Volume 5 / Book 3 — ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO

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THE CASTLE OF BONCOURT[37] (1827)

I dream of the days of my childhood, And shake my silvery head. How haunt ye my brain, O visions, Methought ye forgotten and dead!

From the shades of the forest uprises A castle so lofty and great; Well know I the battlements, towers, The arching stone-bridge, and the gate.

The lions look down from the scutcheon On me with familiar face; I greet the old friends of my boyhood, And speed through the courtyard space.

There lies the Sphinx by the fountain; The fig-tree's foliage gleams; 'Twas there, behind yon windows, I dreamt the first of my dreams.

I tread the aisle of the chapel, And search for my fathers' graves— Behold them! And there from the pillars Hang down the old armor and glaives.

Not yet can I read the inscription; A veil hath enveloped my sight, What though through the painted windows Glows brightly the sunbeam's light. Thus gleams, O hall of my fathers, Thy image so bright in my mind, From the earth now vanished, the ploughshare Leaves of thee no vestige behind.

Be fruitful, lov'd soil, I will bless thee, While anguish o'er-cloudeth my brow; Threefold will I bless him, whoever May guide o'er thy bosom the plough.

But I will up, up, and be doing; My lyre I'll take in my hand; O'er the wide, wide earth will I wander, And sing from land to land.

[Illustration: ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO]

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THE LION'S BRIDE[38]

With myrtle bedecked and in bridal array, Comes the keeper's fair daughter, as blooming as May. She enters the cage of the lion; he lies Calm and still at her feet and looks up in her eyes.

The terrible beast, of whom men are afraid, Lies peaceful and tame at the feet of the maid, While she, in her tender adorable grace, Is stroking his head as the tears stain her face.

"In the days that are gone, we were playmates so true; Like brother and sister we played, I and you. Our love was still constant in joy or in pain— But alas for the days that will ne'er come again!

"You learned to toss proudly your glorious head, And roar, as you tossed it, a warning of dread; I grew from a babe to a woman—you see, No longer a light-hearted child I can be.

"Oh, would that those days had had never an end, My splendid strong playmate, my noble old friend! But soon I must go, so my parents decree, Away with a stranger—no more am I free.

"A man has beheld me, and fancied me fair; He has asked for my hand—and the wreath's in my hair! Dear faithful old comrade, my girlhood is dead; And my sight is bedimmed with the tears I have shed.

"Do you know what I mean? Ah, your look is a sign! I have made up my mind, and you need not repine. But yonder he comes who must lead me away— So I'll give the last kiss to my playmate today!"

As the last fond farewell with reluctance she took, The huge frame so trembled the bars even shook; But when, drawing near a strange man he espied, A sudden alarm seized the heart of the bride.

The lion stands guard by the door of the cage— He is lashing his tail, he is roaring with rage. With threats, with entreaties she bids him to cease, But in vain—in his might he denies her release.

Without are confusion and cries of despair "Bring a gun!" shouts the bridegroom; "our one hope is there! I will snatch her away from his horrible claws * * *" But the lion defies him with foam-dripping jaws.

The girl makes a last frenzied dash for the door— But his past love the beast seems to measure no more; The sweet slender body goes down 'neath his might, All bleeding and lifeless, a pitiful sight.

Then, as if he knew well what a crime he had wrought, He throws himself down by her, caring for naught; He lies all unheeding what dangers remain, Till the bullet avenging speeds swift through his brain.

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WOMAN'S LOVE AND LIFE[39] (1830)

1

Since mine eyes beheld him, Blind I seem to be; Wheresoe'er they wander, Him alone they see. Round me glows his image, In a waking dream; From the darkness rising Brighter doth it beam.

All is drear and gloomy That around me lies; Now my sister's pastimes I no longer prize; In my chamber rather Would I weep alone; Since my eyes beheld him Blind methinks I'm grown.

2

He, the best of all, the noblest, O how gentle! O how kind Lips of sweetness, eyes of brightness, Steadfast courage, lucid mind.

As on high, in Heaven's azure, Bright and splendid, beams yon star, Thus he in my heaven beameth, Bright and splendid, high and far.

Wander, wander where thou listest, I will gaze but on thy beam; With humility behold it, In a sad, yet blissful dream.

