FIRST PART.

To the Schwarzwald soars my song, up To the Feldberg, where the last small Cluster of its comrade mountains Toward the south are boldly looking, And, all mailed in fir-tree armour, Keep good watch there on the Rhine. Be thou greeted, peaceful forest! Be ye greeted, ancient pine-trees, Ye, who oft beneath your shadow Me, the weary one, have sheltered. Oddly twisted, spread your roots down Deep within the earth's vast bowels, Strength from out those depths imbibing, While to us is closed the entrance. And you envy not a transient Human being's transient doings. Only smile;--his feast at Christmas You adorn with your young scions. In your sturdy trunks lives also Conscious life-sustaining power. Resin through your veins is coursing; And your dreamy thoughts are surging Slow and heavy, upward, downward. Oft I saw the clear and gummy Tears which from your bark were oozing, When a woodman's wanton axe-stroke Rudely felled some loved companion. Oft I heard your topmost summits Spirit-like together whisper. Then there breathed throughout my soul a Sweet mysterious solemn dreaming. Don't find fault then, if my song now Soars within the forest shades. 'Twas in March: still played the Winter Masquerade; the branches, laden With fantastical ice-crystals, To the ground were lowly drooping; Here and there, out of Earth's bosom Tender plants their heads were thrusting-- Wood-anemones and cowslips. As the patriarch, old Noah, At the time of the great Deluge, Sent the dove to reconnoitre: So with winter's ice sore burdened, With impatience sends the Earth forth These first flowers with a question, Asking, whether the oppressor Has not come to his last gasp yet. Blustering from the Feldberg's summit Now old Master Storm is rushing, And rejoices, through the dark dense Forest he again is blowing; Says: "I greet you, ancient comrades; Why I come, you know the reason-- They believe, poor mortal children, When they see me tearing, snatching Roughly some old hat away, I am only there to frighten. That would be a pretty business, Breaking chimneys, smashing windows, Scattering through the air some thatchings, Tearing some old woman's clothing Till she signs the cross in praying! But you fir-trees know me better, Me, the fair Spring's thorough cleaner, Who what's mouldy sweeps afar off-- Who what's rotten blows to pieces-- Who the earth's domain well cleanses, That his radiant Lord and Master Worthily may make his entrance. And you, noble forest comrades, Who so oft, with bronze-like foreheads, Bravely have withstood my rudeness, Ye whose trunks I have to thank for Many knocks against my skull-bone, Ye alone shall hear my secret: Soon the Spring himself he cometh, And then, when the buds are bursting, Lark and blackbird sing their carols, And with fervent heat the Spring sun Brightly on your heads is shining, Then remember me, the Storm-wind, Who to-day, with boisterous fury As his harbinger swept past." Speaking thus, he shook the tree-tops With great roughness; boughs are snapping, Branches falling, and a thick, fine Rain of pine-leaves crackles downward. But the fir-trees, quite indignant, Took small notice of this homage. From their summits rang the answer, Rather scolding, I should call it: "You unmannerly rude fellow! We will have no business with you, And regret much that the finest Lords have oft the rudest servants. To the Alps begone directly, There is sport fit for your humour; There stand walls of rock all barren; Entertain yourself with them there." Now, while thus the storm and fir-trees Held such converse with each other, Could be heard a horse's footfall. Toiling through the snow-piled wood-path Seeks his way a weary horseman; Gaily flutters in the storm-wind, To and fro, his long gray mantle, His fair curling locks are waving, And, from out the cocked-up hat there Boldly nods a heron's feather. On his lips was just appearing Such a downy beard as ladies Much admire, because it showeth That its bearer is a man, still One whose kisses will not wound them. But not many pretty lips had Felt the soft touch of this beard yet. Which, as if for fun and mischief, Snow and ice now decked with crystals. In his clear blue eyes were glowing Warmth and mildness, earnest meaning, And you could not doubt his fist would Strike a valiant blow, when needed, With the heavy basket-hilted Sword, which, worn suspended by a Black belt from his shoulder, well-nigh Grazed the ground as he was riding. Wound around his riding-doublet Was a sash, to which was tied the Richly-gilded shining trumpet, Which he often with his mantle Sheltered from the falling snow-flakes; But, whene'er the wind pierced through it, Bringing forth tones shrill and wailing; Then around his mouth there played a Sweet strange smile of melancholy. Silent through the forest's thicket On he rode, while often roving Were his glances--as the case is, When a wanderer for the first time Over unknown roads is travelling. Rough the path--the poor horse often In the snow was nearly sinking, And o'er gnarl'd and tangled branches Of the knotted pine-roots stumbling. And the rider, in ill-humour, Said: "Sometimes it is quite tedious, Through the world alone to travel. There are times, 'mid gloomy forests, When one longeth for companions. Since I bade farewell this morning To the good monks of St. Blasien, Lonely was the road and dreary. Scattered here and there, a peasant, Through the snow-storm running swiftly, Hardly did my greeting notice. Then a pair of coal-black ravens, Who with hoarse discordant croakings, O'er a dead mole fiercely quarrelled; For the past two hours, however, I not once have had the honour To behold one living being. And in this lone forest district, Where the lofty snow-clad pine-trees Look as if in shrouds enveloped, I should like to have some comrades. Were they even rogues or gipsies, Or those two suspicious fellows Who escorted the old knight once Through the forest's gloom and thicket; Then appeared as Death and Devil, Grinning in his face with scorn! I should rather ride with them now-- Rather fight them, or play lively Dances for them, than so lonely Thus to trot through this dense forest." All comes to an end, however, Even riding through the forests. Round the trunks it grew much lighter, Storm and snow-clouds were receding, And the blue sky smiled benignant Through the dense shade of the pine-woods. Thus the