ appeared in the same year (1838), and blended the folk-song simplicity and melody of an Eichendorff with the classical form-sense of a Keats. This Suabian country vicar, the youngest member of the group about Uhland, lived in the utmost serenity amid the troubles of revolutionary agitation, devoted to his art, turning the common experiences of every day into forms of beauty, or reviving with charming naïveté the romantic figures of medieval poetry.

We emerge completely from the quietude and piety of these individualists when we come to a group of men who were distinctively political poets. Here we find the direct lyric expression of the revolutionary movement. The first in the field was ANASTASIUS GRÜN (the pen-name of Count Anton von Auersperg, 1806-1876). This Austrian nobleman boldly attacked the reactionary policy of Metternich in his _Saunterings of a Viennese Poet_ (1831); with biting irony he pictures the fate of the Greek patriot Hypsilantes, broken in health by the "hospitality" of Austrian prison-fortresses, or describes the all-powerful minister-of-state enjoying his social triumphs in the palace ball-room, while Austria stands outside the gate vainly pleading for liberty. In another collection entitled _Debris_ (1836) there are whole-hearted protests against the political martyrdom of the best patriots, and the oppressive despotism under which Italy groaned, with which Grün contrasts the blessings of liberty in America.

Anastasius Grün was the forerunner. The period of the real dominance of political poetry began with 1840, when a petty official in a Rhenish village, Nikolaus Becker, electrified Germany with a martial poem, _The German Rhine_, inspired by French threats of war with Prussia and of the conquest of the Rhine territory. The same events inspired Max Schneckenburger's _Wacht am Rhein_, which at the time could not compete in popularity with Becker's poem, but in later years has quite supplanted it as a permanent national song. German officialdom, which had looked askance at all political poetry, easily saw the value to the national defense of such patriotic strains, and now encouraged these national singers with gifts and honors. But political poetry could not be kept within officially recognized bounds. Inevitably it became partisan and revolutionary in character. HEINRICH HOFFMANN (who styled himself VON FALLERS-LEBEN after his birthplace; 1798-1874), one of the most prolific lyric poets of Germany, had the knack of expressing the common feeling in poems that became genuine national songs; the most famous of these, _Deutschland, Deutschland über alles_ (1841), is still sung wherever those who love Germany congregate. But from this expression of the common German tradition Hoffmann went on to espouse the liberal cause, and he had his taste of martyrdom when he lost his professorship at Breslau because of his ironical _Unpolitical Songs_ (1840-42). Hoffmann was essentially an improviser, and sang only too copiously in all the tones and fashions of German verse.

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH (1810-1876) gained immediate fame with the brilliant color and tropical exuberance of his early oriental lyrics, of which the much-declaimed _Lion's Ride_ is an excellent example. But Freiligrath's strongest work was in the field of political poetry. He, too, made sacrifices for the faith that was in him; he gave up a royal pension and twice went into voluntary exile in order to be free to express his liberal sentiments. He began, indeed, with the denial of any partisan bias; but when the Revolution of 1848 broke, no other poet found more daring and eloquent words for the spirit of revolt and of democratic enthusiasm than Freiligrath. And when the war of 1870 again brought new hope of German unity, Freiligrath sang in stirring measures this national awakening.

GEORG HERWEGH (1817-1875), also driven into exile by his opposition to the government, created a sensation with his _Poems of the Living_ (1841), which in ringing refrains incited to revolutionary action. But when the deed followed the word, and Herwegh led an invading column of laborers into Baden in 1848, he lacked the courage of the martyr and fled from the peril of death. _GOTTFRIED KINKEL_ (1815-1882) also took part in the insurrection in Baden, was captured, and condemned to life imprisonment, but escaped with the aid of Carl Schurz in 1850. FRANZ DINGELSTEDT (1814-1881), on the other hand, found his sarcastic _Songs of a Political Night-Watchman_ (1842) no bar to appointment as director of the theatres of Munich, Weimar and Vienna.