Hear me not thy bliss imploring With prayer's silent eloquence? Know me now, a lowly maiden, Star of proud magnificence!

May thy choice be rendered happy By the worthiest alone! And I'll call a thousand blessings Down on her exalted throne.

Then I'll weep with tears of gladness; Happy, happy then my lot! If my heart should rive asunder, Break, O heart—it matters not!

3

Is it true? O, I cannot believe it; A dream doth my senses enthrall; O can he have made me so happy, And exalted me thus above all?

Meseems as if he had spoken, "I am thine, ever faithful and true!" Meseems—O still am I dreaming— It cannot, it cannot be true!

O fain would I, rocked on his bosom, In the sleep of eternity lie; That death were indeed the most blissful, In the rapture of weeping to die.

4

Help me, ye sisters, Kindly to deck me, Me, O the happy one, aid me this morn! Let the light finger Twine the sweet myrtle's Blossoming garland, my brow to adorn!

As on the bosom Of my loved one, Wrapt in the bliss of contentment, I lay, He, with soft longing In his heart thrilling, Ever impatiently sighed for today.

Aid me, ye sisters, Aid me to banish Foolish anxieties, timid and coy, That I with sparkling Eye may receive him, Him the bright fountain of rapture and joy.

Do I behold thee, Thee, my beloved one, Dost thou, O sun, shed thy beam upon me? Let me devoutly, Let me in meekness Bend to my lord and my master the knee!

Strew, ye fair sisters, Flowers before him, Cast budding roses around at his feet! Joyfully quitting Now your bright circle, You, lovely sisters, with sadness I greet.

5

Dearest friend, thou lookest On me with surprise, Dost thou wonder wherefore Tears suffuse mine eyes? Let the dewy pearl-drops Like rare gems appear, Trembling, bright with gladness, In their crystal sphere.

With what anxious raptures Doth my bosom swell! O had I but language What I feel to tell! Come and hide thy face, love, Here upon my breast, In thine ear I'll whisper Why I am so blest.

Now the tears thou knowest Which my joy confessed, Thou shalt not behold them, Thou, my dearest, best; Linger on my bosom, Feel its throbbing tide; Let me press thee firmly, Firmly, to my side!

Here may rest the cradle, Close my couch beside, Where it may in silence My sweet vision hide; Soon will come the morning, When my dream will wake, And thy smiling image Will to life awake.

6

Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best! Bliss, thou art love; O love, thou art bliss— I've said it, and seal it here with a kiss. I thought no happiness mine could exceed, But now I am happy, O happy indeed! She only, who to her bosom hath pressed The babe who drinketh life at her breast; 'Tis only a mother the joys can know Of love, and real happiness here below. How I pity man, whose bosom reveals No joys like that which a mother feels! Thou look'st on me, with a smile on thy brow, Thou dear, dear little angel, thou! Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!

7

Ah, thy first wound hast thou inflicted now! But oh! how deep! Hard-hearted, cruel man, now sleepest thou Death's long, long sleep.

I gaze upon the void in silent grief, The world is drear; I've lived and loved, but now the verdant leaf Of life is sere.

I will retire within my soul's recess, The veil shall fall; I'll live with thee and my past happiness, O thou, my all!

[Illustration: Permission Franz Hanfstaengl, New York MORITZ VON SCHWIND THE WEDDING JOURNEY]

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THE WOMEN OF WEINSBERG[40] (1831)

It was the good King Konrad with all his army lay Before the town of Weinsberg full many a weary day; The Guelph at last was vanquished, but still the town held out; The bold and fearless burghers they fought with courage stout.

But then came hunger, hunger! That was a grievous guest; They went to ask for favor, but anger met their quest. "Through you the dust hath bitten full many a worthy knight, And if your gates you open, the sword shall you requite!"

Then came the women, praying: "Let be as thou hast said, Yet give us women quarter, for we no blood have shed!" At sight of these poor wretches the hero's anger failed, And soft compassion entered and in his heart prevailed.

"The women shall be pardoned, and each with her shall bear As much as she can carry of her most precious ware; The women with their burdens unhindered forth shall go, Such is our royal judgment—we swear it shall be so!"

