EXTRACTS FROM GERMAN LITERATURE.
Reading edition
WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE.
As an introduction to a brief extract upon Walther von der Vogelweide, we give Longfellow’s beautiful little poem:
WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. Vogelweide the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg’s minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest; Saying, “From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long.” Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o’er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air. On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet’s sculptured face, On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before. There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweide. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, “Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood.” Then in vain o’er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests. Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir. Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister’s funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet’s bones. But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweide.
Walther’s lyrical poems are distinguished from those of most of his contemporaries by a strong impress of sincerity and a wide range of thought.
When he hails the coming of the spring after a long winter, he imitates in the gladness of his heart the carols of the birds, and goes on in melodious verses to speak of the beauty of the lady to whom he dedicates his song, but whom he never names. In the next song the reader, to his surprise, will find the minstrel changed into a satirist, who denounces the political and religious corruptions of his time, rebukes the Pope for his worldly ambition and predicts a speedy ruin of the world. These are not all the notes of the scale on which his songs are constructed. As a specimen of his lighter and more popular style, the following strophe in praise of German women may serve:
In many foreign lands I’ve been And knights and ladies there have seen; But here alone I find my rest— Old Germany is still the best; Some other lands have pleased me well; But here—’tis here I choose to dwell. German men have virtues rare, And German maids are angels fair.
He rises to a higher strain than this in other lyrics, where he places domestic virtue above external beauty, and speaks of minne in the higher interpretation of the word. “Even where it can not be returned,” he says, “if devoted to one worthy of it, it ennobles a man’s life. His affection for one teaches him to be kind and generous to all.” Walther pleasantly describes himself as by no means good-looking, and censures all praise bestowed on men for their merely exterior advantages. And he is no fanatical worshiper of feminine beauty, affirming that it may sometimes be a thin mask worn over bad passions.
With regard to their moral and social purport the verses of Walther have a considerable historical interest. They show us how insecurely the Church held the faith and loyalty of German men in the thirteenth century.
Walther is bold and violent in his defiance and contempt of the Pope’s usurpation of temporal authority. Referring in one place to a fable commonly believed in his times, he says: “When Constantine gave the spear of temporal power, as well as the spear and the crown to the See of Rome, the angels in heaven lamented, and well they might; for that power is now abused to annoy the emperor and to stir up the princes, his vassals against him.” The poet was as earnest in dissuading the people from contributing money to support the Crusades. “Very little of it,” he says, “will ever find its way into the Holy Land. The Pope is now filling his Italian coffers with our German silver.” This saying seems to have been very popular for a tame moralist who lived in Walther’s time complains that, by making such statements, the poet was perverting the faith of many people. “All his fine verses,” the moralist adds, “will not atone for that bad libel on Rome.” Yet the author of it was quite orthodox in doctrine, and was enthusiastic in his zeal for rescuing the Holy Sepulcher from the Saracens.
Many of his verses express earnestly his love for his native land, and his grief for social and political disorders of his times. He believes that the world is falling a prey to anarchy. “I hear the rushing of the water,” he says, “and I watch the movements of the fish that swim in its depth. I explore the habits of the creatures of this world in the forest and in the field, from the beast of the field down to the insect, and I find that there is nowhere any life that is not vexed by anarchy and strife. Warfare is found everywhere, and yet some order is preserved even among animals; but in my own native land, where the petty princes are lifting themselves up against the emperor, we are hastening on to anarchy.” The course of events proved that he was too true in this prediction. Resignation and despair, rather than any hope of a reconciliation of religion with practical life, characterize other meditative poems. The following is one of the best of this class:
I sat one day upon a stone, And meditated long, alone, While resting on my hand my head, In silence to myself I said: “How, in these days of care and strife, Shall I employ my fleeting life? Three precious jewels I require To satisfy my heart’s desire: The first is honor, bright and clear, The next is wealth, and far more dear, The third is heaven’s approving smile;” Then, after I had mused a while I saw that it was vain to pine For these three pearls in one small shrine; To find within one heart a place For honor, wealth, and heavenly grace; For how can one in days like these Heaven and the world together please? —From “Outlines of German Literature” —Gostwick and Harrison.
HANS SACHS.
Riches of Poverty. Why art thou cast down, my heart? Why trouble, why dost mourn apart, O’er naught but earthly wealth? Trust in thy God, be not afraid, He is thy friend, who all things made! Dost think thy prayers he doth not heed? He knows full well what thou dost need; And heaven and earth are his! My Father and my God, who still Is with my soul in every ill. The rich man in his wealth confides; But in my God my trust abides. Laugh as ye will, I hold This one thing fast, that He hath taught: Who trusts in God shall want for naught. Yes, Lord: thou art as rich to-day As thou hast been, and shall be aye: I rest on thee alone; Thy riches to my soul be given, And ’tis enough for earth and heaven.
