The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

NIKOLAUS LENAU

PRAYER15 (1832)

  Eye of darkness, dim dominioned,    Stay, enchant me with thy might,  Earnest, gentle, dreamy-pinioned,    Sweet, unfathomable night.  With magician's mantle cover    All this day-world from my sight,  That for aye thy form may hover    O'er my being, lovely night.* * * * *

SEDGE SONGS16 (1832)

I  In the west the sun departing    Leaves the weary day asleep,  And the willows trail their streamers    In these waters still and deep.  Flow, my bitter tears, flow ever;    All I love I leave behind;  Sadly whisper here the willows,    And the reed shakes in the wind.  Into my deep lonely sufferings    Tenderly you shine afar,  As athwart these reeds and rushes    Trembles soft yon evening star.II  Oft at eve I love to saunter    Where the sedge sighs drearily,  By entangled hidden footpaths,    Love! and then I think of thee.  When the woods gloom dark and darker,    Sedges in the night-wind moan,  Then a faint mysterious wailing    Bids me weep, still weep alone.  And methinks I hear it wafted,    Thy sweet voice, remote yet clear,  Till thy song, descending slowly,    Sinks into the silent mere.III  Angry sunset sky,    Thunder-clouds o'erhead,  Every breeze doth fly,    Sultry air and dead.  From the lurid storm    Pallid lightnings break,  Their swift transient form    Flashes through the lake.  And I seem to see    Thyself, wondrous nigh—  Streaming wild and free    Thy long tresses fly.* * * * *

SONGS BY THE LAKE17 (1832)

I  In the sky the sun is failing,    And the weary day would sleep,  Here the willow fronds are trailing    In the water still and deep.  From my darling I must sever:    Stream, oh tears, stream forth amain!  In the breeze the rushes quiver    And the willow sighs in pain.  On my soul in silence grieving    Mild thou gleamest from afar,  As through rushes interweaving    Gleams the mirrored evening star.IV  Sunset dull and drear;    Dark the clouds drive past;  Sultry, full of fear,    All the winds fly fast.  Through the sky's wild rack    Shoots the lightning pale;  O'er the waters black    Burns its flickering trail.  In the vivid glare    Half I see thy form,  And thy streaming hair    Flutters in the storm.V  On the lake as it reposes    Dwells the moon with glow serene  Interweaving pallid roses    With the rushes' crown of green.  Stags from out the hillside bushes    Gaze aloft into the night,  Waterfowl amid the rushes    Vaguely stir with flutterings light  Down my tear-dim glance I bend now,    While through all my soul a rare  Thrill of thought toward thee doth tend now    Like an ecstasy of prayer.* * * * *

THE POSTILION18 (1833)

  Passing lovely was the night,    Silver clouds flew o'er us,  Spring, methought, with splendor dight    Led the happy chorus.  Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale,    Empty now each by-way;  No one but the moonlight pale    Roamed upon the highway.  Breezes wandering in the gloom    Soft their footsteps numbered  Through Dame Nature's sleeping-room    Where her children slumbered.  Timidly the brook stole by,    While the beds of blossom  Breathed their perfume joyously    On the still night's bosom.  My postilion, heedless all,    Cracked his whip most gaily,  And his merry trumpet-call    Rang o'er hill and valley.  Hoofs beat steadily the while,    As the horses gamboled,  And along the shady aisle    Spiritedly rambled.  Grove and meadow gliding past    Vanished at a glimmer:  Peaceful towns were gone as fast,    Like to dreams that shimmer.  Midway in the Maytide trance    Tombs were shining whitely;  'Twas the churchyard met our glance—    None might view it lightly.  Close against the mountain braced    Ran the long white wall there,  And the cross, in sorrow placed,    Silent rose o'er all there.  Jehu straight, his humor spent,    Left his tuneful courses;  On the cross his gaze he bent    Then pulled up his horses.  "Here's where horse and coach must wait—    You may think it odd, sir:—  But up yonder, lies my mate    Underneath the sod, sir.  "Better lad was never born—    (Sir 'twas God's own pity!)  No one else could blow the horn    Half as shrill and pretty.  "So I stop beside the wall    Every time I pass here,  And I blow his favorite call    To him under grass here."  Toward the churchyard then he blew    One call after other,  That they might go ringing through    To his sleeping brother.  From the cliff each lively note    Echoing resounded,  As it were the dead man's throat    Answering strains had sounded.  On we went through field and hedge,    Loosened bridles jingling;  Long that echo from the ledge    In my ear kept tingling.* * * * *