At early dawn next morning, ere yet the east was bright, The soldiers saw advancing a strange and wondrous sight; The gate swung slowly open, and from the vanquished town Forth swayed a long procession of women weighted down;

For perched upon her shoulders each did her husband bear— That was the thing most precious of all her household ware. "We'll stop the treacherous women!" cried all with one intent; The chancellor he shouted: "This was not what we meant!"

But when they told King Konrad, the good King laughed aloud; "If this was not our meaning, they've made it so," he vowed, "A promise is a promise, our loyal word was pledge; It stands, and no Lord Chancellor may quibble or map hedge."

Thus was the royal scutcheon kept free from stain or blot! The story has descended from days now half forgot; 'Twas eleven hundred and forty this happened, as I've heard, The flower of German princes thought shame to break his word.

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THE CRUCIFIX[41] (1830)

In hopeless contemplation of his work The master stood, a frown upon his brow, Where shame and self-contempt appeared to lurk.

With all his art and knowledge he had now Portrayed the suffering Savior's image there— Yet could the marble not with life endow.

He could not make it live, for all his care— What is not flesh knows not to suffer pain; Cold stone can none but stone's cold likeness bear.

Beauty and due proportion though it gain, The chisel's marks will never disappear And nature wake, howe'er his prayer may strain:

"Ah, turn not from me, Nature! Thou most dear, I long to raise thee to undreamed of height— But thou art dumb * * * a sorry bungler's here!"

There entered then a loyal neophyte, Who looked with reverence on the master's art And stood beside him, flushed with new delight.

To the same muse was given his young heart, The selfsame quest of beauty filled his days— Yet must his soul with endless failure smart.

To him the master: "Scorn is in thy praise! If so this dull, dead stone thy mind can fill, To death, not life, thou must have turned thy face!"

Then boldly spoke the youth: "Admire I will! What though thy Christ for death's repose prepare So strangely silent and so strangely still,

Yet at a great thing greatly wrought I stare, And long to match the marvel that I see; I see what is, and thou what should be there."

The master looked upon him silently, His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine, And deemed there were no model such as he.

"A prey thou find'st me to despair malign— How get from lifeless marble life and pain? Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine.

To seek a hireling's aid were all in vain; And sought I thine, though partner of my aims, Naught but a cold refusal should I gain."

"Nay," said the youth, "in art's and God's high names, I would perform unwearied, unafraid, Whate'er of me thy need transcendent claims."

He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed, Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace Within the guarded workshop's sacred shade.

Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase A thought that rose unbidden to his mind— If pain upon that form its lines could trace!

"The help thou off'rest if I am to find, Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * *" Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned.

With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound, Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails— A martyr's death must close the destined round!

The first sharp nail went through, and piteous wails Burst from the youth, but no compassion woke; An eager eye the look of suffering hails.

With restless haste redoubled, stroke on stroke Achieved the bleeding model that he sought. Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.

A hideous joy upon his features wrought— For nature now each shade of anguished woe Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.

Unceasing worked his hands, above, below; His heart was to all human feeling dead— But in the marble * * * life began to show!

Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head, Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth, Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.

The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death, As night the third long day of agony Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,

"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?" The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease, The awful crime has reached its term—and see

There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!

II

"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?" At midnight in the minster rang the wail; Who could have raised it? 'Twas a mystery.

At the high altar, where its radiance pale A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.

And then it dashed itself upon the ground, Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept; The vaulted roof reëchoed with the sound.

Long was the vigil that dim figure kept That seemed by tears so strangely comforted; None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.

At last the night's mysterious hours were sped And day returned; but all was silent now, And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.

The faithful came before their God to bow, The canons to the altar reverently. There had been placed above it, none knew how,

A crucifix whose like none e'er did see; Thus, only thus had God His strength put by, Thus had He looked upon the blood-stained tree.

To Him whose suffering brought salvation nigh Came sinners for release, a contrite band— And "Christ have mercy!" was the general cry.

It seems not like the work of mortal hand hand— Who can have set the godlike image there? Who in the dead of night such offering planned?

It is the master's, who with anxious care Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn, To show the utmost that his art can dare.

What shall we bring him for his ease foregone And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed— His head a crown of laurel shall put on!—

So soon a great procession was decreed Of priests and laymen; marching in the van Went one who bore the recompense agreed.

They came where dwelt the venerated man— And found an open door, an empty house; They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.

The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears To see the grateful people pay their vows.

