Act 4 — THE WANDERER Imitated from Goethe’s “Der Wanderer”

God’s grace be thine, young woman And his, the boy who sucks That breast of thine. Here let me on the craggy scar, In shade of the great elm, My knapsack fling from me And rest me by thy side.

What business urges thee Now in the heat of day Along this dusty path? Bringest thou some city merchandise Into the country round? Thou smilest, stranger, At this my question.

No city merchandise I bring, Cool now the evening grows, Show me the rills Whence thou dost drink, My good young woman.

Here, up the rocky path, Go onward. Through the shrubs The path runs by the cot Wherein I dwell, On to the rills From whence I drink.

Traces of ordering human hands Betwixt the underwood. These stones thou hast not so disposed, Nature—thou rich dispensatress.

Yet further up.

With moss o’erlaid, an architrave! I recognize thee, plastic spirit, Thou hast impressed thy seal upon the stone.

Further yet, stranger.

Lo, an inscription whereupon I tread, But all illegible, Worn out by wayfarers are ye, Which should show forth your Master’s piety, Unto a thousand children’s children.

In wonder, stranger, dost thou gaze Upon these stones? Up yonder round my cot Are many such.

Up yonder?

Leftwards directly On through the underwood, Here!

Ye Muses! and ye Graces!

That is my cottage.

The fragments of a temple!

Here onwards on one side The rivulet flows From whence I drink.

Glowing, then hoverest Above thy sepulchre, Genius! Over thee Is tumbled in a heap Thy masterpiece, O thou undying one!

Wait till I bring the vessel That thou mayst drink.

Ivy hath clad around Thy slender form divine. How do ye upward strive From out the wreck, Twin columns! And thou, the solitary sister there, How do ye, With sombre moss upon your sacred heads, Gaze in majestic mourning down Upon these scattered fragments There at your feet, Your kith and kin! Where lie the shadows of the bramble bush, Concealed by wrack and earth, And the long grass wavers above. Nature dost then so hold in price Thy masterpiece’s masterpiece? Dost thou, regardless, shatter thus Thy sanctuary? Dost sow the thistles therein?

How the boy sleeps! Wouldst thou within the cottage rest, Stranger? Wouldst here Rather than ’neath the open heavens bide? Now it is cool. Here, take the boy. Let me go draw the water. Sleep, darling, sleep!

Sweet is thy rest. How, bathed in heavenly healthiness, Restful he breathes! Thou, born above the relics Of a most sacred past, Upon thee may its spirit rest. He whom it environeth Will in the consciousness of power divine Each day enjoy. Seedling so rich expand, The shining spring’s Resplendent ornament, In presence of thy fellows shine, And when the flower-sheathe fades and falls May from thy bosom rise The abounding fruit, And ripening, front the sun.

God bless him—and ever still he sleeps. Nought have I with this water clear Except a piece of bread to offer thee.

I give thee thanks. How gloriously all blooms around And groweth green!

My husband soon Home from the fields Returns. Stay, stay, O man, And eat with us thy evening bread.

Here do ye dwell?

There, between yonder walls, The cot. My father builded it Of brick, and of the wreckage stones. Here do we dwell. He gave me to a husbandman, And in our arms he died— Sweetheart—and hast thou slept? How bright he is—and wants to play. My rogue!

O Nature! everlastingly conceiving. Each one thou bearest for the joy of life, All of thy babes thou hast endowed Lovingly with a heritage—a Name. High on the cornice doth the swallow build, Of what an ornament she hides All unaware. The caterpillar round the golden bough Spins her a winter quarters for her young. Thus dost thou patch in ’twixt the august Fragments of bygone time For needs of thine—for thy own needs A hut. O men— Rejoicing over graves. Farewell, thou happy wife.

Thou wilt not stay?

God keep you safe And bless your boy.

A happy wayfaring!

Where doth the pathway lead me Over the mountain there?

To Cuma.

How far is it hence?

’Tis three good miles.

Farewell! O Nature! guide my way, The stranger’s travel-track Which over graves Of sacred times foregone I still pursue. Me to some covert guide, Sheltered against the north, And where from noontide’s glare A poplar grove protects. And when at eve I turn Home to the hut, Made golden with the sun’s last beam, Grant that such wife may welcome me, The boy upon her arm.