The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

TO MY MOTHER

122  I have been wont to bear my head on high,    Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;    Yea, though a king should gaze on me, I ween,  I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.  But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:    When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,    At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,  I feel the shudder of humility.  Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,  Thy lofty soul that pierces all things through  And speeds on lightning wings to heaven's blue?  Or am I racked by what my memories tell  Of frequent deeds which caused thy heart to swell—  That beauteous heart which loved me, ah! too well.223  With foolish fancy I deserted thee;  I fain would search the whole world through to learn  If in it I perchance could love discern,  That I might love embrace right lovingly.  I sought for love as far as eye could see,  My hands extending at each door in turn,  Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—  Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.  And ever search'd I after love; yes, ever  Search'd after love, but love discover'd never,  And so I homeward went with troubled thought;  But thou wert there to welcome me again,  And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then  That was the sweet love I so long had sought.* * * * *

POOR PETER24 (1822)

1  Grete and Hans come dancing by,    They shout for very glee;  Poor Peter stands all silently,    And white as chalk is he.  Grete and Hans were wed this morn,    And shine in bright array;  But ah, poor Peter stands forlorn,    Dressed for a working-day.  He mutters, as with wistful eyes    He gazes at them still:  "'Twere easy—were I not too wise—    To do myself some ill…."2  "An aching sorrow fills my breast,    My heart is like to break;  It leaves me neither peace nor rest,    And all for Grete's sake.  "It drives me to her side, as though    She still could comfort me;  But in her eyes there's something now    That makes me turn and flee.  "I climb the highest hilltop where    I am at least alone;  And standing in the stillness there    I weep and make my moan."3  Poor Peter wanders slowly by;  So pale is he, so dull and shy,  The very neighbors in the street  Turn round to gaze, when him they meet.  The maids speak low: "He looks, I ween,  As though the grave his bed had been."  Ah no, good maids, ye should have said  "The grave will soon become his bed."  He lost his sweetheart—so, may be,  The grave is best for such as he;  There he may sleep the years away,  And rest until the Judgment-day.* * * * *

THE TWO GRENADIERS25 (1822)

  To France were traveling two grenadiers,    From prison in Russia returning,  And when they came to the German frontiers,    They hung down their heads in mourning.  There came the heart-breaking news to their ears    That France was by fortune forsaken;  Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers,    And Napoleon, Napoleon was taken.  Then wept together those two grenadiers    O'er their country's departed glory;  "Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears,    "My old wound—how it burns at the story!"  The other said: "The end has come,    What avails any longer living  Yet have I a wife and child at home,    For an absent father grieving.  "Who cares for wife? Who cares for child?    Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken;  Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild,    For Napoleon, Napoleon is taken!  "Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer,    When death my eyes is closing:  Take me to France, and bury me there;    In France be my ashes reposing.  "This cross of the Legion of Honor bright,    Let it lie near my heart, upon me;  Give me my musket in my hand,    And gird my sabre on me.  "So will I lie, and arise no more,    My watch like a sentinel keeping,  Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar,    And the squadrons above me sweeping.  "Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave,    With their eagles o'er him bending,  And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave,    Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"* * * * *

BELSHAZZAR26 (1822)

  To midnight now the night drew on;  In slumber deep lay Babylon.  The King's house only was all aflare,  For the King's wild crew were at revel there.  Up there in the King's own banquet hall,  Belshazzar held royal festival.  The satraps were marshaled in glittering line  And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.  The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras  in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.  The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed,  The wine made swell his heart with pride.  Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred,  And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,  And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd  Of servile courtiers applauding loud.  The King commanded with haughty stare;  The slave was gone, and again was there.  Much wealth of gold on his head bare he;  'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.  And the King took hold of a sacred cup  With his impious hand, and they filled it up;  And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught,  And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:  "Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon;  I am the King of Babylon!"  But scarce had the awful words been said  When the King's heart withered with secret dread.  The boisterous laughter was stifled all,  And corpselike still did wax the hall;  Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came  The likeness of a man's hand in flame,  And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,  And wrote and vanished, and no more came.  The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,  With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,  The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred;  They sat like statues, without a word.  The Magians came; but none of them all  Could read those letters of flame on the wall.  But in that same night of his vaunting vain  By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.* * * * *

THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR27 (1823)

1  The mother stood at the window;    Her son lay in bed, alas!  "Will you not get up, dear William,    To see the procession pass?"  "O mother, I am so ailing,    I neither can hear nor see;  I think of my poor dead Gretchen,    And my heart grows faint in me."  "Get up, we will go to Kevlaar;    Your book and your rosary take;  The Mother of God will heal you,    And cure your heart of its ache."  The Church's banners are waving,    They are chanting a hymn divine;  'Tis at Köln is that procession,    At Köln upon the Rhine.  With the throng the mother follows;    Her son she leads with her; and now  They both of them sing in the chorus,    "Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"2  The Mother of God at Kevlaar    Is drest in her richest array;  She has many a cure on hand there,    Many sick folk come to her today.  And her, for their votive offerings,    The suffering sick folk greet  With limbs that in wax are molded,    Many waxen hands and feet.  And whoso a wax hand offers,    His hand is healed of its sore;  And whoso a wax foot offers,    His foot it will pain him no more.  To Kevlaar went many on crutches    Who now on the tight-rope bound,  And many play now on the fiddle    Had there not one finger sound.  The mother she took a wax taper,    And of it a heart she makes  "Give that to the Mother of Jesus,    She will cure thee of all thy aches."  With a sigh her son took the wax heart,    He went to the shrine with a sigh;  His words from his heart trickle sadly,    As trickle the tears from his eye.  "Thou blest above all that are blest,    Thou virgin unspotted divine,  Thou Queen of the Heavens, before thee    I lay all my anguish and pine.  "I lived with my mother at Köln,    At Köln in the town that is there,  The town that has hundreds many    Of chapels and churches fair.  "And Gretchen she lived there near us,  But now she is dead, well-a-day!  O Mary! a wax heart I bring thee,    Heal thou my heart's wound, I pray!  "Heal thou my heart of its anguish,    And early and late, I vow,  With its whole strength to pray and to sing, too,    'Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!'"3  The suffering son and his mother    In their little bed-chamber slept;  Then the Mother of God came softly,    And close to the sleepers crept.  She bent down over the sick one,    And softly her hand did lay  On his heart, with a smile so tender,    And presently vanished away.  The mother sees all in her dreaming,    And other things too she marked;  Then up from her slumber she wakened,    So loudly the town dogs barked.  There lay her son, to his full length    Stretched out, and he was dead;  And the light on his pale cheek flitted    Of the morning's dawning red.  She folded her hands together,    She felt as she knew not how,  And softly she sang and devoutly,    "Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"* * * * *

THE RETURN HOME (1823-24)

