Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845

The first specimen of our present selection is not properly German, nor is it the unsuggested and original product of Goethe's muse. We believe that it is an old ballad of Denmark; a country which possesses, next to Scotland, the richest and most interesting store of ancient ballad poetry in Europe. However, although originally Danish, it has received some touches in passing through the alembic of translation, which may warrant us in giving it a prominent place, and we are sure that no lover of hoar tradition will blame us for its insertion.

The Water-Man "Oh, mother! rede me well, I pray; How shall I woo me yon winsome May?" She has built him a horse of the water clear, The saddle and bridle of sea-sand were. He has donn'd the garb of knight so gay, And to Mary's Kirk he has ridden away. He tied his steed to the chancel door, And he stepp'd round the Kirk three times and four. He has boune him into the Kirk, and all Drew near to gaze on him, great and small. The priest he was standing in the quire; — "What gay young gallant comes branking here?" The winsome maid, to herself said she; — "Oh, were that gay young gallant for me!" He stepp'd o'er one stool, he stepp'd o'er two; "Oh, maiden, plight me thy oath so true!" He stepp'd o'er three stools, he stepp'd o'er four; "Wilt be mine, sweet May, for evermore?" She gave him her hand of the drifted snow — "Here hast thou my troth, and with thee I'll go." They went from the Kirk with the bridal train, They danced in glee, and they danced full fain; They danced them down to the salt-sea strand, And they left them there with hand in hand. "Now wait thee, love, with my steed so free, And the bonniest bark I'll bring for thee." And when they pass'd to the white, white sand, The ships came sailing towards the land; But when they were out in the midst of the sound, Down went they all in the deep profound! Long, long on the shore, when the winds were high, They heard from the waters the maiden's cry. I rede ye, damsels, as best I can — Tread not the dance with the Water-Man!

This is strong, pure, rugged Norse, scarcely inferior, we think, in any way, to the pitch of the old Scottish ballads.

Before we forsake the North, let us try "The King in Thule." We are unfortunate in having to follow in the wake of the hundred translators of Faust, some of whom (we may instance Lord Francis Egerton) have already rendered this ballad as perfectly as may be; nevertheless we shall give it, as Shakspeare says, "with a difference."

The King in Thule There was a king in Thule, Was true till death I ween: A vase he had of the ruddy gold, The gift of his dying queen. He never pass'd it from him — At banquet 'twas his cup; And still his eyes were fill'd with tears Whene'er he took it up. So when his end drew nearer, He told his cities fair, And all his wealth, except that cup, He left unto his heir. Once more he sate at royal board, The knights around his knee, Within the palace of his sires, Hard by the roaring sea. Up rose the brave old monarch, And drank with feeble breath, Then threw the sacred goblet down Into the flood beneath. He watch'd its tip reel round and dip, Then settle in the main; His eyes grew dim as it went down — He never drank again.

We shall now venture on an extravaganza which might have been well illustrated by Hans Holbein. It is in the ultra-Germanic taste, such as in our earlier days, whilst yet the Teutonic alphabet was a mystery, we conceived to be the staple commodity of our neighbours. We shall never quarrel with a wholesome spice of superstition; but, really, Hoffmann, Apel, and their fantastic imitators, have done more to render their national literature ridiculous, than the greatest poets to redeem it. The following poem of Goethe is a strange piece of sarcasm directed against that school, and is none the worse, perhaps, that it somewhat out-herods Herod in its ghostly and grim solemnity. Like many other satires, too, it verges closely upon the serious. We back it against any production of M. G. Lewis.