TO THE BELOVED FROM AFAR19 (1838)

  His sweet rose here oversea    I must gather sadly;  Which, beloved, unto thee    I would bring how gladly!  But alas! if o'er the foam    I this flower should carry,  It would fade ere I could come;    Roses may not tarry.  Farther let no mortal fare    Who would be a wooer,  Than unwithered he may bear    Blushing roses to her,  Or than nightingale may fly    For her nesting grasses,  Or than with the west wind's sigh    Her soft warbling passes.* * * * *

THE THREE GIPSIES20

  Three gipsy men I saw one day    Stretched out on the grass together,  As wearily o'er the sandy way    My wagon brushed the heather.  The first of the three was fiddling there    In the glow of evening pallid,  Playing a wild and passionate air,    The tune of some gipsy ballad.  From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,    He watched them melt at his leisure.  So full of content, it seemed the world    Had naught to add to his pleasure.  And what of the third?—He was fast asleep,    His harp to a bough confided;  The breezes across the strings did sweep,    A dream o'er his heart-strings glided.  The garb of all was worn and frayed,    With tatters grotesquely mended;  But flouting the world, and undismayed,    The three with fate contended.  They showed me how, by three-fold scoff,    When cares of life perplex us,  To smoke, or sleep, or fiddle them off,    And scorn the ills that vex us.  I passed them, but my gaze for long    Dwelt on the trio surly—  Their dark bronze features sharp and strong,    Their loose hair black and curly.* * * * *

MY HEART21 (1844)

  Sleepless night, the rushing rain,  While my heart with ceaseless pain  Hears the mournful past subsiding  Or the uncertain future striding.  Heart, 'tis fatal thus to harken,  Let not fear thy courage darken,  Though the past be all regretting  And the future helpless fretting.  Onward, let what's mortal die.  Is the storm near, beat thou high.  Who came safe o'er Galilee  Makes the voyage now in thee.* * * * *

EDUARD MÖRIKE

AN ERROR CHANCED22 (1824)

  An error chanced in the moonlight garden  Of a once inviolate love.  Shuddering I came on an outworn deceit,  And with sorrowing look, yet cruel,  Bade I the slender  Enchanting maiden  Leave me and wander far.  Alas! her lofty forehead  Was bowed, for she loved me well;  Yet did she go in silence  Into the dim gray  World outside.  Sick since then,  Wounded and woeful heart!  Never shall it be whole.  Meseems that, spun of the air, a thread of magic  Binds her yet to me, an unrestful bond;  It draws, it draws me faint with love toward her.  Might it yet be some day that on my threshold  I should find her, as erst, in the morning twilight,  Her traveler's bundle beside her,  And her eye true-heartedly looking up to me,  Saying, "See, I've come back,  Back once more from the lonely world!"* * * * *

A SONG FOR TWO IN THE NIGHT23 (1825)

  She. How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses              And, breathing music, through the woodland passes!              Now that the upstart day is dumb,              One hears from the still earth a whispering throng              Of forces animate, with murmured song              Joining the zephyrs' well-attunèd hum.  He. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming,              Which sensuous on the warm wind drifts to me,              While, streaked with misty light uncertainly,              The very heavens in the glow are swimming.  She. The air like woven fabric seems to wave,              Then more transparent and more lustrous groweth;              Meantime a muted melody outgoeth              From happy fairies in their purple cave.              To sphere-wrought harmony              Sing they, and busily              The thread upon their silver spindles floweth.  He. Oh lovely night! how effortless and free              O'er samite black-though green by day—thou movest!              And to the whirring music that thou lovest              Thy foot advances imperceptibly.              Thus hour by hour thy step doth measure—              In trancèd self-forgetful pleasure              Thou'rt rapt; creation's soul is rapt with thee!* * * * *