128  Once upon my life's dark pathway    Gleamed a phantom of delight;  Now that phantom fair has vanished,    I am wholly wrapt in night.  Children in the dark, they suffer    At their heart a spasm of fear;  And, their inward pain to deaden,    Sing aloud, that all may hear.  I, a madcap child, now childlike    In the dark to sing am fain;  If my song be not delightsome,    It at least has eased my pain.229  We sat at the fisherman's cottage,    And gazed upon the sea;  Then came the mists of evening,    And rose up silently.  The lights within the lighthouse    Were kindled one by one,  We saw still a ship in the distance    On the dim horizon alone.  We spoke of tempest and shipwreck,    Of sailors and of their life,  And how 'twixt clouds and billows    They're tossed, 'twixt joy and strife.  We spoke of distant countries    From North to South that range,  Of strange fantastic nations,    And their customs quaint and strange.  The Ganges is flooded with splendor,    And perfumes waft through the air,  And gentle people are kneeling    To Lotos flowers fair.  In Lapland the people are dirty,    Flat-headed, large-mouthed, and small;  They squat round the fire and, frying    Their fishes, they shout and they squall.  The girls all gravely listened,    Not a word was spoken at last;  The ship we could see no longer,    Darkness was settling so fast.330  You lovely fisher-maiden,    Bring now the boat to land;  Come here and sit beside me,    We'll prattle hand in hand.  Your head lay on my bosom,    Nor be afraid of me;  Do you not trust all fearless    Daily the great wild sea?  My heart is like the sea, dear,    Has storm, and ebb, and flow,  And many purest pearl-gems    Within its dim depth glow.431  My child, we were two children,    Small, merry by childhood's law;  We used to creep to the henhouse,    And hide ourselves in the straw.  We crowed like cocks, and whenever    The passers near us drew—  "Cock-a-doodle!" They thought    'Twas a real cock that crew.  The boxes about our courtyard    We carpeted to our mind,  And lived there both together—    Kept house in a noble kind.  The neighbor's old cat often    Came to pay us a visit;  We made her a bow and courtesy,    Each with a compliment in it.  After her health we asked,    Our care and regard to evince—  (We have made the very same speeches    To many an old cat since).  We also sat and wisely    Discoursed, as old folks do,  Complaining how all went better    In those good old times we knew—  How love, and truth, and believing    Had left the world to itself,  And how so dear was the coffee,    And how so rare was the pelf.  The children's games are over,    The rest is over with youth—  The world, the good games, the good times,    The belief, and the love, and the truth.532  E'en as a lovely flower,    So fair, so pure thou art;  I gaze on thee, and sadness    Comes stealing o'er my heart.  My hands I fain had folded    Upon thy soft brown hair,  Praying that God may keep thee    So lovely, pure, and fair.633  I would that my love and its sadness    Might a single word convey,  The joyous breezes should bear it,    And merrily waft it away.  They should waft it to thee, beloved,    This soft and wailful word,  At every hour thou shouldst hear it,    Where'er thou art 'twould be heard.  And when in the night's first slumber    Thine eyes scarce closing seem,  Still should my word pursue thee    Into thy deepest dream.734  The shades of the summer evening lie    On the forest and meadows green;  The golden moon shines in the azure sky    Through balm-breathing air serene.  The cricket is chirping the brooklet near,    In the water a something stirs,  And the wanderer can in the stillness hear    A plash and a sigh through the furze.  There all by herself the fairy bright    Is bathing down in the stream;  Her arms and throat, bewitching and white,    In the moonshine glance and gleam.835  I know not what evil is coming,    But my heart feels sad and cold;  A song in my head keeps humming,    A tale from the times of old.  The air is fresh and it darkles,    And smoothly flows the Rhine;  The peak of the mountain sparkles    In the fading sunset-shine.  The loveliest wonderful maiden    On high is sitting there,  With golden jewels braiden,    And she combs her golden hair.  With a golden comb sits combing,  And ever the while sings she  A marvelous song through the gloaming  Of magical melody.  It hath caught the boatman, and bound him  In the spell of a wild, sad love;  He sees not the rocks around him,  He sees only her above.  The waves through the pass keep swinging,  But boatman or boat is none;  And this with her mighty singing  The Lorelei hath done.* * * * *

TWILIGHT36 (1825-26)

  By the dim sea-shore  Lonely I sat, and thought-afflicted.  The sun sank low, and sinking he shed  Rose and vermilion upon the waters,  And the white foaming waves,  Urged on by the tide,  Foamed and murmured yet nearer and nearer—  A curious jumble of whispering and wailing,  A soft rippling laughter and sobbing and sighing,  And in between all a low lullaby singing.  Methought I heard ancient forgotten legends,  The world-old sweet stories,  Which once, as a boy,  I heard from my playmates,  When, of a summer's evening,  We crouched down to tell stories  On the stones of the doorstep,  With small listening hearts,  And bright curious eyes;  While the big grown-up girls  Were sitting opposite  At flowery and fragrant windows,  Their rosy faces  Smiling and moonshine-illumined.* * * * *

HAIL TO THE SEA37 (1825-26)