The Dance of Death The warder look'd down at the depth of night On the graves where the dead were sleeping, And, clearly as day, was the pale moonlight O'er the quiet churchyard creeping. One after another the gravestones began To heave and to open, and woman and man Rose up in their ghastly apparel! Ho — ho for the dance! — and the phantoms outsprung In skeleton roundel advancing, The rich and the poor, and the old and the young, But the winding-sheets hinder'd their dancing. No shame had these revellers wasted and grim, So they shook off the cerements from body and limb, And scatter'd them over the hillocks. They crook'd their thighbones, and they shook their long shanks, And wild was their reeling and limber; And each bone as it crosses, it clinks and it clanks Like the clapping of timber on timber. The warder he laugh'd, though his laugh was not loud; And the Fiend whisper'd to him — "Go, steal me the shroud Of one of these skeleton dancers." He has done it! and backward with terrified glance To the sheltering door ran the warder; As calm as before look'd the moon on the dance, Which they footed in hideous order. But one and another seceding at last, Slipp'd on their white garments and onward they pass'd, And the deeps of the churchyard were quiet. Still, one of them stumbles and tumbles along, And taps at each tomb that it seizes; But 'tis none of its mates that has done it this wrong, For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes. It shakes the tower gate, but that drives it away, For 'twas nail'd o'er with crosses — a goodly array — And well was it so for the warder! It must have its shroud — it must have it betimes — The quaint Gothic carving it catches, And upwards from story to story it climbs And scrambles with leaps and with snatches. Now woe to the warder, poor sinner, betides! Like a long-legged spider the skeleton strides From buttress to buttress, still upward! The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale, And gladly the shroud would have yielded! The ghost had its clutch on the last iron rail Which the top of the watch-turret shielded. When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud, One! thunder'd the bell, and unswathed by a shroud, Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing!

A very pleasant piece of poetry to translate at midnight, as we did it, with merely the assistance of a dying candle!

After this feast of horrors, something more fanciful may not come amiss. Let us pass to a competition of flowers in the golden, or — if you will have it so — the iron age of chivalry. The meditations of a captive knight have been a cherished theme for poets in all ages. Richard the Lion-heart of England, and James I. of Scotland, have left us, in no mean verse, the records of their own experience. We all remember how nobly and how well Felicia Hemans portrayed the agony of the crusader as he saw, from the window of his prison, the bright array of his Christian comrades defiling through the pass below. We shall now take a similar poem of Goethe, but one in a different vein: —

The Fairest Flower The Lay of the Captive Earl The Earl.— I know a floweret passing fair, And for its loss I pain me; Fain would I hence to seek its lair, But for these bonds that chain me. My woes are aught but light to me, For when I roam'd unbound and free That flower was ever near me. Adown and round the castle's steep, I let my glances wander; But cannot from the dizzy keep, Descry it, there or yonder. Oh, he who'd bring it to my sight, Or were he knave or were he knight, Should be my friend for ever! The Rose.— I blossom bright thy lattice near, And hear what thou hast spoken; 'Tis me — brave, ill-starr'd cavalier — The Rose, thou wouldst betoken! Thy spirit spurns the base, the low, And 'tis the queen of flowers, I know, That in thy bosom reigneth. The Earl.— All honour to thy purple cheer, From swathes of verdure blowing; And so art though to maidens dear, As gold or jewels glowing. Thy wreaths adorn the fairest face, Yet art thou not the flower, whose grace In solitude I cherish. The Lily.— A haughty place usurps the rose, And haughtier still doth covet; But where the lily meekly blows, Some gentle eye will love it. The heart that beats in faithful breast, And spotless is as my white vest, Must value me the highest. The Earl.— Spotless and true of heart am I, And free from sinful failing, Yet must I here a captive lie, In loneliness bewailing. I see an image fair in you Of many maidens pure and true, Yet know I something dearer. The Carnation.— That may thy warder's garden show In me, the bright carnation, Else would the old man tend me so With loving adoration? In perfect round my petals meet, And lifelong are with scent replete, And with a burning colour. The Earl.— None may the sweet carnation slight, It is the gardener's pleasure, Now he unfolds it to the light, Now shields from it his treasure. But no — the flower for which I pant, No rare, no brilliant charms can vaunt, 'Tis ever meek and lowly. The Violet.— Conceal'd and bending I retreat, Nor willingly had spoken, Yet that same silence, since 'tis meet, Shall now by me be broken. If I be that which fills thy thought Then must I grieve that I may not Waft every perfume to thee. The Earl.— I love the violet, indeed, So modest in perfection, So gently sweet — yet more I need To soothe my heart's dejection. To thee alone the truth I'll speak, That not upon this rock so bleak Is to be found my darling. In yon far vale, earth's truest wife Sits where the brooks run playing, And still must wear a woeful life Till I with her am straying. When a blue floweret by that spot She plucks, and says — FORGET-ME-NOT, I feel it here in bondage. Yes, when two truly love, its might They own and feel in distance, So I, within this dungeon's night, Cling ever to existence. And when my heart is nigh distraught, If I but say — FORGET-ME-NOT, Hope burns again within me!