While the poets of the revolution were busily at work, the conservatives were not altogether voiceless; nor were the notes of the romantic lyric silenced. Indeed, men like Hoffmann, Herwegh, and Kinkel could not deny the strong influence of the romantic motives and tones upon much of their best poetry. One lyrist greater than any of them was dominated by the romantic tradition--an Austrian nobleman of mingled German, Slavonic and Hungarian blood, NIKOLAUS LENAU (the pen-name of Nikolaus Franz Niembsch Edler von Strehlenau, 1802-1850). A gifted musician, Lenau was also a master of the melody of words, and his nature-feeling was unusually deep and true. Abnormally proud, self-centred and sensitive as he was, Lenau was born to unhappiness and disillusionment; his journey to America, begun with the most generous anticipations, ended in homesickness and bitter disappointment. Before he had reached middle life, his genius went out in the darkness of insanity. The picturesque and the tragic fascinated Lenau; he could sing with genuine sympathy the fate of dismembered Poland, or the lawless freedom of Hungarian rebels and gipsies; but for the great political movements of the day he had little regard. In the melodious interpretation of nature in sad and quiet moods he had no rival.

Very different was the wholesome and chivalrous nature of the young Moravian Count MORITZ VON STRACHWITZ (1822-1847), whose ballads are unmatched in German literature for spirit and fire. Strachwitz despised the democratic agitation of the revolutionists, and sang with fine enthusiasm the coming of the strong man, who, after all the intrigues of the demagogues, like another Alexander should cut the Gordian knot with the sword.

With EMANUEL GEIBEL (1815-1884) we come to the voice of fair compromise between the extremes. Geibel was a conservative liberal, honestly patriotic without partisanship. Thus his _Twelve Sonnets for Schleswig-Holstein_ (1846) were broadly German in inspiration, and his love of liberty was matched by his aristocratic hatred of the mob. Geibel succeeded in once more gaining the widest popularity, in days filled with partisan clamor, for the pure lyric of romantic inspiration. He was in a true sense the poet-laureate of his generation. Lacking in real originality, he was yet sincere in the expression of his emotion, and his faultless form clothed the utterance of a soul of rare purity and nobility.

As in the days after the War of Liberation, so in the years following the revolutionary movements of 1848, the generous hopes of the people seemed doomed to perish in weariness and disappointment, and the voice of democratic poetry was silenced. In the reaction that followed the intoxication of liberal enthusiasm, with the failure of the attempt to unify Germany under Prussian leadership, the German lands relapsed into dull acquiescence in the old regime. But the seed of the new day had been sown, and the harvest came in due time. Strachwitz's intuition was justified; the strong man did appear, in the person of Bismarck, and the "Gordian knot" was cut with the sword of the war of 1870. But the liberal dream of 1848 was realized, also, in the creation of a unified and powerful German Empire on a constitutional basis.

* * * * *

ANASTASIUS GRÜN

A SALON SCENE[14] (1831)

Evening: In the festive halls the light of many candles gleams,
Shedding from the mirrors' crystal thousand-fold reflected beams.
In the sea of light are gliding, with a stately, solemn air,
Honored, venerable matrons, ladies young and very fair.

And among them wander slowly, clad in festive garments grand,
Here the valiant sons of battle, there the rulers of the land.
But on one that I see moving every eye is fixed with fear--
Few indeed among the chosen have the courage to draw near.

He it is by whose firm guidance Austrians' fortunes rise or sink,
He who in the Princes' Congress for them all must act and think.
But behold him now! How gracious, courteous, gentle he's to all,
And how modest, unassuming, and how kind to great and small!

In the light his orders sparkle with a faint and careless grace,
But a friendly, gentle smile is always playing on his face
When he plucks the ruddy rose leaves that some rounded bosom wears,
Or when, like to withered blossoms, kingdoms he asunder tears.

Equally enchanting is it, when he praises golden curls,
Or when, from anointed heads, the royal crowns away he hurls.
Yes, methinks 'tis heavenly rapture, which delights the happy man
Whom his words to Elba's fastness or to Munkacs' prison ban.