EARLY AWAY24 (1828)

  The morning frost shines gray    Along the misty field  Beneath the pallid way    Of early dawn revealed.  Amid the glow one sees    The day-star disappear;  Yet o'er the western trees    The moon is shining clear.  So, too, I send my glance    On distant scenes to dwell;  I see in torturing trance    The night of our farewell.  Blue eyes, a lake of bliss,    Swim dark before my sight,  Thy breath, I feel, thy kiss;    I hear thy whispering light.  My cheek upon thy breast    The streaming tears bedew,  Till, purple-black, is cast    A veil across my view.  The sun comes out; he glows,    And straight my dreams depart,  While from the cliffs he throws    A chill across my heart.* * * * *

THE FORSAKEN MAIDEN25 (1829)

  Early when cocks do crow    Ere the stars dwindle,  Down to the hearth I go,    Fire must I kindle.  Fair leap the flames on high,    Sparks they whirl drunken;  I watch them listlessly    In sorrow sunken.  Sudden it comes to me,    Youth so fair seeming,  That all the night of thee    I have been dreaming.  Tears then on tears do run    For my false lover;  Thus has the day begun—    Would it were over!* * * * *

WEYLA'S SONG26 (1831)

  Thou art Orplede, my land  Remotely gleaming;  The mist arises from thy sun-bright strand  To where the faces of the gods are beaming.  Primeval rivers spring renewed  Thy silver girdle weaving, child!  Before the godhead bow subdued  Kings, thy worshipers and watchers mild.* * * * *

SECLUSION27 (1832)

  Let, oh world, ah let me be!  Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.  Leave alone this heart to treasure  All its joy, its misery.  What my grief I can not say,  'Tis a strange, a wistful sorrow;  Yet through tears at every morrow  I behold the light of day.  When my weary soul finds rest  Oft a beam of rapture brightens  All the gloom of cloud, and lightens  This oppression in my breast.  Let, oh world, all, let me be!  Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.  Leave alone this heart to treasure  All its joy, its misery.* * * * *

THE SOLDIER'S BETROTHED28 (1837)

  Oh dear, if the king only knew  How brave is my sweetheart, how true!  He would give his heart's blood for the king,  But for me he would do the same thing.  My love has no ribbon or star,  No cross such as gentlemen wear,  A gen'ral he'll never become;  If only they'd leave him at home!  For stars there are three shining bright  O'er the Church of St. Mary each night;  We are bound by a rose-woven band,  And a house-cross is always at hand.* * * * *

THE OLD WEATHERCOCK: AN IDYLL29 (1840, 1852)