Such is constant love — the light even of the dungeon! Nor, to the glory of human nature be it said, is this a fiction. Witness Picciola — witness those letters, perhaps the most touching that were ever penned, from poor Camille Desmoulins to his wife, while waiting for the summons to the guillotine — witness, above all, that fragment signed Quéret-Démery, which could not get beyond the sullen walls of the Bastile until fifty years after the agonizing request was preferred, when that torture-chamber of cruelty was razed indignantly to the ground — "If, for my consolation, Monseigneur would grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I could have news of my dear wife! were it only her name on a card to show that she is yet alive! It were the sweetest consolation I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of Monseigneur." Poetry has no such eloquence as this.

But we must not digress from our author. Here are a few lines of the deepest feeling and truth, and most appropriate in the hours of wretchedness —

Sorrow without Consolation O, wherefore shouldst thou try The tears of love to dry? Nay, let them flow! For didst thou only know, How barren and how dead Seems every thing below, To those who have not tears enough to shed,

Thou'd'st rather bid them weep, and seek their comfort so.

The following stanzas, though rather inferior in merit, may be taken as a companion to the above. Their structure reminds us of Cowley.

Comfort in Tears How is it that thou art so sad When others are so gay? Thou hast been weeping — nay, thou hast! Thine eyes the truth betray. "And if I may not choose but weep, Is not my grief mine own? No heart was heavier yet for tears — O leave me, friend, alone!" Come, join this once the merry band, They call aloud for thee, And mourn no more for what is lost, But let the past go free. "O, little know ye in your mirth What wrings my heart so deep! I have not lost the idol yet For which I sigh and weep." Then rouse thee and take heart! thy blood Is young and full of fire; Youth should have hope and might to win, And wear its best desire. "O, never may I hope to gain What dwells from me so far; It stands as high, it looks as bright, As yonder burning star." Why, who would seek to woo the stars Down from their glorious sphere? Enough it is to worship them, When nights are calm and clear. "Oh, I look up and worship too — My star it shines by day — Then let me weep the livelong light The whilst it is away."

A thread from the distaff of Omphale may be stronger than the club of Hercules. Here is an inconstant Romeo escaped from his Juliet, and yet unable to shake off the magnetic spell which must haunt him to his dying day.

To a Golden Heart Pledge of departed bliss, Once gentlest, holiest token! Art thou more faithful than thy mistress is, That ever I must wear thee, And on my bosom bear thee, Although the bond that knit her soul with mine is broken? Why shouldest thou prove stronger? Short are the days of love, and wouldst thou make them longer? Lili! in vain I shun thee! Thy spell is still upon me. In vain I wander through the distant forests strange, In vain I roam at will By foreign glade and hill, For, ah! where'er I range, Beside my heart, the heart of Lili nestles still! Like a bird that breaks its twine, Is this poor heart of mine: It fain into the summer bowers would fly, And yet it cannot be Again so wholly free; For always it must bear The token which is there, To mark it as a thrall of past captivity.

Here, again, is Romeo before his escape. Poor Juliet! may we hope that she still has, and may long possess, the power

"To lure this tassel-gentle back again."

Death, indeed, were a gentler fate than desertion. Truth to say, Goethe would have made but a sorry Romeo, for he wanted the great and leading virtue of constancy; and yet who can tell what Romeo might have become, after six months' exile in Mantua? Juliet, we know, had taken the place of Rosaline. Might not some fairer and newer star have arisen to eclipse the image of the other? We will not credit the heresy. Far better that the curtain should fall upon the dying lovers, before one shadow of doubt or suspicion of infidelity has arisen to perplex the clear bright mirror of their souls!

Welcome and Departure To horse! — away o'er hill and steep! Into the saddle blithe I sprung; The eve was cradling earth to sleep, And night upon the mountains hung. With robes of mist around him set, The oak like some huge giant stood, While, with its hundred eyes of jet, Peer'd darkness from the tangled wood. Amidst a bank of clouds, the moon A sad and troubled glimmer shed; The wind its chilly wings unclosed, And whistled wildly round my head. Night framed a thousand phantoms dire, Yet did I never droop nor start; Within my veins what living fire! What quenchless glow within my heart! We met; and from thy glance a tide Of stifling joy flow'd into me: My heart was wholly by thy side, My every breath was breathed for thee. A blush was there, as if thy cheek The gentlest hues of spring had caught, And smiles so kind for me! — Great powers! I hoped, yet I deserved them not! But morning came to end my bliss; A long, a sad farewell we took. What joy — what rapture in thy kiss, What depth of anguish in thy look! I left thee, dear! but after me Thine eyes through tears look'd from above; Yet to be loved — what ecstacy! What ecstacy, ye gods, to love!