Could all Europe now but see him, so engaging, so gallant,
How the ladies, young and old, his winning smiles delight, enchant;
How the church's pious clergy, and the doughty men of war,
And the state's distinguished servants by his grace enraptured are.

Man of state and man of counsel, since you're in a mood so kind,
Since you're showing to all present such a gracious frame of mind,
See, without, a needy client standing waiting at your door
Whom the slightest sign of favor will make happy evermore.

And you do not need to fear him; he's intelligent and fair;
Hidden 'neath his homely garments, knife nor dagger does he wear.
'Tis the Austrian people, open, honest, courteous as can be.
See, they're pleading: "May we ask you for the freedom to be free?"

* * * * *

NIKOLAUS LENAU

PRAYER[15] (1832)

Eye of darkness, dim dominioned,
Stay, enchant me with thy might,
Earnest, gentle, dreamy-pinioned,
Sweet, unfathomable night.

With magician's mantle cover
All this day-world from my sight,
That for aye thy form may hover
O'er my being, lovely night.

* * * * *

SEDGE SONGS[16] (1832)

I

In the west the sun departing
Leaves the weary day asleep,
And the willows trail their streamers
In these waters still and deep.

Flow, my bitter tears, flow ever;
All I love I leave behind;
Sadly whisper here the willows,
And the reed shakes in the wind.

Into my deep lonely sufferings
Tenderly you shine afar,
As athwart these reeds and rushes
Trembles soft yon evening star.

II

Oft at eve I love to saunter
Where the sedge sighs drearily,
By entangled hidden footpaths,
Love! and then I think of thee.

When the woods gloom dark and darker,
Sedges in the night-wind moan,
Then a faint mysterious wailing
Bids me weep, still weep alone.

And methinks I hear it wafted,
Thy sweet voice, remote yet clear,
Till thy song, descending slowly,
Sinks into the silent mere.

III

Angry sunset sky,
Thunder-clouds o'erhead,
Every breeze doth fly,
Sultry air and dead.

From the lurid storm
Pallid lightnings break,
Their swift transient form
Flashes through the lake.

And I seem to see
Thyself, wondrous nigh--
Streaming wild and free
Thy long tresses fly.

* * * * *

SONGS BY THE LAKE[17] (1832)

I

In the sky the sun is failing,
And the weary day would sleep,
Here the willow fronds are trailing
In the water still and deep.

From my darling I must sever:
Stream, oh tears, stream forth amain!
In the breeze the rushes quiver
And the willow sighs in pain.

On my soul in silence grieving
Mild thou gleamest from afar,
As through rushes interweaving
Gleams the mirrored evening star.

IV

Sunset dull and drear;
Dark the clouds drive past;
Sultry, full of fear,
All the winds fly fast.

Through the sky's wild rack
Shoots the lightning pale;
O'er the waters black
Burns its flickering trail.

In the vivid glare
Half I see thy form,
And thy streaming hair
Flutters in the storm.

V

On the lake as it reposes
Dwells the moon with glow serene
Interweaving pallid roses
With the rushes' crown of green.

Stags from out the hillside bushes
Gaze aloft into the night,
Waterfowl amid the rushes
Vaguely stir with flutterings light

Down my tear-dim glance I bend now,
While through all my soul a rare
Thrill of thought toward thee doth tend now
Like an ecstasy of prayer.

* * * * *

THE POSTILION[18] (1833)

Passing lovely was the night,
Silver clouds flew o'er us,
Spring, methought, with splendor dight
Led the happy chorus.

Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale,
Empty now each by-way;
No one but the moonlight pale
Roamed upon the highway.

Breezes wandering in the gloom
Soft their footsteps numbered
Through Dame Nature's sleeping-room
Where her children slumbered.

Timidly the brook stole by,
While the beds of blossom
Breathed their perfume joyously
On the still night's bosom.

My postilion, heedless all,
Cracked his whip most gaily,
And his merry trumpet-call
Rang o'er hill and valley.

Hoofs beat steadily the while,
As the horses gamboled,
And along the shady aisle
Spiritedly rambled.