  At Cleversulzbach in the Underland  A hundred and thirteen years did I stand  Up on the tower in wind and rain,  An ornament and a weathervane.  Through night and tempest gazing down,  Like a good old cock I watched the town.  The lightning oft my form has grazed,  The frost my scarlet comb o'erglazed,  And many a warm long summer's day,  In times when all seek shade who may,  The scorching sun with rage unslaked  My golden body well has baked.  So in my age all black I'd grown,  My beauteous glint and gleam was gone,  Till I at length, despised by all,  Was lifted from my pedestal.  Ah well! 'tis thus we run our race,  Another now must have my place.  Go strut, and preen, but don't forget  What court the wind will pay you yet!  Farewell, sweet landscape, mount and dell!  Vineyard and forest, fare ye well!  Belovèd tower, the roof's high ridge,  Churchyard and streamlet with its bridge;  Oh fountain, where the cattle throng  And sheep come trooping all day long,  With Hans to urge them on their way.  And Eva on the piebald gray!  Ye storks and swallows with your clatter,  And sparrows, how I'll miss your chatter!  For every bit of dirt seems dear  Which o'er my form you used to smear.  Goodby, my worthy friend the pastor,  And you, poor driveling old schoolmaster.  'Tis o'er, what cheered my heart so long.  The sound of organ, bells and song.  So from my, lofty perch I crew,  And would have sung much longer too,  When came a crooked devil's minion,  The slater 'twas in my opinion.  Who after many a knock and shake  Detached me wholly from my stake.  My poor old heart was broke at last  When from the roof he pulled me past  The bells which from their station glared  And on my fate in wonder stared,  But vexed themselves no more about me,  Thinking they'd hang as well without me.  Then to the scrap-heap I was brought,  For twopence by the blacksmith bought,  Which as he paid he said 'twas wonder  How much folk wanted for such plunder.  And there at noon of that same day  In grief before his hut I lay.  The time being May, a little tree  Shed snow-white blossoms over me,  While other chickens by the dozen  Unheeding cackled round their cousin.  'Twas then the pastor happened by,  Spoke to the smith, then smiling, "Hi!  And have you come to this, poor cock  A strange bird, Andrew, for your flock!  He'll hardly do to broil or roast;  For me though, I may fairly boast  Things must go hard if I've no place  For old church servants in hard case.  Bring him along then speedily  And drink a glass of wine with me."  The sooty lout with quick assent  Laughed, picked me up, and off we went.  A little more, and from my throat  Toward heaven I'd sent a joyous note.  Within the manse the strange new guest  Astounded all from most to least;  But soon each face, before afraid,  The glowing light of joy displayed.  Wife, maids and menfolks, girls and boys  Surrounded with a seven-fold noise  The giant rooster in the hall,  Welcoming, looking, handling all.  The man of God with jealous care  Took me himself and climbed the stair  To his own study, while the pack  Came stumbling after at his back.  Within these walls is peace enshrined!  Entering, we left the world behind.  I seemed to breathe a magic air,  Essence of books and learning rare,  Geranium scent and mignonette,  And faint tobacco lingering yet.  (To me of course all this was new.)  An ancient stove I noticed, too,  In the left corner in full view.  Quite like a tower its bulk was raised  Until its peak the ceiling grazed,  With pillared strength and flowery grace,  O most delightful resting-place!  On the top wreath as on a mast  The blacksmith set me firm and fast.  Behold my stove with reverent eyes!  Cathedral-like its noble size;  With store of pictures overwrought,  And rhymes that tell of pious thought.  Of such I learned full many a word,  While the old stove from out its hoard  Would draw them forth for young and old,  When the snow fell and winds blew cold.  Here you may see where on the tile  Stands Bishop Hatto's towered isle,  While rats and mice on every side  Swim through the Rhine's opposing tide.  The armed grooms in vain wage war,  The host of tails grows more and more,  Till thousands ranged in close array  Leap from the walls on those at bay  And seize the bishop in his room:  An awful death is now his doom;  Devoured straightway shall he be  To pay the price of perjury.  —There too Belshazzar's banquet shines,  Voluptuous women, costly wines;  But in the amazèd sight of all  The dread hand writes upon the wall.  —Lastly the pictures represent  How Sarah listens in the tent  While God Almighty, come to earth,  Foretells to Abraham the birth  Of Isaac and his seed thereafter.  Sarah cannot restrain her laughter,  Since both are well advanced in years.  God asks when he the laughter hears:  "Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will,  And doubt if this he may fulfil?"  Her indiscretion to recall  She says, "I did not laugh at all."  Which commonly would be a lie;  But God prefers to pass it by,  Since 'tis not done with malice dark,  And she's a lady patriarch.  