Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01», sayfa 6

ERGO BIBAMUS!²² (1810)

 
  For a praiseworthy object we're now gathered here,
  So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
  Tho' talk may be hushed, yet the glasses ring clear,
  Remember then, ERGO BIBAMUS!
  In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word,
  With its sound befitting each bosom is stirred,
  And an echo the festal hall filling is heard,
  A glorious ERGO BIBAMUS!
 
 
  I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare,
  And bethought me of: ERGO BIBAMUS;
  So I gently approached, and she let me stand there,
  While I helped myself, thinking: BIBAMUS!
  And when she's appeared, and will clasp you and kiss,
  Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss,
  Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss,
  In the comforting ERGO BIBAMUS!
 
 
  I am called by my fate far away from each friend;
  Ye loved ones, then: ERGO BIBAMUS!
  With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend,
  So double our ERGO BIBAMUS!
  Whate'er to his treasure the niggard may add,
  Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had,
  For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad,
  So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
 
 
  And what shall we say of to-day as it flies?
  I thought but of: ERGO BIBAMUS!
  'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise,
  So again and again sing: BIBAMUS!
  For joy through a wide-open portal it guides,
  Bright glitter the clouds as the curtain divides,
  And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides,
  While we thunder our: ERGO BIBAMUS.
 

THE WALKING BELL²³ (1813)

 
  A child refused to go betimes
  To church like other people;
  He roamed abroad, when rang the chimes
  On Sundays from the steeple.
 
 
  His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,
  Its voice ne'er think of scorning;
  Unless thou wilt behave thee well,
  'Twill fetch thee without warning."
 
 
  The child then thought: "High over head
  The bell is safe suspended—"
  So to the fields he straightway sped
  As if 'twas school-time ended.
 
 
  The bell now ceased as bell to ring,
  Roused by the mother's twaddle;
  But soon ensued a dreadful thing!—
  The bell begins to waddle.
 
 
  It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
  The child, with trembling wonder,
  Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
  The bell would draw him under.
 
 
  He finds the proper time at last,
  And straightway nimbly rushes
  To church, to chapel, hastening fast
  Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
 
 
  Each Sunday and each feast as well,
  His late disaster heeds he;
  The moment that he hears the bell,
  No other summons needs he.
 

FOUND²⁴ (1813)

 
  Once through the forest
  Alone I went;
  To seek for nothing
  My thoughts were bent.
 
 
  I saw i' the shadow
  A flower stand there;
  As stars it glisten'd,
  As eyes 'twas fair.
 
 
  I sought to pluck it,—
  It gently said:
  "Shall I be gather'd
  Only to fade?"
 
 
  With all its roots
  I dug it with care,
  And took it home
  To my garden fair.
 
 
  In silent corner
  Soon it was set;
  There grows it ever,
  There blooms it yet.
 

HATEM²⁵ (1815)

 
  Locks of brown, still bind your captive
  In the circle of her face!
  I, beloved sinuous tresses,
  Naught possess that's worth your grace—
 
 
  But a heart whose love enduring
  Swells in youthful fervor yet:
  Snow and mists envelop Etna,
  Making men the fire forget.
 
 
  Yonder mountain's pride so stately
  Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow;
  And its spell once more bids Hatem
  Thrill of spring and summer know.
 
 
  Once more fill the glass, the flagon!
  Let me drink to my desire.
  If she find a heap of ashes,
  Say, "He perished in her fire!"
 

REUNION²⁶ (1815)

 
  Can it be, O star transcendent,
  That I fold thee to my breast?
  Now I know, what depths of anguish
  May in parting be expressed.
  Yes, 'tis thou, of all my blisses
  Lovely, loving partner—thou!
  Mindful of my bygone sorrows,
  E'en the present awes me now.
 
 
  When the world in first conception
  Lay in God's eternal mind,
  In creative power delighting
  He the primal hour designed.
  When he gave command for being,
  Then was heard a mighty sigh
  Full of pain, as all creation
  Broke into reality.
 