The legends of Hans Sachs are all pointed with satire. Readers now-a-days find in them a coarseness which jars their ideas of reverence and refinement, but which in the sixteenth century was in perfect keeping with the popular taste. One of the best of his legends is that of “St. Peter and the Goat.” “We are told that once upon a time St. Peter was perplexed by an apparent prevalence of injustice in the world; and ventured to think that he could arrange matters better if he held the reins of government. He frankly confesses these thoughts to his Master. Meanwhile a peasant girl comes to him and complains that she has to do a hard day’s work, and at the same time to keep in order a frolicsome young goat. ‘Now,’ says the Lord to Peter, ‘you must have pity on this girl, and must take charge of the goat. That will serve as an introduction to your managing the affairs of the universe.’”
The legend goes on:
“The young goat had a playful mind And never liked to be confined; The Apostle at a killing pace, Followed the goat, in a desperate chase; Over the hills and among the briers The goat runs on and never tires, While Peter, behind, on the grassy plain, Runs on, panting and sighing in vain. All day, beneath a scorching sun, The good Apostle had to run Till evening came; the goat was caught And safely to the Master brought, Then, with a smile, to Peter said The Lord: ‘Well, friend, how have you sped? If such a task your powers has tried How could you keep the world so wide?’ Then Peter, with his toil distressed, His folly, with a sigh, confessed; ‘No, Master, ’tis for me no play To rule one goat for one short day; It must be infinitely worse To regulate the universe.’”
MARTIN LUTHER.
The Book of Psalms.
The heart of man is like a ship out on a wild sea, and driven by storm-winds blowing from all the four quarters of the world; now impelled by fear and care for coming evil, now disturbed by vexation and grief for present misfortune, now urged along by hope and a confidence of future good, now wafted by joy and contentment. These storm-winds of the soul teach us how to speak in good earnest, to open our hearts and to utter their contents. The man actually in want and fear does not express himself quietly, like a man who only talks about fear and want; a heart filled with joy utters itself and sings in a way not to be imitated by one who is all the time in fear; “It does not come from the heart,” men say, when a sorrowful man tries to laugh, or a merry man would weep.… Now of what does this book of Psalms mostly consist but of earnest expressions of the heart’s emotions—the storm-winds, as I have called them? Where are finer expressions of joy than the Psalms of praise and thanksgiving? There you look into the hearts of the saints, as if you looked into a fair and delightful garden, aye, or into heaven itself—and you see how lovely and pleasant flowers are springing up there out of manifold happy and beautiful thoughts of God and all His mercies.… But again, where will you find deeper, more mournful and pitiful words of sorrow than in the Psalms devoted to lamentation? I conclude then that the Psalter is a hand-book for religious men, wherein every one, whatever may be his condition, may find words that will rhyme with it; and Psalms as exactly fitted to suit his wants as if they had been written solely for his benefit.—From the Preface to Luther’s Book of Psalms.
Light in Despondency. When the sky is black and lowering, when thy path in life is drear, Upward lift thy steadfast glances, ’mid the maze of sorrow here. From the beaming Fount of Gladness shall descend a radiance bright, And the grave shall be a garden, and the house of darkness light, For the Lord will hear and answer when in faith his people pray; Whatsoe’er he hath appointed shall but work thee good alway. E’en thy very hairs are numbered, God commands when one shall fall; And the Lord is with his people, helping each and blessing all.
Our Defense. A strong tower is the Lord our God, To shelter and defend us; Our shield his arm, our sword his rod Against our foes befriend us. That ancient enemy— His gathering powers we see, His terror and his toils; Yet victory with its spoils Not earth but heaven shall send us! Though wrestling with the wrath of hell, No might of man avail us, Our captain is Immanuel, And angel comrades hail us! Still challenge ye his name? “Christ in the flesh who came”— The Lord, the Lord of Hosts! Our cause his succor boasts; And God shall ne’er fail us! While mighty truth with us remain, Hell’s arts shall move us never; Nor parting friendship, honors, gains, Our love from Jesus sever: They leave us when they part With him a peaceful heart; And when from dust we rise, Death yields us as he dies, The crown of life forever!
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING.