  Thalatta! Thalatta!  Hail to thee, thou eternal sea!  Hail to thee, ten thousand times, hail!  With rejoicing heart  I bid thee welcome,  As once, long ago, did welcome thee  Ten thousand Greek hearts—  Hardship-battling, homesick-yearning,  World-renowned Greek hearts.  The billows surged,  They foamed and murmured,  The sun poured down, as in haste,  Flickering ripples of rosy light;  Long strings of frightened sea-gulls  Flutter away shrill screaming;  War-horses trample, and shields clash loudly,  And far resounds the triumphant cry:  Thalatta! Thalatta!  Hail to thee, thou eternal sea!  Like accents of home thy waters are whispering,  And dreams of childhood lustrous I see  Through thy limpid and crystalline wave,  Calling to mind the dear old memories  Of dear and delightful toys,  Of all the glittering Christmas presents,  Of all the red-branched forests of coral,  The pearls, the goldfish and bright-colored shells,  Which thou dost hide mysteriously  Deep down in thy clear house of crystal.  Oh, how have I languished in dreary exile!  Like unto a withered flower  In the botanist's capsule of tin,  My heart lay dead in my breast.  Methought I was prisoned a long sad winter,  A sick man kept in a darkened chamber;  And now I suddenly leave it,  And outside meets me the dazzling Spring,  Tenderly verdant and sun-awakened;  And rustling trees shed snowy petals,  And tender young flowers gaze on me  With their bright fragrant eyes,  And the air is full of laughter and gladness,  And rich with the breath of blossoms,  And in the blue sky the birds are singing—  Thalatta! Thalatta!  Oh, my brave Anabasis-heart!  How often, ah! how sadly often  Wast thou pressed hard by the North's fair Barbarians!  From large and conquering eyes  They shot forth burning arrows;  With crooked words as sharp as a rapier  They threatened to pierce my bosom;  With cuneiform angular missives they battered  My poor stunned brains;  In vain I held out my shield for protection,  The arrows hissed and the blows rained down,  And hard pressed I was pushed to the sea  By the North's fair Barbarians—  And, breathing freely, I greet the sea,  The sea my deliverer, the sea my friend—  Thalatta! Thalatta!* * * * *

IN THE HARBOR38 (1825-26)

  Happy is he who hath reached the safe harbor,  Leaving behind him the stormy wild ocean,  And now sits cosy and warm  In the good old Town-Cellar of Bremen.  How sweet and homelike the world is reflected,  In the chalice green of Rhinewine Rummer.  And how the dancing microcosm  Sunnily glides down the thirsty throat!  Everything I behold in the glass—  History, old and new, of the nations,  Both Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,  Forests of citron and big reviews,  Berlin and Shilda, and Tunis and Hamburg;  But, above all, thy image, Beloved,  And thy dear little head on a gold-ground of Rhenish!  Oh, how fair, how fair art thou, Dearest!  Thou art as fair as the rose!  Not like the Rose of Shiras,  That bride of the nightingale, sung by Hafis,  Not like the Rose of Sharon,  That mystic red rose, exalted by prophets—  Thou art like the "Rose, of the Bremen Town-Cellar,"  Which is the Rose of Roses;  The older it grows the sweeter it blossoms,  And its breath divine it hath all entranced me,  It hath inspired and kindled my soul;  And had not the Town-Cellar Master gripped me  With firm grip and steady,  I should have stumbled!  That excellent man! We sat together  And drank like brothers;  We spoke of wonderful mystic things,  We sighed and sank in each other's arms,  And me to the faith of love he converted;  I drank to the health of my bitterest foes,  And I forgave all bad poets sincerely,  Even as I may one day be forgiven;  I wept with devotion, and at length  The doors of salvation were opened unto me,  Where the sacred Vats, the twelve Apostles,  Silently preach, yet oh, so plainly,  Unto all nations.  These be men forsooth!  Of humble exterior, in jackets of wood,  Yet within they are fairer and more enlightened  Than all the Temple's proud Levites,  Or the courtiers and followers of Herod,  Though decked out in gold and in purple;  Have I not constantly said:  Not with the herd of common low people,  But in the best and politest of circles  The King of Heaven was sure to dwell!  Hallelujah! How lovely the whisper  Of Bethel's palm-trees!  How fragrant the myrtle-trees of Hebron!  How sings the Jordan and reels with joy!  My immortal spirit likewise is reeling,  And I reel in company, and, joyously reeling,  Leads me upstairs and into the daylight  That excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen.  Thou excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen!  Dost see on the housetops the little angels  Sitting aloft, all tipsy and singing?  The burning sun up yonder  Is but a fiery and drunken nose—  The Universe Spirit's red nose;  And round the Universe Spirit's red nose  Reels the whole drunken world.* * * * *

A NEW SPRING (1831)