Here are three small cabinet pictures of exquisite finish. We have laboured hard to do justice to them, for the smallest gems are the most difficult to copy; yet after all we have some doubts of our success.

Evening Peace breathes along the shade Of every hill, The tree-tops of the glade Are hush'd and still; All woodland murmurs cease, The birds to rest within the brake are gone. Be patient, weary heart — anon, Thou, too, shalt be at peace! A Calm at Sea Lies a calm along the deep, Like a mirror sleeps the ocean, And the anxious steersman sees Round him neither stir nor motion. Not a breath of wind is stirring, Dread the hush as of the grave — In the weary waste of waters Not the lifting of a wave. The Breeze The mists they are scatter'd, The blue sky looks brightly, And Eolus looses The wearisome chain! The winds, how they whistle! The steersman is busy — Hillio-ho, hillio-ho! We dash through the billows — They flash far behind us — Land, land, boys, again!

In one of Goethe's little operas, which are far less studied than they deserve, although replete with grace, melody, and humour, we stumbled upon a ballad which we at once recognised as an old acquaintance. Some of our readers may happen to recollect the very witty and popular ditty called "Captain Wedderburn's Courtship," a peculiar favourite amongst the lower orders in Scotland, but not, so far as we knew, transplanted from its native soil. Our surprise, therefore, was great when we discovered Captain Wedderburn dressed out in the garb of a Junker of the middle ages, and "bonny Girzie Sinclair," the Laird of Roslin's daughter, masquerading as a German Fraülein. The coincidence, if it be not plagiary, is so curious, that we have translated the ballad with a much freer hand than usual, confessing at the same time that the advantage, in point of humour and gallantry, is clearly on the side of the old Mid-Lothian ditty.

The Cavalier's Choice It was a gallant cavalier Of honour and renown, And all to seek a ladye-love He rode from town to town. Till at a widow-woman's door He drew the rein so free; For at her side the knight espied Her comely daughters three. Well might he gaze upon them, For they were fair and tall; Ye never have seen fairer In bower nor yet in hall. Small marvel if the gallant's heart Beat quicker in his breast: 'Twas hard to choose, and hard to lose — How might he wale the best? "Now, maidens, pretty maidens mine, Who'll rede me riddles three? And she who answers best of all Shall be my own ladye!" I ween they blush'd as maidens do When such rare words they hear — "Now speak thy riddles, if thou wilt, Thou gay young Cavalier!" "What's longer than the longest path? First tell ye that to me; And tell me what is deeper Than is the deepest sea? And tell me what is louder Than is the loudest horn? And tell me what is sharper Than is the sharpest thorn? "And tell me what is greener Than greenest grass on hill? And tell me what is crueller Than a wicked woman's will?" The eldest and the second maid, They sat and thought awhile; But the youngest she look'd upward, And spoke with merry smile. "O, love is surely longer far Than the longest paths that be; And hell, they say, is deeper Than is the deepest sea; And thunder it is louder Than is the loudest horn; And hunger it is sharper Than is the sharpest thorn; I know a deadly poison More green than grass on hill; And the foul fiend he is crueller Than any woman's will!" Scarce had the maiden spoken When the youth was by her side, And, all for what she answer'd him, Has claim'd her as his bride. The eldest and the second maid, They ponder'd and were dumb; And there, perchance, are waiting yet Till another wooer come. Then, maidens, take this warning word, Be neither slow nor shy, And always, when a lover speaks, Look kindly and reply.

The following beautiful verses are from Wilhelm Meister. We shall venture to call them

Retribution He that with tears did never eat his bread, He that hath never lain through night's long hours, Weeping in bitter anguish on his bed — He knows ye not, ye dread celestial powers. Ye lead us onwards into life. Ye leave The wretch to fall, then yield him up, in woe, Remorse, and pain, unceasingly to grieve; For every sin is punished here below.

We shall close this number with a series of poems, in imitation, or rather after the manner of the antique, all of which possess singular beauty. No man understood or appreciated the exquisite delicacy of the Greek Anthology better than our author; and although we may, in several of the versions, have fallen short of the originals, we trust that enough still remains to convince the reader that we have not exaggerated their merit.