The Parable of “The Three Kings,” from “Nathan the Wise.” In the oldest times, and in an eastern land, There lived a man who had a precious ring. This gem—an opal of a hundred tints— Had such a virtue as would make the wearer Who trusted it, beloved by God and man. What wonder, if the man who had this ring Preserved it well, and, by his will, declared It should forever in his house remain? At last when death came near, he called the son Whom he loved best, and gave to him the ring, With one strict charge:—“My son, when you must die, Let this be given to your own darling child— The son whom you love best, without regard To any rights of birth.”—’Twas thus the ring Was always passed on to the best-beloved. Sultaùn! you understand me? Saladin. Yea. Go on!— Nathan. A father, who, at last possessed this ring Had three dear sons—all dutiful and true— All three alike beloved.—But, at one time, This son, and then another, seemed most dear— Most worthy of the ring; and it was given, By promise, first to this son, then to that, Until it might be claimed by all the three. At last, when death drew nigh, the father felt His heart distracted by the doubt to whom The ring was due. He could not favor one And leave two sons in grief! How did he act? He called a goldsmith in, gave him the gem, And bade him make exactly of that form, Two other rings, and spare nor cost nor pains To make all three alike. And this was done So well, the owner of the first, true ring, Could find no shade of difference in the three. And now he called his sons—one at a time— He gave to each a blessing and a ring— One of the three—and died— Saladin. Well, well. Go on. Nathan. My tale is ended. You may guess the sequel:— The father dies; immediately each son Comes forward with his ring, and asks to be Proclaimed as head and ruler of the house; All three assert one claim, and show their rings— All made alike. To find the first—the true— It was as great a puzzle as for us— To find the one true faith. Saladin. Is that, then, all the answer I must have? Nathan. ’Tis my apology, if I decline To act as judge, or to select the ring— The one, true gem, of three all made alike; All given by one— Saladin. There! talk no more of “rings.” The three religions, that, at first, were named, Are all distinct—aye, down to dress—food—drink— Nathan. Just so! and yet their claims are all alike, As founded upon history, on facts Believed, and handed down from sire to son, Uniting them in faith. Can we—the Jews— Distrust the testimony of our race? Distrust the men who gave us birth, whose love Did ne’er deceive us; but when we were babes, Taught us, by means of fables, for our good? Must you distrust your own true ancestors, To flatter mine?—or must a Christian doubt His father’s words, and so agree with ours?— Saladin. Allah!—the Israelite is speaking truth, And I am silenced— Nathan. Let me name the rings Once more!—The sons at last, in bitter strife, Appeared before a judge, and each declared He had the one true gem, given by his father; All said the same, and all three spoke the truth; Each, rather than suspect his father’s word, Accused his brethren of a fraud—. Saladin. What then? What sentence could the judge pronounce? Go on. Nathan. Thus said the judge:—“Go, bring your father here; Let him come forth! or I dismiss the case. Must I sit guessing riddles? Must I wait Till the true ring shall speak out for itself?— But stay!—’twas said that the authentic gem Had virtue that could make its wearer loved By God and man. That shall decide the case. Tell me who of the three is best beloved By his two brethren. Silent?—Then the ring Hath lost its charm!—Each claimant loves himself, But wins no love. The rings are forgeries; ’Tis plain, the first, authentic gem was lost; To keep his word with you, and hide his loss, Your father had these three rings made—these three, Instead of one—” Saladin. Well spoken, judge, at last! Nathan. “But stay,” the judge continued; “hear one word— The best advice I have to give; then go.— Let each still trust the ring given by his father!— It might be, he would show no partial love; He loved all three, and, therefore, would not give The ring to one and grieve the other two. Go, emulate your father’s equal love. Let each first test his ring and show its power; But aid it, while you test; be merciful, Forbearing, kind to all men, and submit Your will to God. Such virtues shall increase Whatever powers the rings themselves may have; When these, among your late posterity, Have shown their virtue—in some future time, A thousand thousand years away from now— Then hither come again!—A wiser man Than one now sitting here will hear you then, And will pronounce the sentence.” Saladin. Allah! Allah! Nathan. Now, Saladin, art thou that “wiser man?” Art thou the judge who will, at last, pronounce The sentence? [Saladin grasps Nathan’s hand, and holds to the end of the conversation. Saladin. I the judge?—I’m dust! I’m nothing! ’Tis Allah!—Nathan, now I understand; The thousand thousand years have not yet passed; The judge is not yet come; I must not place Myself upon his throne! I understand— Farewell, dear Nathan! Go.—Be still my friend.
