The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 05

THE GOOD COMRADE24 (1809)

  I had a gallant comrade,    No better e'er was tried;  The drum beat loud to battle—  Beside me, to its rattle,    He marched, with equal stride.  A bullet flies toward us us—    "Is that for me or thee?"  It struck him, passing o'er me;  I see his corpse before me    As 'twere a part of me!  And still, while I am loading,    His outstretched hand I view;  "Not now—awhile we sever;  But, when we live forever,    Be still my comrade true!"* * * * *

THE WHITE HART25 (1811)

  Three huntsmen forth to the greenwood went;  To hunt the white hart was their intent.  They laid them under a green fir-tree,  And a singular vision befell those three.

THE FIRST HUNTSMAN

  I dreamt I arose and beat on the bush,  When forth came rushing the stag—hush, hush!

THE SECOND

  As with baying of hound he came rushing along,  I fired my gun at his hide—bing, bang!

THE THIRD

  And when the stag on the ground I saw,  I merrily wound my horn—trara!  Conversing thus did the huntsmen lie,  When lo! the white hart came bounding by;  And before the huntsmen had noted him well,  He was up and away over mountain and dell!—      Hush, hush!—bing, bang!—trara!* * * * *

THE LOST CHURCH26 (1812)

  When one into the forest goes,    A music sweet the spirit blesses;  But whence it cometh no one knows,    Nor common rumor even guesses.  From the lost Church those strains must swell    That come on all the winds resounding;  The path to it now none can tell,    That path with pilgrims once abounding.  As lately, in the forest, where    No beaten path could be discover'd,  All lost in thought, I wander'd far,    Upward to God my spirit hover'd.  When all was silent round me there,    Then in my ears that music sounded;  The higher, purer, rose my prayer,    The nearer, fuller, it resounded.  Upon my heart such peace there fell,    Those strains with all my thoughts so blended,  That how it was I cannot tell    That I so high that hour ascended.  It seem'd a hundred years and more    That I had been thus lost in dreaming,  When, all earth's vapors op'ning o'er,    A free large place stood, brightly beaming.  The sky it was so blue and bland,    The sun it was so full and glowing,  As rose a minster vast and grand,    The golden light all round it flowing.  The clouds on which it rested seem'd    To bear it up like wings of fire;  Piercing the heavens, so I dream'd,    Sublimely rose its lofty spire.  The bell—what music from it roll'd!    Shook, as it peal'd, the trembling tower;  Rung by no mortal hand, but toll'd    By some unseen, unearthly power.  The selfsame power from Heaven thrill'd    My being to its utmost centre,  As, all with fear and gladness fill'd,    Beneath the lofty dome I enter.  I stood within the solemn pile—    Words cannot tell with what amazement,  As saints and martyrs seem'd to smile    Down on me from each gorgeous casement.  I saw the picture grow alive,    And I beheld a world of glory,  Where sainted men and women strive    And act again their godlike story.  Before the altar knelt I low—    Love and devotion only feeling,  While Heaven's glory seem'd to glow,    Depicted on the lofty ceiling.  Yet when again I upward gazed,    The mighty dome in twain was shaken,  And Heaven's gate wide open blazed,    And every veil away was taken.  What majesty I then beheld,    My heart with adoration swelling;  What music all my senses fill'd,    Beyond the organ's power of telling,  In words can never be exprest;    Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely,  O let him to the music list,    That in the forest soundeth clearly!* * * * *

CHARLEMAGNE'S VOYAGE27 (1812)

  With comrades twelve upon the main    King Charles set out to sail.  The Holy Land he hoped to gain,    But drifted in a gale.  Then spake Sir Roland, hero brave:    "Well I can fight and shield;  Yet neither stormy wind nor wave    Will to my weapon yield."  Sir Holger spoke, from Denmark's strand:    "The harp I feign would play;  But what avails the music bland    When tempests roaring sway!"  Sir Oliver was not too glad;    Upon his sword he'd stare:  "For my own weal 'twere not so bad,    I grieve, for good Old Clare."  Said wicked Ganilon with gall    (He said it 'neath his breath):  "The devil come and take ye all—    Were I but spared this death!"  Archbishop Turpin deeply sighed:    "The knights of God are we.  O come, our Savior, be our guide,    And lead us o'er the sea!"  Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stern:    "Ye demons there in hell,  I served ye many a goodly turn,    Now serve ye me as well!"  "My counsel often has been heard,"    Sir Naimes did remark.  "Fresh water, though, and helpful word    Are rare upon a bark."  Then spake Sir Riol, old and gray:    "An aged knight am I;  And they shall lay my corpse away    Where it is good and dry."  And then Sir Guy began to sing—    He was a courtly knight:  "Feign would I have a birdie's wing,    And to my love take flight!"  Then Count Garein, the noble, said:    "God, danger from us keep!  I'd rather drink the wine so red    Than water in the deep."  Sir Lambert spake, a sprightly youth:    "May God behold our state!  I'd rather eat good fish, forsooth,    Than be myself a bait."  Then quoth Sir Gottfried: "Be it so,    I heed not how I fare;  Whatever I must undergo,    My brothers all would share."  But at the helm King Charles sat by,    And never said a word,  And steered the ship with steadfast eye    Till no more tempest stirred.* * * * *