miner, looking upward. Sees, far at the pit's mouth shining. Like a star, the distant daylight, Which he greets with joyful shouting. Likewise such a cheerful feeling Brightens up our riders face. So he reached the forest's border, And his eyes, so long restricted By dark woods to narrow prospects, Gladly swept the wide horizon. O how lovely woods and fields lay! Green meads in the narrow valley, Straw-thatched huts, low-roofed and mossy. And the modest village steeple; Deep below, where dusky forests Stretch along unto the lowlands, Like a long bright streak of silver, Takes the Rhine his westward course. Far off from the island glisten Battlements and lofty houses, And the minster's two tall spires; While beyond, in misty distance Shining, rise up unto Heaven Snowy peaks of giant mountains, Guardians of Helvetia's soil. As the pallid ardent thinker's Eye doth glow and cheek doth redden, When a thought, new and creative, Through his brain has flashed like lightning, So the golden light of evening Glows upon the Alpine Giants. (Do they dream of throes of labour Which their mother-earth of old felt, When they from her womb were bursting?) From the horse got off our rider, To a pine-tree stump he bound it, Gazed in wonder at the landscape, Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up In the air his pointed cocked hat, And began to blow a cheering Joyous tune upon his trumpet. To the Rhine it bore a greeting, Over toward the Alps it floated, Merry now, then full of feeling, Like a prayer devout and solemn, Then again quite roguish, joyful. Now trari-trara resounded, Echo's voice her plaudits sending From the bosom of the forest. Fair it was o'er hill and valley, But fair also to behold him, As he in the deep snow standing Lightly on his horse was leaning; Now and then a golden sunbeam Glory shed on man and trumpet, In the background gloomy fir-trees, Farther down among the meadows Rang his tunes out not unheeded! There was walking then the worthy Pastor of the neighbouring village, Who the snow-drifts was examining, Which, fast melting with the surging Waters rising o'er the meadows, Threatened to destroy the grass there. Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered How to ward off this great danger. Round him bounded, loudly barking, His two white and shaggy dogs. You who live in smoky cities, And are separated wholly From the simple life of nature, Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will Joyfully now sing the praises Of a pastor in the country. Simple is his life, and narrow: Where the village ends, end also All his labours and endeavours. While men slaughtered one another, In the bloody Thirty Years' War, For God's honour, the calm grandeur Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods Breathed its peace into his soul. Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves; And, 'mid all the theologians' Squabbles, he most likely never Had read one polemic treatise. With dogmatics altogether, Science in her heavy armour, He possessed but slight acquaintance. But, whenever 'mongst his people Could some discord be adjusted-- When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled; When the demon of dissension Marriage marred and children's duty; When the daily load of sorrow Heavily weighed down some poor man, And the needy longing soul looked Eagerly for consolation-- Then, as messenger from Heaven, To his flock the old man hastened; From the depths of his heart's treasure Gave to each advice and comfort. And if, in a distant village, Someone lay upon a sick-bed, With grim Death hard battle waging, Then--at midnight--at each hour, When a knock came at his hall-door-- E'en if snow the pathway covered-- Undismayed he went to comfort And bestow the sacred blessing. Solitary was his own life, For his nearest friends were only His two noble dogs (St. Bernards). His reward: a little child oft Bashfully approached him, kissing His old hand with timid reverence; Also oft a grateful smile played O'er the features of the dying, Which was meant for the old priest. Unperceived the old man came now By the border of the forest, To the Trumpeter whose last notes Rang resounding in the distance, Tapped him friendly on the shoulder: "My young master, may God bless you, 'Twas a fine tune you were playing! Since the horsemen of the emperor Buried here their serjeant-major, Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld, And they blew as a farewell then The Reveille for their dead comrade-- Though 'tis long since it has happened, I have never heard such sounds here. Only on the organ plays my Organist, and that quite poorly; Therefore I am struck with wonder To encounter such an Orpheus. Will you treat to such fine music The wild beasts here of our forest, Stag and doe, and fox and badger? Or, perhaps, was it a signal, Like the call of the lost huntsman? I can see that you are strange here, By your long sword and your doublet; It is far still to the town there, And the road impracticable. Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already High up towards these upland forests, And it seems to me but prudent That with me you take your lodging; In the vale there stands my glebe-house, Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider Find sufficient shelter there." Then the horseman quickly answered: "Yes, I'm strange in a strange country, And I have not much reflected Where to-night shall be my lodging. To be sure, in these free forests A free heart can sleep if need be; But your courteous invitation I most gratefully accept." Then unfastened he his horse and Led it gently by the bridle, And the Pastor and the rider Like old friends walked to the village In the twilight of the evening. By the window of the glebe-house The old cook stood, looking serious; Mournfully her hands she lifted, Took a pinch of snuff and cried out: "Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes! Stand by me in this my trouble! Thoughtlessly my kind old master Brings again a guest to stay here; What a thorough devastation Will he make in my good larder! Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout, Which I had reserved for Sunday, When the Dean of Wehr will dine here. Now farewell, thou hough of bacon! The old clucking hen, I fear much, Also now must fall a victim, And the stranger's hungry horse will Revel in our store of oats."