Grove and meadow gliding past
Vanished at a glimmer:
Peaceful towns were gone as fast,
Like to dreams that shimmer.

Midway in the Maytide trance
Tombs were shining whitely;
'Twas the churchyard met our glance--
None might view it lightly.

Close against the mountain braced
Ran the long white wall there,
And the cross, in sorrow placed,
Silent rose o'er all there.

Jehu straight, his humor spent,
Left his tuneful courses;
On the cross his gaze he bent
Then pulled up his horses.

"Here's where horse and coach must wait--
You may think it odd, sir:--
But up yonder, lies my mate
Underneath the sod, sir.

"Better lad was never born--
(Sir 'twas God's own pity!)
No one else could blow the horn
Half as shrill and pretty.

"So I stop beside the wall
Every time I pass here,
And I blow his favorite call
To him under grass here."

Toward the churchyard then he blew
One call after other,
That they might go ringing through
To his sleeping brother.

From the cliff each lively note
Echoing resounded,
As it were the dead man's throat
Answering strains had sounded.

On we went through field and hedge,
Loosened bridles jingling;
Long that echo from the ledge
In my ear kept tingling.

* * * * *

TO THE BELOVED FROM AFAR[19] (1838)

His sweet rose here oversea
I must gather sadly;
Which, beloved, unto thee
I would bring how gladly!

But alas! if o'er the foam
I this flower should carry,
It would fade ere I could come;
Roses may not tarry.

Farther let no mortal fare
Who would be a wooer,
Than unwithered he may bear
Blushing roses to her,

Or than nightingale may fly
For her nesting grasses,
Or than with the west wind's sigh
Her soft warbling passes.

* * * * *

THE THREE GIPSIES[20]

Three gipsy men I saw one day
Stretched out on the grass together,
As wearily o'er the sandy way
My wagon brushed the heather.

The first of the three was fiddling there
In the glow of evening pallid,
Playing a wild and passionate air,
The tune of some gipsy ballad.

From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,
He watched them melt at his leisure.
So full of content, it seemed the world
Had naught to add to his pleasure.

And what of the third?--He was fast asleep,
His harp to a bough confided;
The breezes across the strings did sweep,
A dream o'er his heart-strings glided.

The garb of all was worn and frayed,
With tatters grotesquely mended;
But flouting the world, and undismayed,
The three with fate contended.

They showed me how, by three-fold scoff,
When cares of life perplex us,
To smoke, or sleep, or fiddle them off,
And scorn the ills that vex us.

I passed them, but my gaze for long
Dwelt on the trio surly--
Their dark bronze features sharp and strong,
Their loose hair black and curly.

* * * * *

MY HEART[21] (1844)

Sleepless night, the rushing rain,
While my heart with ceaseless pain
Hears the mournful past subsiding
Or the uncertain future striding.

Heart, 'tis fatal thus to harken,
Let not fear thy courage darken,
Though the past be all regretting
And the future helpless fretting.

Onward, let what's mortal die.
Is the storm near, beat thou high.
Who came safe o'er Galilee
Makes the voyage now in thee.

* * * * *

EDUARD MÖRIKE

AN ERROR CHANCED[22] (1824)

An error chanced in the moonlight garden
Of a once inviolate love.
Shuddering I came on an outworn deceit,
And with sorrowing look, yet cruel,
Bade I the slender
Enchanting maiden
Leave me and wander far.
Alas! her lofty forehead
Was bowed, for she loved me well;
Yet did she go in silence
Into the dim gray
World outside.

Sick since then,
Wounded and woeful heart!
Never shall it be whole.

Meseems that, spun of the air, a thread of magic
Binds her yet to me, an unrestful bond;
It draws, it draws me faint with love toward her.
Might it yet be some day that on my threshold
I should find her, as erst, in the morning twilight,
Her traveler's bundle beside her,
And her eye true-heartedly looking up to me,
Saying, "See, I've come back,
Back once more from the lonely world!"