FREE ART28 (1812)

  Thou, whom song was given, sing    In the German poets' wood!  When all boughs with music ring—    Then is life and pleasure good.  Nay, this art doth not belong    To a small and haughty band;  Scattered are the seeds of song    All about the German land.  Music set thy passions free    From the heart's confining cage;  Let thy love like murmurs be,    And like thunder-storm thy rage!  Singest thou not all thy days,    Joy of youth should make thee sing.  Nightingales pour forth their lays    In the blooming months of spring!  Though in books they hold not fast    What the hour to thee imparts,  Leaves unto the breezes cast,    To be seized by youthful hearts!  Fare thou well, thou secret lore:    Necromancy, Alchemy!  Formulas shall bind no more,    And our art is poesy.  Names we deem but empty air;    Spirits we revere alone;  Though we honor masters rare.    Art is free—it is our own!  Not in haunts of marble chill,    Temples drear where ancients trod—  Nay, in oaks on woody hill,    Lives and moves the German God.* * * * *

TAILLEFER29 (1812)

  Duke William of the Normans spoke unto his servants all:  "Who is it sings so sweetly in the court and in the hall?  Who sings from early morn till the house is still at night  So sweetly that he fills my heart with laughter and delight?"  "'Tis Taillefer," they answered him, "so joyously that sings  Within the courtyard, as the wheel above the well he swings,  And when the fire upon the hearth he stirs to burn more bright,  And when he rises to his toil or lays him down at night."  Then spoke the Duke, "In him I trow I have a faithful knave—  This Taillefer that serves me here, so loyal and so brave;  He turns the wheel and stirs the fire with willing, sturdy arm,  And, best of all, with blithesome song he knows my heart to charm."  Then out spake lusty Taillefer, "Ah, lord, if I were free,  Far better would I serve thee then, and gladly sing to thee.  How on my stately charger would I serve thee in the field,  How sing before thee cheerily, with clang of sword and shield!"  The days went by, and Taillefer rode out as rides a knight  Upon a prancing charger borne, a gay and gallant sight;  And from the tower looked down on him Duke William's sister fair,  And softly murmured, "By my troth, a stately knight goes there!"  When as he rode before the tower, and spied her harkening,  Now sang he like a driving storm, now like a breeze of spring;  She cried, "To hear that wondrous song is of all joys the best—  The very stones they tremble, and the heart within my breast."  And now the Duke has called his men and crossed the salt sea-foam;  With gallant knights and vassals bold to England he has come.  And as he sprang from out the ship, he slipped upon the strand,  And "By this token, thus," he cried, "I seize a subject land!"  And now on Hastings field arrayed, the host for fight prepare;  Before the Duke reins up his horse the valiant Taillefer:  "If I have sung and blown the fire for many a weary year,  And since for other years have borne the knightly shield and spear,  "If I have sung and served thee well, and praises won from thee,  First as a lowly knave and then a warrior, bold and free,  Today I claim my guerdon just, that all the host may know—  To ride the foremost to the field, strike first against the foe!"  So Taillefer rode on before the glittering Norman line  Upon his stately steed, and waved a sword of temper fine;  Above the embattled plain his song rang all the tumult o'er—  Of Roland's knightly deeds he sang and many a hero more.  And as the noble song of old with tempest-might swelled out,  The banners waved and knights pressed on with war-cry and with shout;  And every heart among the host throbbed prouder still and higher,  And still through all sang Taillefer, and blew the battle-fire.  Then forward, lance in rest, against the waiting foe he dashed,  And at the shock an English knight from out the saddle crashed;  Anon he swung his sword and struck a grim and grisly blow,  And on the ground beneath his feet an English knight lay low.  The Norman host his prowess saw, and followed him full fain;  With joyful shouts and clang of shields the whole field rang again,  And shrill and fast the arrows sped, and swords made merry play—  Until at last King Harold fell, his stubborn carles gave way.  The Duke his banner planted high upon the bloody plain,  And pitched his tent a conqueror amid the heaps of slain;  Then with his captains sat at meat, the wine-cup in his hand,  Upon his head the royal crown of all the English land.  "Come hither, valiant Taillefer, and drink a cup with me!  Full oft thy song has soothed my grief, made merrier my glee;  But all my life I still shall hear the battle-shout that pealed  Above the noise of clashing arms today on Hastings field!"* * * * *