 
  Up then sprang the light; and darkness
  Doubtful stood apart to gaze;
  All the elements, dividing
  Swiftly, took their several ways.
  In confused, disordered dreaming
  Strove they all for freedom's range—
  Each for self, no fellow-feeling;
  Single each, and cold and strange.
 
 
  Lo, a marvel—God was lonely!
  All was still and cold and dumb.
  So he framed dawn's rosy blushes
  Whence should consolation come—
  To refresh the troubled spirit
  Harmonies of color sweet:
  What had erst been forced asunder
  Now at last could love and meet.
 
 
  Then, ah then, of life unbounded
  Sight and feeling passed the gates;
  Then, ah then, with eager striving
  Kindred atoms sought their mates.
  Gently, roughly they may seize them,
  So they catch and hold them fast:
  "We," they cry, "are now creators—
  Allah now may rest at last!"
 
 
  So with rosy wings of morning
  Towards thy lips my being moves;
  Sets the starry night a thousand
  Glowing seals upon our loves.
  We are as we should be—parted
  Ne'er on earth in joy or pain;
  And no second word creative
  E'er can sunder us again!
 

PROOEMION²⁷ (1816)

 
  In His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making His vocation;
  The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
  Love, confidence, activity, and might;
  In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
  Unknown is ever in Reality:
  As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
  Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
  How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
  Its simile and type it straight discovers;
  Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
  Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
  No more thou numberest, reckonest no time,
  Each step is infinite, each step sublime.
What God would outwardly alone control,
  And on His finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the inner world to move, to view
  Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too,
  So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
  The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
  Within us all a universe doth dwell;
  And hence each people's usage laudable,
  That every one the Best that meets his eyes
As God, yea, e'en his God, doth recognize;
  To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,
  Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.
 

THE ONE AND THE ALL²⁸ (1821)

 
  Called to a new employ in boundless space,
  The lonely monad quits its 'customed place
  And from life's weary round contented flees.
  No more of passionate striving, will perverse
  And hampering obligations, long a curse:
  Free self-abandonment at last gives peace.
 
 
  Soul of the world, come pierce our being through!
  Across the drift of things our way to hew
  Is our appointed task, our noblest war.
  Good spirits by our destined pathway still
  Lead gently on, best masters of our will,
  Toward that which made and makes all things that are.
  To shape for further ends what now has breath,
  Let nothing harden into ice and death,
  Works endless living action everywhere.
  What has not yet existed strives for birth—
  Toward purer suns, more glorious-colored earth:
  To rest in idle stillness naught may dare.
  All must move onward, help transform the mass,
  Assume a form, to yet another pass;
  'Tis but in seeming aught is fixed or still.
  In all things moves the eternal restless Thought;
  For all, when comes the hour, must fall to naught
  If to persist in being is its will.
 

LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER'S SKULL²⁹ (1826)

[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of seventy-seven.]

 
  Within a gloomy charnel-house one day
  I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
  And of old times I thought that now were gray.
  Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated,
  And hardy bones that to the death contended,
  Are lying crossed,—to lie forever, fated.
  What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?
  No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired,
  The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended.
  Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
  Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven
  Back into daylight by a force inspired;
  But none can love the withered husk, though even
  A glorious noble kernel it contained.
 
 
  To me, an adept, was the writing given
  Which not to all its holy sense explained.
  When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,
  I saw a form that glorious still remained,
  And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,
  Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion,
  As though from death a living fount were springing.
  What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion!
  That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!
  A look, how did it whirl me toward that ocean
  Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!
  Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!
  Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,
  Except to steal thee from thy prison here
  With pious purpose, and devoutly go
  Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.
  What greater gain in life can man e'er know
  Than when God-Nature will to him explain
  How into Spirit steadfastness may flow,
  How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.
 

A LEGACY³⁰ (1829)

 
  No living atom comes at last to naught!
  Active in each is still the eternal Thought:
  Hold fast to Being if thou wouldst be blest.
  Being is without end; for changeless laws
  Bind that from which the All its glory draws
  Of living treasures endlessly possessed.
 
