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ANASTASIUS GRÜN

A SALON SCENE¹⁴ (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

PRAYER¹⁵ (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 SONGS¹⁶ (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 LAKE¹⁷ (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 POSTILION¹⁸ (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 AFAR¹⁹ (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 GIPSIES²⁰

 
  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 HEART²¹ (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 CHANCED²² (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 NIGHT²³ (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 AWAY²⁴ (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 MAIDEN²⁵ (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 SONG²⁶ (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.
 

* * * * *

SECLUSION²⁷ (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 BETROTHED²⁸ (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 IDYLL²⁹ (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.
 
 
  A twinge of longing now and then
  Will vex, no doubt, the happiest men.
  In summer I could wish outside
  Upon the dove-cote roof to bide,
  With just beneath the garden bright
  And stretch of greensward too in sight.
  Or else again in winter time,
  When, as today, the weather's prime:—
  Now I've begun, I'll say it out
  We've got a sleigh here, staunch and stout,
  All colored, yellow, black and green;
  Just freshly painted, neat and clean;
  And on the dashboard proudly strutting
  A strange, new-fangled fowl is sitting:
  Now if they'd have me fixed up right—
  The whole expense would be but slight—
  I'd stand there quite as well as he
  And none need feel ashamed of me!
  —Fool! I reply, accept your fate,
  And be not so immoderate.
  Perhaps 'twould suit your high behest
  If some one, for a common jest,
  Would take you, stove and all, away
  And set you up there on the sleigh,
  With all the family round you too:
  Man, woman, child—the whole blest crew!
  Old image, what! so shameless yet,
  And prone on gauds your mind to set?
  Think on your latter end at last!
  Your hundredth year's already past.
 

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