SUABIAN LEGEND30 (1814)

  When Emperor Redbeard with his band  Came marching through the Holy Land,  He had to lead, the way to seek,  His noble force o'er mountains bleak.  Of bread there rose a painful need,  Though stones were plentiful indeed,  And many a German rider fine  Forgot the taste of mead and wine.  The horses drooped from meagre fare,  The rider had to hold his mare.  There was a knight from Suabian land  Of noble build and mighty hand;  His little horse was faint and ill,  He dragged it by the bridle still;  His steed he never would forsake,  Though his own life should be at stake.  And so the horseman had to stay  Behind the band a little way.  Then all at once, right in his course,  Pranced fifty Turkish men on horse.  And straight a swarm of arrows flew;  Their spears as well the riders threw.  Our Suabian brave felt no dismay,  And calmly marched along his way.  His shield was stuck with arrows o'er,  He sneered and looked about—no more;  Till one, whom all this pastime bored,  Above him swung a crooked sword.  The German's blood begins to boil,  He aims the Turkish steed to foil,  And off he knocks with hit so neat  The Turkish charger's two fore-feet.  And now that he has felled the horse,  He grips his sword with double force  And swings it on the rider's crown  And splits him to the saddle down;  He hews the saddle into bits,  And e'en the charger's back he splits.  See, falling to the right and left,  Half of a Turk that has been cleft!  The others shudder at the sight  And hie away in frantic flight,  And each one feels, with gruesome dread,  That he is split through trunk and head.  A band of Christians, left behind,  Came down the road, his work to find;  And they admired, one by one,  The deed our hero bold had done.  From these the Emperor heard it all,  And bade his men the Suabian call,  Then spake: "Who taught thee, honored knight,  With hits like those you dealt, to fight?"  Our hero said, without delay  "These hits are just the Suabian way.  Throughout the realm all men admit,  The Suabians always make a hit."* * * * *

THE BLIND KING31 (1804, 1814)

  Why stands uncovered that northern host    High on the seaboard there?  Why seeks the old blind king the coast,    With his white, wild-fluttering hair?  He, leaning on his staff the while,    His bitter grief outpours,  Till across the bay the rocky isle    Sounds from its caverned shores.  "From the dungeon-rock, thou robber, bring    My daughter back again!  Her gentle voice, her harp's sweet string    Soothed an old father's pain.  From the dance along the green shore    Thou hast borne her o'er the wave;  Eternal shame light on thy head;    Mine trembles o'er the grave."  Forth from his cavern, at the word,    The robber comes, all steeled,  Swings in the air his giant sword,    And strikes his sounding shield.  "A goodly guard attends thee there;    Why suffered they the wrong?  Is there none will be her champion    Of all that mighty throng?"  Yet from that host there comes no sound;    They stand unmoved as stone;  The blind king seems to gaze around;    Am I all, all alone?"  "Not all alone!" His youthful son    Grasps his right hand so warm—  "Grant me to meet this vaunting foe!    Heaven's might inspires my arm."  "O son! it is a giant foe;    There's none will take thy part;  Yet by this hand's warm grasp, I know    Thine is a manly heart.  Here, take the trusty battle-sword—    'Twas the old minstrel's prize;—  If thou art slain, far down the flood    Thy poor old father dies!"  And hark! a skiff glides swiftly o'er,    With plashing, spooming sound;  The king stands listening on the shore;    'Tis silent all around—  Till soon across the bay is borne    The sound of shield and sword,  And battle-cry, and clash, and clang,    And crashing blows, are heard.  With trembling joy then cried the king:    "Warrior! what mark you? Tell!  'Twas my good sword; I heard it ring;    I know its tone right well."  "The robber falls; a bloody meed    His daring crime hath won;  Hail to thee, first of heroes! hail!    Thou monarch's worthy son!"  Again 'tis silent all around;    Listens the king once more;  "I hear across the bay the sound    As of a plashing oar."  Yes, it is they!—They come!—They come—    Thy son, with spear and shield,  And thy daughter fair, with golden hair,    The sunny-bright Gunild."  "Welcome!" exclaims the blind old man,    From the rock high o'er the wave;  "Now my old age is blest again;    Honored shall be my grave.  Thou, son, shalt lay the sword I wore    Beside the blind old king.  And thou, Gunilda, free once more,    My funeral song shalt sing."* * * * *