 
  Unto the wise of old this truth was known,
  Such wisdom knit their noble souls in one;
  Then hold thou still the lore of ancient days!
  To that high power thou ow'st it, son of man,
  By whose decree the earth its circuit ran
  And all the planets went their various ways.
  Then inward turn at once thy searching eyes;
 
 
  Thence shalt thou see the central truth arise
  From which no lofty soul goes e'er astray;
  There shalt thou miss no needful guiding sign—
  For conscience lives, and still its light divine
  Shall be the sun of all thy moral day.
  Next shalt thou trust thy senses' evidence,
  And fear from them no treacherous offence
  While the mind's watchful eye thy road commands:
  With lively pleasure contemplate the scene
  And roam securely, teachable, serene,
  At will throughout a world of fruitful lands.
  Enjoy in moderation all life gives:
  Where it rejoices in each thing that lives
  Let reason be thy guide and make thee see.
  Then shall the distant past be present still,
  The future, ere it comes, thy vision fill—
  Each single moment touch eternity.
  Then at the last shalt thou achieve thy quest,
  And in one final, firm conviction rest:
  What bears for thee true fruit alone is true.
  Prove all things, watch the movement of the world
  As down the various ways its tribes are whirled;
  Take thou thy stand among the chosen few.
  Thus hath it been of old; in solitude
  The artist shaped what thing to him seemed good,
  The wise man hearkened to his own soul's voice.
  Thus also shalt thou find thy greatest bliss;
  To lead where the elect shall follow—this
  And this alone is worth a hero's choice.
 

INTRODUCTION TO HERMANN AND DOROTHEA

Hermann and Dorothea is universally known and prized in Germany as no other work of the classical period of German literature except Goethe's Faust and Schiller's Wilhelm Tell, and, although distinctively German in subject and spirit, it early became and is still a precious possession of all the modern world. It marks the culmination of the renaissance in the literary art of Germany and perhaps of Europe.

Schiller hailed it as the pinnacle of Goethe's and of all modern art. A. W. Schlegel in 1797 judged it to be a finished work of art in the grand style, and at the same time intelligible, sympathetic, patriotic, popular, a book full of golden teachings of wisdom and virtue. Two generations later one of the leading historians of German literature declared that there is no other poem that comes so near to the father of all poetry (Homer) as this, none in which Greek form and German content are so intimately blended, and that this is perhaps the only poem which without explanation and without embarrassment all the modern centuries could offer to an ancient Greek to enjoy. In the view of the end of the nineteenth century, expressed by a distinguished philosopher-critic, this work is a unique amalgam of the artistic spirit, objectivity, and contemplative clearness of Homer with the soul-life of the present, the heart-beat of the German people, the characteristic traits which mark the German nature.

As Longfellow's Evangeline, treating in the same verse-form of the dactylic hexameter and in a way partly epic and partly idyllic a story of love and domestic interests in a contrasting setting of war and exile, was modeled on Hermann and Dorothea, so the latter poem was suggested by J. H. Voss' idyl Luise, published first in parts in 1783 and 1784 and as a whole revised in 1795. Of his delight in Luise Goethe wrote to Schiller in February, 1798: "This proved to be much to my advantage, for this joy finally became productive in me, it drew me into this form (the epic), begot my Hermann, and who knows what may yet come of it." But Luise is not really epic; it is without action, without unity, without any large historical outlook,—a series of minutely pictured, pleasing idyllic scenes.

In contrast herewith Goethe's purpose was in his own words, "in an epic crucible to free from its dross the purely human existence of a small German town, and at the same time mirror in a small glass the great movements and changes of the world's stage." This purpose he achieved in the writing of Hermann and Dorothea at intervals from September, 1796, through the summer of 1797, in the autumn of which year the poem was published.

