Sober come I, free from fever,
On a very sober errand;
And of Margaretha's father
Ask, once more, her hand in marriage."
Darkly frowning spake the baron:
"Do you force me, then, to tell you
What your own wit should have taught you? Sore averse am I to meet you
With harsh earnest; for the pike-thrust,
That so late your forehead suffered,
Have I not forgotten; neither
In whose service you received it.
Yet he only may look upward
To my child, whose noble lineage
Makes such union meet and fitting.
For each one of us has nature
Limits strait and wise appointed,
Where, within our proper circle,
We may fitly thrive and prosper.
From the Holy Roman Empire
Has come down the social order
Threefold, Noble, Burgess, Peasant:
Each, within itself included,
From itself itself renewing,
Full of health abides and hearty.
Each is thus a sturdy pillar
Which the whole supports, but never
Prospers any intermixture.
Wot ye what that has for issue?
Grandsons who of all have something
Yet are altogether nothing;
Shallow, empty, feeble mongrels,
Tottering, unloosed and shaken
From tradition's steadfast foothold.
Sharp-edged, perfect, must each man be;
And within his veins, as heirloom
From the foregone generations,
He should bear his life's direction.
Therefore equal rank in marriage
Is demanded by our usage,
Which, by me, as law is honored,
And across its fast-fixed ramparts
I will have no stranger scramble.
Item: Shall no trumpet-blower
Dare to court a noble maiden!"
Thus the baron. Sorely troubled
By such serious and unwonted
Theoretic disquisition,
Had he pieced his words together.
By the stove the cat was lying,
Hiddigeigei, listening heedful,
With his head approval nodding
At the close. Yet, musing, pressed he
With his paw upon his forehead,
Deep within himself reflecting:-
"Why do people kiss each other?
Ancient question, new misgiving!
For I thought that I had solved it,-
Thought a kiss was an expedient
Swift another's lips to padlock,
That no word of cruel candor
Issue forth. But this solution
Is, I fear me, quite fallacious;
Else my youthful friend most surely
Would long since have kissed my master."
To the baron spake young Werner,
And his voice was low and muffled:-
"Sire, I thank you for your lesson.
In the glamour of the pine-woods,
In the May month's radiant sunshine,
By the river's crystal billows,
Did mine eyes o'erlook the ramparts
Raised by men, which lay between us.
Thanks for this reminder timely.
Thanks, too, for the hours so joyous
I have spent beneath your roof-tree.
But my span is run: the order
'Right about!' your words have given me.
And in sooth, I make no murmur.
As a suitor worthy of her
One day I return, or never.
Fare you well! Think kindly of me."
So he said, and left the chamber,
Knowing well what lay before him.
Long, with troubled mien, the baron
Scanned the door through which he vanished.
"Sooth, it grieves me sore," he muttered.
"If the brave lad's name were only Damian von Wildenstein!”
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
Ah, who was it first conceived thee?
Sure, some chilly-hearted mortal
By the distant Arctic Ocean.
Freezing blew the North Pole zephyrs
Round his nose; sore pestered was he
By his wife, unkempt and jealous.
E'en the whale's delicious blubber
Tickled not his jaded palate.
O'er his ears a yellow sealskin
Drew he; in his fur-gloved right hand
Grasped his staff, and nodding curtly
To his stolid Ylaleyka,
Uttered first those words ill-omened,"Fare thee well, for I must leave thee."
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
In his turret chamber, Werner
Girded up his few belongings,
Girded up his slender knapsack,
Threw a last regretful greeting
To the whitewashed walls familiar-
Loth to part, as from old comrades.
Farewell spake he to none other.
Margaretha's eyes of azure
Dared he never more encounter.
To the castle court descending,
Saddled swift his faithful palfrey;
Then there rang an iron hoof-fall,
And a drooping, joyless rider
Left the castle's peace behind him.
In the lowland by the river
Grows a walnut-tree. Beneath it
Once again he reined his palfrey,-
Once again he grasped his trumpet.
From his sorrow-laden spirit
Upward soared his farewell greeting,
Winged with saddest love and longing.
Soared-ah, dost thou know the fable
Of the song the swan sang dying?
At her heart was chill foreboding,
But she sought the lake's clear waters
Yet once more, and through the roses,
Through the glistening water-lilies,
Rose her plaintive song regretful:-
"Fairest world, 'tis mine to leave thee;
Fairest world, I die unwilling!"
Thus he blew. Was that a tear-drop
Falling, glancing, on the trumpet?
Was it but a summer rain-drop?
Onward now! His spurs relentless
In his palfrey's flanks he buried,
And was borne in rousing gallop
To the outskirts of the forest.
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen'
HIS is the bitterness of life's long story,—
That ever near the rose the thorns are set;
Poor heart, that dwells at first in dreams of glory,
The parting comes, and eyes with tears are wet.
Ah, once I read thine eyes, thy spirit's prison,
And love and joy in their clear depths could see:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Long had I borne with envy, hate, and sorrow,
Weary and worn, by many a tempest tried;
I dreamed of peace and of a bright to-morrow,
And lo! my pathway led me to thy side.
I longed within thine arms to rest; then, risen
In strength and gladness, give my life to thee:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Winds whirl the leaves, the clouds are driven together,
Through wood and meadow beats a storm of rain:
To say farewell 'tis just the fitting weather,
For like the sky, the world seems gray with pain. Yet good nor ill shall shake my heart's decision; Thou slender maid, I still must dream of thee! May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision; May God protect thee! it was not to be.
|