THE MINSTREL'S CURSE32 (1814)

  Once in olden times was standing    A castle, high and grand,  Broad glancing in the sunlight,    Far over sea and land.  And round were fragrant gardens,    A rich and blooming crown;  And fountains, playing in them,    In rainbow brilliance shone.  There a haughty king was seated,    In lands and conquests great;  Pale and awful was his countenance,    As on his throne he sate;  For what he thinks, is terror,    And what he looks, is wrath,  And what he speaks, is torture,    And what he writes, is death.  And 'gainst a marble pillar    He shiver'd it in twain;  And thus his curse he shouted,    Till the castle rang again:  "Woe, woe, thou haughty castle,    With all thy gorgeous halls!  Sweet string or song be sounded    No more within thy walls.  No, sighs alone, and wailing,    And the coward steps of slaves!  Already round thy towers    The avenging spirit raves!  "Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens,    With all your fair May light!  Look on this ghastly countenance,    And wither at the sight!  Let all your flowers perish!    Be all your fountains dry!  Henceforth a horrid wilderness,    Deserted, wasted, lie!  "Woe, woe, thou wretched murderer,    Thou curse of minstrelsy!  Thy struggles for a bloody fame,    All fruitless shall they be.  Thy name shall be forgotten,    Lost in eternal death,  Dissolving into empty air    Like a dying man's last breath!"  The old man's curse is utter'd,    And Heaven above hath heard.  Those walls have fallen prostrate    At the minstrel's mighty word.  Of all that vanish'd splendor    Stands but one column tall;  And that, already shatter'd,    Ere another night may fall.  Around, instead of gardens,    In a desert heathen land,  No tree its shade dispenses,    No fountains cool the sand.  The king's name, it has vanish'd;    His deeds no songs rehearse;  Departed and forgotten—    This is the minstrel's curse.* * * * *

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL33 (1834)

  Of Edenhall the youthful lord    Bids sound the festal trumpets' call;  He rises at the banquet board,    And cries, 'mid the drunken revelers all,  "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"  The butler hears the words with pain—    The house's oldest seneschal—  Takes slow from its silken cloth again    The drinking glass of crystal tall;  They call it the Luck of Edenhall.  Then said the lord, "This glass to praise,    Fill with red wine from Portugal!"  The graybeard with trembling hand obeys;    A purple light shines over all;  It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.  Then speaks the lord, and waves it light—    "This glass of flashing crystal tall  Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;    She wrote in it, 'If this glass doth fall,  Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!'"  "'Twas right a goblet the fate should be    Of the joyous race of Edenhall!  We drink deep draughts right willingly;    And willingly ring, with merry call,  Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!"  First rings it deep, and full, and mild,    Like to the song of a nightingale;  Then like the roar of a torrent wild;    Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall,  The glorious Luck of Edenhall.  "For its keeper, takes a race of might    The fragile goblet of crystal tall;  It has lasted longer than is right;    Kling! klang!—with a harder blow than all  We'll try the Luck of Edenhall!"  As the goblet, ringing, flies apart,    Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;  And through the rift the flames upstart;    The guests in dust are scattered all  With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!  In storms the foe with fire and sword!    He in the night had scaled the wall;  Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord,    But holds in his hand the crystal tall,  The shattered Luck of Edenhall.  On the morrow the butler gropes alone,    The graybeard, in the desert hall;  He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton;    He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall  The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.  "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside;    Down must the stately columns fall;  Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;    In atoms shall fall this earthly hall,  One day, like the Luck of Edenhall!"* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD34 (1859)

  You came, you went, as angels go,    A fleeting guest within our land.  Whence and where to?—We only know:    Forth from God's hand into God's hand.

JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF

* * * * *

THE BROKEN RING35 (1810)

  Down in yon cool valley    I hear a mill-wheel go:  Alas! my love has left me,    Who once dwelt there below.  A ring of gold she gave me,    And vowed she would be true;  The vow long since was broken,    The gold ring snapped in two.  I would I were a minstrel,    To rove the wide world o'er,  And sing afar my measures,    And rove from door to door;  Or else a soldier, flying    Deep into furious fight,  By silent camp-fires lying    A-field in gloomy night.  Hear I the mill-wheel going:    I know not what I will;  'Twere best if I were dying—    Then all were calm and still.* * * * *

MORNING PRAYER36 (1833)

  O silence, wondrous and profound!    O'er earth doth solitude still reign;  The woods alone incline their heads,    As if the Lord walked o'er the plain.  I feel new life within me glow;    Where now is my distress and care?  Here in the blush of waking morn,    I blush at yesterday's despair.  To me, a pilgrim, shall the world,    With all its joy and sorrows, be  But as a bridge that leads, O Lord,    Across the stream of time to Thee.  And should my song woo worldly gifts,    The base rewards of vanity—  Dash down my lyre! I'll hold my peace    Before thee to eternity.

FROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING (1826)

BY JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF TRANSLATED BY MRS. A.L.W. WISTER

CHAPTER I

The wheel of my father's mill was once more turning and whirring merrily, the melting snow trickled steadily from the roof, the sparrows chirped and hopped about, as I, taking great delight in the warm sunshine, sat on the door-step and rubbed my eyes to rid them of sleep. Then my father made his appearance; he had been busy in the mill since daybreak, and his nightcap was all awry as he said to me—

You Good-for-nothing! There you sit sunning yourself, and stretching yourself till your bones crack, leaving me to do all the work alone. I can keep you here no longer. Spring is at hand. Off with you into the world and earn your own bread!"

"Well," said I, "all right; if I am a Good-for-nothing, I will go forth into the world and make my fortune." In fact, I was very glad to have my father speak thus, for I myself had been thinking of starting on my travels; the yellow-hammer, which all through the autumn and winter had been chirping sadly at our window, "Farmer, hire me; farmer, hire me," was, now that the lovely spring weather had set in, once more piping cheerily from the old tree, "Farmer, nobody wants your work." So I went into the house and took down from the wall my fiddle, on which I could play quite skilfully; my father gave me a few pieces of money to set me on my way; and I sauntered off along the village street. I was filled with secret joy as I saw all my old acquaintances and comrades right and left going to their work digging and ploughing, just as they had done yesterday and the day before, and so on, whilst I was roaming out into the wide world. I called out "Good-by!" to the poor people on all sides, but no one took much notice of me. A perpetual Sabbath seemed to reign in my soul, and when I got out among the fields I took out my dear fiddle and played and sang, as I walked along the country road—

  "The favored ones, the loved of Heaven,    God sends to roam the world at will;  His wonders to their gaze are given    By field and forest, stream and hill.  "The dullards who at home are staying    Are not refreshed by morning's ray;  They grovel, earth-born calls obeying,    And petty cares beset their day.  "The little brooks o'er rocks are springing,    The lark's gay carol fills the air;  Why should not I with them be singing    A joyous anthem free from care?  "I wander on, in God confiding,    For all are His, wood, field, and fell;  O'er earth and skies He, still presiding,    For me will order all things well."

As I was looking around, a fine traveling-carriage drove along very near me; it had probably been just behind me for some time without my perceiving it, so filled with melody had I been, for it was going quite slowly, and two elegant ladies had their heads out of the window, listening. One was especially beautiful, and younger than the other, but both pleased me extremely. When I stopped singing the elder ordered the coachman to stop his horses, and accosted me with great condescension: "Aha, my merry lad, you know how to sing very pretty songs!" I, nothing loath, replied, "Please Your Grace, I know some far prettier." "And where are you going so early in the morning?" she asked. I was ashamed to confess that I did not myself know, and so I said, boldly, "To Vienna." The two ladies then talked together in a strange tongue which I did not understand. The younger shook her head several times, but the other only laughed, and finally called to me, "Jump up behind; we too are going to Vienna." Who more ready than I! I made my best bow, and sprang up behind the carriage, the coachman cracked his whip, and away we bowled along the smooth road so swiftly that the wind whistled in my ears.

Behind me vanished my native village with its gardens and church-tower, before me appeared fresh villages, castles, and mountains, beneath me on either side the meadows in the tender green of spring flew past, and above me countless larks were soaring in the blue air. I was ashamed to shout aloud, but I exulted inwardly, and shuffled about so on the foot-board behind the carriage that I well-nigh lost my fiddle from under my arm. But when the sun rose higher in the sky, while heavy, white, noonday clouds gathered on the horizon, and the air hung sultry and still above the gently-waving grain, I could not but remember my village and my father, and our mill, and how cool and comfortable it was beside the shady mill-pool, and how far, far away from me it all was. And the most curious sensation overcame me; I felt as if I must turn and run back; but I stuck my fiddle between my coat and my vest, settled myself on the foot-board, and went to sleep.