The main sources from which the poet drew his material are four. In the first place the theme was invented by him out of an anecdote of the flight of Protestant refugees from the Archbishopric of Salzburg in 1731-1732. On the basis of this anecdote he drew the original outlines of the meeting and union of the lovers. Secondly, as a consequence of the French Revolution, Germans were forced to flee from German territory west of the Rhine. Goethe was present with Prussian troops in France in 1792, and observed the siege of Mainz in 1793. Hence his knowledge of war and exile, with their attendant cruelties and sufferings. Thirdly, the personal experiences of his own life could not but contribute to his description of the then German present. Features of Frankfurt and Ilmenau reappear. The characters show traits of Goethe's parents, and possibly something of his wife is in Dorothea. Hermann's mother bears the name of the poet's and reveals many of her qualities. But some of these are given to the landlord-father, while the elder Goethe's pedantry and petty weaknesses are shown in the apothecary. The poet's experiences in the field are realistically reproduced in many particulars of character and incident, as are doubtless also his mother's vivid reports of events in Frankfurt during July and August, 1796. We may feel sure too that it was the occurrences of this summer that led Goethe to transform the short, pure idyl of his first intention into a longer epic of his own present. The fourth source is literary tradition, which we may trace back through the verse idyl of Voss to the prose idyl of Gessner, thence through the unnatural Arcadian pastorals of the seventeenth and earlier centuries to the great Greek creators,—Theocritus, of the idyl, and Homer, of the epic.

From whatever source derived, the materials were transmuted and combined by Goethe's genius into a broad, full picture of German life, with characters typical of the truly human and of profound ethical importance, interpreting to the attentive reader the significance of life for the individual, the family, the nation.

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA (1797)³¹

TRANSLATED BY ELLEN FROTHINGHAM

CALLIOPE

FATE AND SYMPATHY

 
Truly, I never have seen the market and street so deserted!
How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished! Not fifty
Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it remaining.
 
 
What will not curiosity do! here is every one running,
Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful exiles.
Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pass over,
Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the noonday.
I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to witness the sorrows
Borne by good, fugitive people, who now, with their rescued possessions,
Driven, alas! from beyond the Rhine, their beautiful country,
Over to us are coming, and through the prosperous corner
Roam of this our luxuriant valley, and traverse its windings.
"Well hast thou done, good wife, our son in thus kindly dispatching,
Laden with something to eat and to drink, and with store of old linen,
'Mongst the poor folk to distribute; for giving belongs to the wealthy.
How the youth drives, to be sure! What control he has over the horses!
Makes not our carriage a handsome appearance,—the new one? With comfort,
Four could be seated within, with a place on the box for the coachman.
This time, he drove by himself. How lightly it rolled round the corner!"
Thus, as he sat at his ease in the porch of his house on the market,
Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion.
 
 
Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent housewife:
"Father, I am not inclined to be giving away my old linen:
Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased for money,
When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave, and with pleasure,
Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bed-clothes;
For I was told of the aged and children who had to go naked.
But wilt thou pardon me, father? thy wardrobe has also been plundered.
And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian flowers,
Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate flannel,
Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion."
 
 
Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent landlord:
"Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good old calico wrapper,
Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such another.
Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom compels us
Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket;
Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers."
 
 
"See!" interrupted the wife; "even now some are yonder returning,
Who have beheld the procession: it must, then, already be over.
Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their faces are glowing!
Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping the sweat off.
Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so suffer,
Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have in the telling."
 
 
Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father:
"Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is.
We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay was before it.
Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear is the heaven;
And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from the eastward.
That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields already;
We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious harvest."
 
 
Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men and of women
Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place wending;
And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters beside him,
Back to his modernized house on the opposite side of the market,
Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor,
Rapidly driving his open barouche,—it was builded in Landau.
Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely peopled.
Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures.
Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were sitting,
Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering people.
Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming:
"Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming, and with him
Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every thing tell us;
All they have witnessed abroad, and which 'tis a sorrow to look on."
 
