Part 2 — THE NUPTIALS OF THE SEASONS.
Friedrich von Schlegel translation
Deep buried in thought stood the new monarch. He was recalling Dreams of the midnight, and every wonderful tale, Which gathered he first from the heavenly flower, when stricken Gently by prophecy, love all-subduing he felt. He thought still he heard the accents deeply impressive, Just as the guest was deserting the circle of joy; Fleeting gleams of the moon illumined the clattering window, And in the breast of the youth there raged a passionate glow. Edda, whispered the monarch, what is the innermost longing In the bosom that loves? What his ineffable grief? Say it, for him would we comfort, the power is ours, and noble Be the time when thou art the joy of heaven again.-- "Were the times not so cold and morose, if were united Future with Present, and both with the holy Past time; Were the Spring linked to Autumn, and the Summer to Winter, Were into serious grace childhood with silver age fused; Then, O spouse of my heart, would dry up the fountain of sorrow, Every deep cherished wish would be secured to the soul." Thus spake the queen, and gladsomely clasped her the radiant beloved: Thou hast uttered in sooth to me a heavenly word, Which long ago over the lips of the deep-feeling hovered, But on thine alone first pure and in season did light. Quickly drive here the chariot, ourselves we will summon First the times of the year, then all the seasons of man.--
They ride to the sun, and first bring the Day, then the Night; then to the North, for Winter, then to the South, to find Summer; from the East they bring the Spring, from the West the Autumn. Then they hasten after Youth, next to Age, to the Past and to the Future.
This is all I have been able to give the reader from my own recollection, and from scattered words and hints in the papers of my friend. The accomplishment of this great task would have been a lasting memorial of a new poesy. In this notice I have preferred to be short and dry, rather than expose myself to the danger of adding anything from my own fancy. Perhaps many a reader will be grieved at the fragmentary character of these verses and words, as well as myself, who would not regard with any more devout sadness a piece of some ruined picture of Raphael or Corregio.
L. Tieck.