* * * * *

A SONG FOR TWO IN THE NIGHT[23] (1825)

_She_. How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses
And, breathing music, through the woodland passes!
Now that the upstart day is dumb,
One hears from the still earth a whispering throng
Of forces animate, with murmured song
Joining the zephyrs' well-attunèd hum.

_He_. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming,
Which sensuous on the warm wind drifts to me,
While, streaked with misty light uncertainly,
The very heavens in the glow are swimming.

_She_. The air like woven fabric seems to wave,
Then more transparent and more lustrous groweth;
Meantime a muted melody outgoeth
From happy fairies in their purple cave.
To sphere-wrought harmony
Sing they, and busily
The thread upon their silver spindles floweth.

_He_. Oh lovely night! how effortless and free
O'er samite black-though green by day--thou movest!
And to the whirring music that thou lovest
Thy foot advances imperceptibly.
Thus hour by hour thy step doth measure--
In trancèd self-forgetful pleasure
Thou'rt rapt; creation's soul is rapt with thee!

* * * * *

EARLY AWAY[24] (1828)

The morning frost shines gray
Along the misty field
Beneath the pallid way
Of early dawn revealed.

Amid the glow one sees
The day-star disappear;
Yet o'er the western trees
The moon is shining clear.

So, too, I send my glance
On distant scenes to dwell;
I see in torturing trance
The night of our farewell.

Blue eyes, a lake of bliss,
Swim dark before my sight,
Thy breath, I feel, thy kiss;
I hear thy whispering light.

My cheek upon thy breast
The streaming tears bedew,
Till, purple-black, is cast
A veil across my view.

The sun comes out; he glows,
And straight my dreams depart,
While from the cliffs he throws
A chill across my heart.

* * * * *

THE FORSAKEN MAIDEN[25] (1829)

Early when cocks do crow
Ere the stars dwindle,
Down to the hearth I go,
Fire must I kindle.

Fair leap the flames on high,
Sparks they whirl drunken;
I watch them listlessly
In sorrow sunken.

Sudden it comes to me,
Youth so fair seeming,
That all the night of thee
I have been dreaming.

Tears then on tears do run
For my false lover;
Thus has the day begun--
Would it were over!

* * * * *

WEYLA'S SONG[26] (1831)

Thou art Orplede, my land
Remotely gleaming;
The mist arises from thy sun-bright strand
To where the faces of the gods are beaming.

Primeval rivers spring renewed
Thy silver girdle weaving, child!
Before the godhead bow subdued
Kings, thy worshipers and watchers mild.

* * * * *

SECLUSION[27] (1832)

Let, oh world, ah let me be!
Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.
Leave alone this heart to treasure
All its joy, its misery.

What my grief I can not say,
'Tis a strange, a wistful sorrow;
Yet through tears at every morrow
I behold the light of day.

When my weary soul finds rest
Oft a beam of rapture brightens
All the gloom of cloud, and lightens
This oppression in my breast.

Let, oh world, all, let me be!
Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.
Leave alone this heart to treasure
All its joy, its misery.

* * * * *

THE SOLDIER'S BETROTHED[28] (1837)

Oh dear, if the king only knew
How brave is my sweetheart, how true!
He would give his heart's blood for the king,
But for me he would do the same thing.

My love has no ribbon or star,
No cross such as gentlemen wear,
A gen'ral he'll never become;
If only they'd leave him at home!

For stars there are three shining bright
O'er the Church of St. Mary each night;
We are bound by a rose-woven band,
And a house-cross is always at hand.

* * * * *

THE OLD WEATHERCOCK: AN IDYLL[29] (1840, 1852)

At Cleversulzbach in the Underland
A hundred and thirteen years did I stand
Up on the tower in wind and rain,
An ornament and a weathervane.
Through night and tempest gazing down,
Like a good old cock I watched the town.
The lightning oft my form has grazed,
The frost my scarlet comb o'erglazed,
And many a warm long summer's day,
In times when all seek shade who may,
The scorching sun with rage unslaked
My golden body well has baked.
So in my age all black I'd grown,
My beauteous glint and gleam was gone,
Till I at length, despised by all,
Was lifted from my pedestal.
Ah well! 'tis thus we run our race,
Another now must have my place.
Go strut, and preen, but don't forget
What court the wind will pay you yet!