 
Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple;
Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were placed in the doorway,
Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves with
their kerchiefs.
Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the mutual greetings,
First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation:
"Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just like another,
Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen his neighbor.
Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar in destruction;
Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted:
Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of these exiles,
Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar fortune,
May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise o'ertaken.
Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in man's nature."
Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent pastor;
Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime of his manhood.
 
 
He was acquainted with life,—with the needs of his hearers acquainted;
Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures' importance,
As they reveal man's destiny to us, and man's disposition;
Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings.
"I should be loath," he replied, "to censure an innocent instinct,
Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always been given.
What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to accomplish,
Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly with it.
Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction,
Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted together
Worldly experiences are? For first what is novel he covets;
Then with unwearying industry follows he after the useful;
Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and ennobled.
While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous companion,
Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as 'tis over.
He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness of temper,
Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed;
Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors:
Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth the evil."
 
 
Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming:
"Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!"
 
 
"Hardly," with emphasis then the village doctor made answer,
"Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes I have witnessed.
Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell them?
E'en before crossing the meadows, and while we were yet at a distance,
Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession
Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little.
But when at last we were come to the street that crosses the valley,
Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot and of wagons.
There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates passing,
And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was,
Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued.
Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels,—
All those things which are housed in every well-furnished dwelling,
All by the house-keeper's care set up in their suitable places,
Always ready for use; for useful is each and important.—
Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner of wagons,
One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been rescued.
Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool coverlet lying;
Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the sheets on the mirror.
Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great conflagration
Twenty years since, will take from a man all power of reflection,
So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what is precious behind him.
Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying with them
Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and oxen;
Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the bird-cage.
Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles,
Panting 'neath baskets and tubs, full of things of no manner of value:
So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession.
Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved forward,
All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts were the weaker,
Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry another.
Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed women and children,
And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing of cattle,
Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft on the wagon,
Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting and swaying.
Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of the highway,
Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance, and over
Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were flung to a distance,
Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by good fortune
Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to the wagon.
Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to see them
Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and of presses.
So lay the cart all broken to fragments, and helpless the people.
Keeping their onward way, the others drove hastily by them,
Each thinking only of self, and carried away by the current.
Then we ran to the spot, and found the sick and the aged,—
Those who at home and in bed could before their lingering ailments
Scarcely endure,—lying bruised on the ground, complaining and groaning,
Choked by the billowing dust and scorched by the heat of the noonday."
 
 
Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling:
"Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment
and clothing!
Loath should I be to behold them: the looking on suffering pains me.
Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel afflictions,
Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance,
Only that some might be strengthened, and we might ourselves be made easy.
But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures
Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of us mortals,
And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil.
Come with me into the room behind, our cool little parlor,
Where no sunbeam e'er shines, and no sultry breath ever enters
Through its thickness of wall. There mother will bring us a flagon
Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies.
Here 'tis not cosey to drink: the flies so buzz round the glasses."
Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the coolness.
 
 
Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious vintage,
Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering pewter,
Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups meet for the
Rhine wine.
So sat the three together about the highly waxed table,
Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet was supported.
Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and pastor,
But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in reflection,
Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged him, saying,—
"Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God in His mercy
Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future will keep us.
For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration,
When He so hardly chastised us, He now is continually blessing,
Constantly shielding, as man the apple of His eye watches over,
Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of His members?
Shall He in time to come not defend us and furnish us succor?
Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is His power.
Shall He this blooming town which He once by industrious burghers
Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterward blessed with abundance,
Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing?"
 
 
Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and kindly:
"Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide in this temper;
For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair, and when evil,
Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the sublimest."
 
 
Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly:
"Often the Rhine's broad stream have I with astonishment greeted,
As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business.
Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted.
But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly
Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman,
And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder.
See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us,
And thus protects us the Lord, who then will be weakly despondent?
Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful.
Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for,
Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te Deum is rising,
Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,—
Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor,
Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar,
Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored,
My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing!
But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active
Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward.
Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others;
Nay, he will even avoid young ladies' society wholly;
Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in."
 
 
Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance
Clattering of horses' hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon,
Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway.