TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN.

Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle,—wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind,— Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind. And so stands he calm and childlike! High in wind and tempest wild; O, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child! And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,— To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter’s frost and rime! O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! To love me in prosperity, And leave me in adversity! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example! So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings! The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example! The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain, In drought its springs soon dry again. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood! Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,— So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,— Through forests I’ll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

On the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling In his pierced and bleeding palm. And by all the world forsaken, Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, With its beak it doth not cease, From the cross ’twould free the Saviour, Its Creator’s Son release. And the Saviour speaks in mildness; “Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!” And that bird is called the Crossbill; Covered all with blood so clear. In the groves of pine it singeth Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care Who once has had it has despair.

Joy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor’s nose.

Manlike is it to fall into sin, Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave.

Live I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbour honestly, Die I, so die I.

A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.

A millstone and the human heart, are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; But, alas! it is now quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch’s fire, Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers’ ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.

The sea hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars; But my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love. Great are the sea and the heaven; Yet greater is my heart, And fairer than pearls and stars Flashes and beams my love. Thou little, youthful maiden, Come unto my great heart; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, Are melting away with love!

Into the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The Future’s pledge and band! Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms Into the Silent Land! O Land! O Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our faith allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land!

O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen From the cares which keep us still in prison. We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial. Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavour. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Who here would languish Longer in bewailing and in anguish? Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.

Whither, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou? “I am the Wave of Life, Stained with my margin’s dust; From the struggle and the strife Of the narrow stream I fly To the Sea’s immensity, To wash from me the slime Of the muddy banks of Time.”

“The rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow. “The clouds are passing far and high, We little birds in them play; And everything, that can sing and fly, Goes with us, and far away. “I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, With thy fluttering golden band?“— “I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea I haste from the narrow land. “Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill, I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still. “And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house With merry companions all.”— “I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. “High over the sails, high over the mast, Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. “Who neither may rest, nor listen may, God bless them every one! I dart away, in the bright blue day, And the golden fields of the sun. “Thus do I sing my weary song, Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know.”

There sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine. The landlord’s daughter filled their cups Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. But, when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, “Long live the Swabian land! “The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there.” “Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,— And dashed his beard with wine; “I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine! “The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!” “Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!” A bold Bohemian cries; “If there’s a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies. “There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn.”

And then the landlord’s daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, “Ye may no more contend,— There lies the happiest land!”

I heard a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear. I know not what came o’er me, Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave. Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going? Whither, O brooklet, say! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away. What do I say of a murmur? That can no murmur be; ’Tis the water-nymphs that are singing Their roundelays under me. Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear.

I know a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie! Bell! thou soundest merrily; Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh! Bell! thou soundest mournfully; Tellest thou the bitter Parting hath gone by! Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice? Thou art but metal dull! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm!

How they so softly rest, All, all the holy dead, Unto whose dwelling-place Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest, All in their silent graves, Deep to corruption Slowly down sinking! And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies! And by the cypresses Softly o’ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber!

“Hast thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously. “And fain it would stoop downward To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward In the evening’s crimson glow.” “Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly.” “The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme?” “The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly; But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to mine eye.” “And sawest thou on the turrets The King and his royal bride! And the wave of their crimson mantles? And the golden crown of pride? “Led they not forth, in rapture, A beauteous maiden there? Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair?” “Well saw I the ancient parents; Without the crown of pride; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side!”

I. Thou that from the heaven’s art, Every pain and sorrow stillest, And the doubly wretched heart Doubly with refreshment fillest. I am weary with contending! Why this rapture and unrest? Peace descending Come, ah, come into my breast! II. O’er all the hill-tops Is quiet now, In all the tree-tops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees. Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest.

’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sadness, Thus began the King and spake; “So from the halls Of ancient Hofburgh’s walls, A luxuriant spring shall break.” Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly. From balcony the King looked on; In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers, Before the monarch’s stalwart son. To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. “Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!” “Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear; I am a Prince of mighty sway!” When he rode into the lists, The arch of heaven grew black with mists, And the castle ’gan to rock. At the first blow, Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock. Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high hall glances; Waves a mighty shadow in; With manner bland Doth ask the maiden’s hand, Doth with her the dance begin; Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around. From breast and hair Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground. To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame. ’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought. Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took; “Golden wine will make you whole!” The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank; “Oh, that draught was very cool!” Each the father’s breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces Colourless grow utterly. Whichever way Looks the fear-struck father grey, He beholds his children die. “Woe! the blessed children both Takest thou in the joy of youth; Take me, too, the joyless father!” Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast, “Roses in the spring I gather!”

Who love would seek, Let him love evermore And seldom speak; For in love’s domain Silence must reign; Or it brings the heart Smart And pain.

Of Edenhall, the youthful lord Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all, “Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!” The butler hears the words with pain, The house’s oldest seneschal Takes slow from its silken cloth again The drinking glass of crystal tall; They call it the Luck of Edenhall. Then said the lord: “This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!” The grey-beard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, “This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it: If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! “’Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly; And willingly ring, with merry call, Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!” First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Like to the sound of a nightingale; Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last like the thunder’s fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. “For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang! with a harder blow than all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!” As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! In storms the foe, with fire and sword; He in the night had scaled the wall, Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The grey-beard in the desert-hall, He seeks his lord’s burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. “The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!”

A youth, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world: Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life A blessed child I rocked. I wake! Away that dream,—away! Too long did it remain! So long, that both by night and day It ever comes again. The end lies ever in my thought; To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep. But now the dream is wholly o’er, I bathe mine eyes and see; And wander through the world once more, A youth so light and free. Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,— Left me that vision mild; The brown is from the mother’s hair, The blonde is from the child. And when I see that lock of gold, Pale grows the evening-red; And when the dark lock I behold, I wish that I were dead.

How I started up in the night, in the night, Drawn on without rest or reprieval, The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight As I wandered so light In the night, in the night, Through the gate with the arch mediæval. The mill-brook rushed through the rocky height, I leaned o’er the bridge in my yearning; Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight, As they glided so light In the night, in the night, Yet backward not one was returning. O’erhead were revolving, so countless and bright, The stars in melodious existence; And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;— They sparkled so light In the night, in the night, Through the magical measureless distance. And upward I gazed, in the night, in the night, And again on the waves in their fleeting; Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, Now silence thou light In the night, in the night, The Remorse in thy heart that is beating.