Farewell, sweet landscape, mount and dell!
Vineyard and forest, fare ye well!
Belovèd tower, the roof's high ridge,
Churchyard and streamlet with its bridge;
Oh fountain, where the cattle throng
And sheep come trooping all day long,
With Hans to urge them on their way.
And Eva on the piebald gray!
Ye storks and swallows with your clatter,
And sparrows, how I'll miss your chatter!
For every bit of dirt seems dear
Which o'er my form you used to smear.
Goodby, my worthy friend the pastor,
And you, poor driveling old schoolmaster.
'Tis o'er, what cheered my heart so long.
The sound of organ, bells and song.

So from my, lofty perch I crew,
And would have sung much longer too,
When came a crooked devil's minion,
The slater 'twas in my opinion.
Who after many a knock and shake
Detached me wholly from my stake.
My poor old heart was broke at last
When from the roof he pulled me past
The bells which from their station glared
And on my fate in wonder stared,
But vexed themselves no more about me,
Thinking they'd hang as well without me.

Then to the scrap-heap I was brought,
For twopence by the blacksmith bought,
Which as he paid he said 'twas wonder
How much folk wanted for such plunder.
And there at noon of that same day
In grief before his hut I lay.
The time being May, a little tree
Shed snow-white blossoms over me,
While other chickens by the dozen
Unheeding cackled round their cousin.
'Twas then the pastor happened by,
Spoke to the smith, then smiling, "Hi!
And have you come to this, poor cock
A strange bird, Andrew, for your flock!
He'll hardly do to broil or roast;
For me though, I may fairly boast
Things must go hard if I've no place
For old church servants in hard case.
Bring him along then speedily
And drink a glass of wine with me."

The sooty lout with quick assent
Laughed, picked me up, and off we went.
A little more, and from my throat
Toward heaven I'd sent a joyous note.
Within the manse the strange new guest
Astounded all from most to least;
But soon each face, before afraid,
The glowing light of joy displayed.
Wife, maids and menfolks, girls and boys
Surrounded with a seven-fold noise
The giant rooster in the hall,
Welcoming, looking, handling all.
The man of God with jealous care
Took me himself and climbed the stair
To his own study, while the pack
Came stumbling after at his back.

Within these walls is peace enshrined!
Entering, we left the world behind.
I seemed to breathe a magic air,
Essence of books and learning rare,
Geranium scent and mignonette,
And faint tobacco lingering yet.
(To me of course all this was new.)
An ancient stove I noticed, too,
In the left corner in full view.
Quite like a tower its bulk was raised
Until its peak the ceiling grazed,
With pillared strength and flowery grace,
O most delightful resting-place!
On the top wreath as on a mast
The blacksmith set me firm and fast.

Behold my stove with reverent eyes!
Cathedral-like its noble size;
With store of pictures overwrought,
And rhymes that tell of pious thought.
Of such I learned full many a word,
While the old stove from out its hoard
Would draw them forth for young and old,
When the snow fell and winds blew cold.
Here you may see where on the tile
Stands Bishop Hatto's towered isle,
While rats and mice on every side
Swim through the Rhine's opposing tide.
The armed grooms in vain wage war,

The host of tails grows more and more,
Till thousands ranged in close array
Leap from the walls on those at bay
And seize the bishop in his room:
An awful death is now his doom;
Devoured straightway shall he be
To pay the price of perjury.
--There too Belshazzar's banquet shines,
Voluptuous women, costly wines;
But in the amazèd sight of all
The dread hand writes upon the wall.
--Lastly the pictures represent
How Sarah listens in the tent
While God Almighty, come to earth,
Foretells to Abraham the birth
Of Isaac and his seed thereafter.
Sarah cannot restrain her laughter,
Since both are well advanced in years.
God asks when he the laughter hears:
"Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will,
And doubt if this he may fulfil?"
Her indiscretion to recall
She says, "I did not laugh at all."
Which commonly would be a lie;
But God prefers to pass it by,
Since 'tis not done with malice dark,
And she's a lady patriarch.