139  Soft and gently through my soul  Sweetest bells are ringing,  Speed you forth, my little song,  Of springtime blithely singing!  Speed you onward to a house  Where sweet flowers are fleeting!  If, perchance, a rose you see,  Say, I send her greeting!240  Thy deep blue eyes enchant me,  So lovingly they glow;  My gazing soul grows dreamy,  My words come strange and slow.  Thy deep blue eyes enchant me  Wherever I may go:  An ocean of azure fancies  O'erwhelms me with its flow.341  Was once an ancient monarch,  Heavy his heart, his locks were gray,  This poor and aged monarch  Took a wife so young and gay.  Was once a page-boy handsome,  With lightsome heart and curly hair,  The silken train he carried  Of the queen so young and fair.  Dost know the old, old story?  It sounds so sweet, so sad to tell—  Both were obliged to perish,  They loved each other too well.* * * * *

ABROAD42 (1834)

  Oh I had once a beauteous Fatherland!  High used to seem  The oak—so high!—the violets nodded kind—  It was a dream.  In German I was kissed, in German told  (You scarce would deem  How sweetly rang the words): "I love thee well!—"  It was a dream.* * * * *

THE SPHINX43 (1839)

  It is the fairy forest old,    With lime-tree blossoms scented!  The moonshine with its mystic light    My soul and sense enchanted.  On, on I roamed, and, as I went,    Sweet music o'er me rose there;  It is the nightingale—she sings    Of love and lovers' woes there.  She sings of love and lovers' woes,    Hearts blest, and hearts forsaken:  So sad is her mirth, so glad her sob,    Dreams long forgot awaken.  Still on I roamed, and, as I went,    I saw before me lowering  On a great wide lawn a stately pile,    With gables peaked and towering.  Closed were its windows, everywhere    A hush, a gloom, past telling;  It seemed as though silent Death within    These empty halls were dwelling.  A Sphinx lay there before the door,    Half-brutish and half-human,  A lioness in trunk and claws,    In head and breasts a woman.  A lovely woman! The pale cheek    Spoke of desires that wasted;  The hushed lips curved into a smile,    That wooed them to be tasted.  The nightingale so sweetly sang,    I yielded to their wooing;  And as I kissed that winning face,    I sealed my own undoing.  The marble image thrilled with life,    The stone began to quiver;  She drank my kisses' burning flame    With fierce convulsive shiver.  She almost drank my breath away;    And, to her passion bending,  She clasped me close, with her lion claws    My hapless body rending.  Delicious torture, rapturous pang!    The pain, the bliss, unbounded!  Her lips, their kiss was heaven to me,    Her claws, oh, how they wounded.  The nightingale sang: "O beauteous Sphinx!    O love, love! say, why this is,  That with the anguish of death itself    Thou minglest all thy blisses?  "Oh beauteous Sphinx, oh, answer me,    That riddle strange unloosing!  For many, many thousand years    Have I on it been musing!"

GERMANY44 (1842)

  Germany's still a little child,    But he's nursed by the sun, though tender;  He is not suckled on soothing milk,    But on flames of burning splendor.  One grows apace on such a diet;    It fires the blood from languor.  Ye neighbors' children, have a care    This urchin how ye anger!  He is an awkward infant giant;    The oak by the roots uptearing,  He'll beat you till your backs are sore,    And crack your crowns for daring.  He is like Siegfried, the noble child,    That song-and-saga wonder;  Who, when his fabled sword was forged,    His anvil cleft in sunder!  To you, who will our Dragon slay,    Shall Siegfried's strength be given.  Hurrah! how joyfully your nurse    Will laugh on you from heaven!  The Dragon's hoard of royal gems    You'll win, with none to share it.  Hurrah! how bright the golden crown    Will sparkle when you wear it!* * * * *

ENFANT PERDU45 (1851)

  In Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years" and more,    A lonely outpost have I held—in vain!  With no triumphant hope or prize in store,    Without a thought to see my home again.  I watched both day and night; I could not sleep    Like my well-tented comrades far behind,  Though near enough to let their snoring keep    A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined.  And thus, when solitude my spirits shook,    Or fear—for all but fools know fear sometimes—  To rouse myself and them, I piped and took    A gay revenge in all my wanton rhymes.  Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready,    And when some sneaking rascal showed his head,  My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady,    And gave his brains an extra dose of lead.  But war and justice have far different laws,    And worthless acts are often done right well;  The rascals' shots were better than their cause,    And I was hit—and hit again, and fell!  That outpost is abandoned; while the one    Lies in the dust, the rest in troops depart;  Unconquered—I have done what could be done,    With sword unbroken, and with broken heart.* * * * *

THE BATTLEFIELD OF HASTINGS46 (1855)

  Deeply the Abbot of Waltham sighed    When he heard the news of woe:  How King Harold had come to a pitiful end,    And on Hastings field lay low.  Asgod and Ailrik, two of his monks,    On the mission drear he sped  To search for the corse on the battle-plain    Among the bloody dead.  The monks arose and went sadly forth,    And returned as heavy-hearted.  "O Father, the world's a bitter world,    And evil days have started.  "For fallen, alack! is the better man;    The Bastard has won, and knaves  And scutcheoned thieves divide the land,    And make the freemen slaves.  "The veriest rascals from Normandy,    In Britain are lords and sirs.  I saw a tailor from Bayeux ride    With a pair of golden spurs.  "O woe to all who are Saxon born!    Ye Saxon saints, beware!  For high in heaven though ye dwell,    Shame yet may be your share.  "Ah, now we know what the comet meant    That rode, blood-red and dire,  Across the midnight firmament    This year on a broom of fire.  "'Twas an evil star, and Hastings' field    Has fulfilled the omen dread.  We went upon the battle-plain,    And sought among the dead.  "While still there lingered any hope    We sought, but sought in vain;  King Harold's corse we could not find    Among the bloody slain."  Asgod and Ailrik spake and ceased.    The Abbot wrung his hands.  Awhile he pondered, then he sighed,    "Now mark ye my commands.  "By the stone of the bard at Grendelfield,    Just midway through the wood,  One, Edith of the Swan's Neck, dwells    In a hovel poor and rude.  "They named her thus, because her neck    Was once as slim and white  As any swan's—when, long ago,    She was the king's delight.  "He loved and kissed, forsook, forgot,    For such is the way of men.  Time runs his course with a rapid foot;    It is sixteen years since then.  "To this woman, brethren, ye shall go,    And she will follow you fain  To the battle-field; the woman's eye    Will not seek the king in vain.  "Thereafter to Waltham Abbey here    His body ye shall bring,  That Christian burial he may have,    While for his soul we sing."  The messengers reached the hut in the wood    At the hour of midnight drear.  "Wake, Edith of the Swan's Neck, rise    And follow without fear.  "The Duke of Normandy has won    The battle, to our bane.  On the field of Hastings, where he fought,    The king is lying slain.  "Arise and come with us; we seek    His body among the dead.  To Waltham Abbey it shall be borne.    'Twas thus our Abbot said."  The woman arose and girded her gown,    And silently went behind  The hurrying monks. Her grizzly hair    Streamed wildly on the wind.  Barefoot through bog and bush and briar    She followed and did not stay,  Till Hastings and the cliffs of chalk    They saw at dawn of day.  The mist, that like a sheet of white    The field of battle cloaked,  Melted anon; with hideous din    The daws flew up and croaked.  In thousands on the bloody plain    Lay strewn the piteous corses,  Wounded and torn and maimed and stripped,    Among the fallen horses.  The woman stopped not for the blood;    She waded barefoot through,  And from her fixed and staring eyes    The arrowy glances flew.  Long, with the panting monks behind,    And pausing but to scare  The greedy ravens from their food,    She searched with eager care.  She searched and toiled the livelong day,    Until the night was nigh;  Then sudden from her breast there burst    A shrill and awful cry.  For on the battle-field at last    His body she had found.  She kissed, without a tear or word,    The wan face on the ground.  She kissed his brow, she kissed his mouth,    She clasped him close, and pressed  Her poor lips to the bloody wounds    That gaped upon his breast.  His shoulder stark she kisses too,    When, searching, she discovers  Three little scars her teeth had made    When they were happy lovers.  The monks had been and gotten boughs,    And of these boughs they made  A simple bier, whereon the corse    Of the fallen king was laid.  To Waltham Abbey to his tomb    The king was thus removed;  And Edith of the Swan's Neck walked    By the body that she loved.  She chanted litanies for his soul    With a childish, weird lament  That shuddered through the night. The monks    Prayed softly as they went.* * * * *