He is not there, the grave assemblage hears; A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.

From room to room they went—their pains were lost; In all the desolate chambers there was none That answered them, or came to play the host.

They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun Through opened windows—in their anxious round Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,

Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!

III

They have brought a captive home, and raging told That he is stained with foulest blasphemy, Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.

It is the pilgrim we were used to see For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade, Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.

Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid A Christian's courage show in face of wrong? God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!

Ah yes—though life is sweet, his will is strong, His mind made up; he yields him to their hands, Content to shed his blood in torment long.

Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands And merciless prepare a hideous deed— Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!

He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed? I see a wondrous radiance in his face, As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!

Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace Toward the blood-stained spot—it is to be. The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.

"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me When to the cross the tender youth I bound— My heart of stone ignored his misery."

So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found The path of expiation, firmly trod, Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.

"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God, Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end? I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,

Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend. 'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * * Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"

So when the ruffian captors seized him there And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled; 'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.

And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild, And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high, White peace came down upon his soul defiled.

In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still— His suffering was one long atoning cry.

The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will He yet found strength his torment dire to face. The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;

And as the glory of its parting rays He strove with glazing eye once more to see, With his last breath he cried in joyful praise

"My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!"

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THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)

Once a strange old man went singing, Words of scornful admonition To the streets and markets bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Slowly, slowly seek your mission; Naught in haste, or rash endeavor— From the work yet ceasing never Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!

Time's great branches cease from shaking; Blind are ye, devoid of reason, If its fruit ye would be taking When its blossoms have but burst. Let it ripen to its season, Wind within its branches bluster— Of itself the fruits 'twill muster For whose juices ripe ye thirst."

Wild, excited crowds are scorning In their guise the gray old singer, Thus reward him for his warning, Ape his songs in mockery: "Shall we let the fellow linger To disgrace us? Stone him, beat him, With the scorn he merits treat him— Let the world his folly see!"

So the strange old man went singing, To the halls of royal splendor Scornful admonition bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Doubt not, dream not of surrender: Forward, forward, never ceasing, Strength in spite of all increasing— Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!

With the stream, before the breezes Wouldst thou show thy strength, then teach it Both to conquer as it pleases— Both are weaker than the grave. Choose thy port, and steer to reach it! Threatening rocks? The rudder's master; Turning back is sure disaster, And its end beneath the wave."

One was seen to blench in terror, Flushing first, then sudden paling: "Who gave entrance—whose the error Let this madman pass along? All things show his wits are failing— Shall he daze our people's senses? Prison him with sure defenses, Silence hold his silly song!"

But the strange old man went singing Where within the tower they bound him— Calm and clear his answer ringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Though the people's hate surround him, Must the prophet still endeavor, From his mission ceasing never— Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!"

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THE OLD WASHERWOMAN[43] (1833)

Among yon lines her hands have laden, A laundress with white hair appears, Alert as many a youthful maiden, Spite of her five-and-seventy years. Bravely she won those white hairs, still Eating the bread hard toil obtain'd her, And laboring truly to fulfil The duties to which God ordain'd her.

Once she was young and full of gladness; She loved and hoped, was woo'd and won; Then came the matron's cares, the sadness No loving heart on earth may shun. Three babes she bore her mate; she pray'd Beside his sick-bed; he was taken; She saw him in the churchyard laid, Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken.

The task her little ones of feeding She met unfaltering from that hour; She taught them thrift and honest breeding, Her virtues were their worldly dower. To seek employment, one by one, Forth with her blessing they departed, And she was in the world alone, Alone and old, but still high-hearted.

With frugal forethought, self-denying, She gather'd coin and flax she bought, And many a night her spindle plying, Good store of fine-spun thread she wrought. The thread was fashion'd in the loom; She brought it home, and calmly seated To work, with not a thought of gloom, Her decent grave-clothes she completed.

She looks on them with fond elation, They are her wealth, her treasure rare, Her age's pride and consolation, Hoarded with all a miser's care. She dons the sark each Sabbath day, To hear the Word that faileth never; Well-pleased she lays it then away, Till she shall sleep in it forever.

Would that my spirit witness bore me That, like this woman, I had done The work my Master put before me, Duly from morn till set of sun. Would that life's cup had been by me Quaff'd in such wise and happy measure, And that I too might finally Look on my shroud with such meek pleasure.