Now that I'm here, I think with reason
That winter is the fairest season
How smooth the daily current flows
To ev'ry week's belovèd close!
--Just about nine on Friday night,
Sole by the lamp's reposeful light
My master with a mind perplexed
Sets out to choose his Sunday text.
Before the stove a while he stands,
Walks to and fro with twisted hands,
And vainly struggles to determine
The theme on which to thread his sermon.
Now and again amid his doubt
He lifts the window and looks out.
--Oh cooling surge of starlit air,
Pour on my brow your tide so rare!
I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer,
And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer.
He sits him down to write at last,
Dips pen and makes the A and O,
Which o'er his "Preface" always go.
I meanwhile from my post on high
Ne'er from my master turn an eye,
Look at him now, with far-off gaze
Pondering, testing every phrase;
The snuffer once he seizes quick
And cleans of soot the flaming wick;
Then oft in deep abstraction, he
Murmurs a sentence audibly,
Which I with outstretched bill peck up
And fill with lore my eager crop.
So do we come by smooth gradation
To where begins the "Application."
"Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout.
My master hears and turns about.
"Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light,
Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!"
Alone in darkness then I'd be;
That has no terrors, though, for me.
Behind the wainscot sharply picking
I hear a while the death-clock ticking,
I hear the marten vainly scoop
The earth around the chicken-coop.
Along the eaves the night-wind brushes,
And through far trees the tempest rushes--

Bird Wood's the name that forest bears,
Where rude old Winter raves and tears.
Now splits a beech with such a crack
That all the valleys echo it back.
--My goodness! when these sounds I hear
I'm glad a pious stove's so near,
Which warms you so the long hours through
That night seems fraught with blessings too.
--Just now I well might feel afraid,
When thieves and murderers ply their trade;
'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are
Secured from harm by bolt and bar.
How could I call so men would hear me
If some one raised a ladder near me?
When thoughts like this attack my brain
The sweat runs down my back like rain.
At two, thank God! again at three,
A cock-crow rises clear and free,
And with the morning bell at five
My whole heart, now once more alive,
High in my breast with rapture springs,
When finally the watchman sings
"Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake,
For bright and fair the day doth break."

Soon after this, an hour at most,
My spurs are growing stiff with frost
When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,
And rakes the fire until it catches.
Then from below, quite savory too,
I scent the steam of onion stew.
At length my master enters gay,
Fresh for the business of the day.
On Saturday a worthy priest
Should keep his room, his house at least;
Not visit or distract his brain,
Turning his thoughts to things profane.
My master was not tempted so,
But once--don't let it out, you know--
He squandered all his precious wits
Making a titmouse trap for Fritz--
Right here, and talked and had a smoke;
To me, I'll own, it seemed a joke.

The blessed Sabbath now is here.
The church-bells call both far and near,
The organ sounds so loud to me
I think I'm in the sacristy.
There's not a soul in all the house;
I hear a fly, and then a mouse.
The sunlight now the window reaches
And through the cactus stems it stretches,
Fain o'er the walnut desk to glide,
Some ancient cabinet-maker's pride.
There it beholds with searching looks
Concordances and children's books,
On wafer-box and seal it dances
And lights the inkwell with its glances;
Across the sand it strikes its wedge,
Is cut upon the penknife's edge,
Across the armchair freely roams,
Then to the bookcase with its tomes.
There clad in parchment and in leather
The Suabian Fathers stand together:
Andrea, Bengel, Riegers two,
And Oetinger are well in view.
The sun each golden name reads o'er
And with a kiss he gilds yet more.
As Hiller's "Harp" his fingers touch--
Hark! does it ring? It lacks not much.

With that a spider slim and small
Begins upon my frame to crawl,
And, never asking my goodwill,
Suspends his web from neck to bill.
I don't disturb myself a whit,
Just wait and watch him for a bit.
For him it is a lucky hap
That I'm disposed to take a nap.--
But tell me now if anywhere
An old church cock might better fare.