Now that I'm here, I think with reason  That winter is the fairest season  How smooth the daily current flows  To ev'ry week's belovèd close!  —Just about nine on Friday night,  Sole by the lamp's reposeful light  My master with a mind perplexed  Sets out to choose his Sunday text.  Before the stove a while he stands,  Walks to and fro with twisted hands,  And vainly struggles to determine  The theme on which to thread his sermon.  Now and again amid his doubt  He lifts the window and looks out.  —Oh cooling surge of starlit air,  Pour on my brow your tide so rare!  I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer,  And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer.  He sits him down to write at last,  Dips pen and makes the A and O,  Which o'er his "Preface" always go.  I meanwhile from my post on high  Ne'er from my master turn an eye,  Look at him now, with far-off gaze  Pondering, testing every phrase;  The snuffer once he seizes quick  And cleans of soot the flaming wick;  Then oft in deep abstraction, he  Murmurs a sentence audibly,  Which I with outstretched bill peck up  And fill with lore my eager crop.  So do we come by smooth gradation  To where begins the "Application."  "Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout.  My master hears and turns about.  "Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light,  Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!"  Alone in darkness then I'd be;  That has no terrors, though, for me.  Behind the wainscot sharply picking  I hear a while the death-clock ticking,  I hear the marten vainly scoop  The earth around the chicken-coop.  Along the eaves the night-wind brushes,  And through far trees the tempest rushes—  Bird Wood's the name that forest bears,  Where rude old Winter raves and tears.  Now splits a beech with such a crack  That all the valleys echo it back.  —My goodness! when these sounds I hear  I'm glad a pious stove's so near,  Which warms you so the long hours through  That night seems fraught with blessings too.  —Just now I well might feel afraid,  When thieves and murderers ply their trade;  'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are  Secured from harm by bolt and bar.  How could I call so men would hear me  If some one raised a ladder near me?  When thoughts like this attack my brain  The sweat runs down my back like rain.  At two, thank God! again at three,  A cock-crow rises clear and free,  And with the morning bell at five  My whole heart, now once more alive,  High in my breast with rapture springs,  When finally the watchman sings  "Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake,  For bright and fair the day doth break."  Soon after this, an hour at most,  My spurs are growing stiff with frost  When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,  And rakes the fire until it catches.  Then from below, quite savory too,  I scent the steam of onion stew.  At length my master enters gay,  Fresh for the business of the day.  On Saturday a worthy priest  Should keep his room, his house at least;  Not visit or distract his brain,  Turning his thoughts to things profane.  My master was not tempted so,  But once—don't let it out, you know—  He squandered all his precious wits  Making a titmouse trap for Fritz—  Right here, and talked and had a smoke;  To me, I'll own, it seemed a joke.  The blessed Sabbath now is here.  The church-bells call both far and near,  The organ sounds so loud to me  I think I'm in the sacristy.  There's not a soul in all the house;  I hear a fly, and then a mouse.  The sunlight now the window reaches  And through the cactus stems it stretches,  Fain o'er the walnut desk to glide,  Some ancient cabinet-maker's pride.  There it beholds with searching looks  Concordances and children's books,  On wafer-box and seal it dances  And lights the inkwell with its glances;  Across the sand it strikes its wedge,  Is cut upon the penknife's edge,  Across the armchair freely roams,  Then to the bookcase with its tomes.  There clad in parchment and in leather  The Suabian Fathers stand together:  Andrea, Bengel, Riegers two,  And Oetinger are well in view.  The sun each golden name reads o'er  And with a kiss he gilds yet more.  As Hiller's "Harp" his fingers touch—  Hark! does it ring? It lacks not much.  With that a spider slim and small  Begins upon my frame to crawl,  And, never asking my goodwill,  Suspends his web from neck to bill.  I don't disturb myself a whit,  Just wait and watch him for a bit.  For him it is a lucky hap  That I'm disposed to take a nap.—  But tell me now if anywhere  An old church cock might better fare.  A twinge of longing now and then  Will vex, no doubt, the happiest men.  In summer I could wish outside  Upon the dove-cote roof to bide,  With just beneath the garden bright  And stretch of greensward too in sight.  Or else again in winter time,  When, as today, the weather's prime:—  Now I've begun, I'll say it out  We've got a sleigh here, staunch and stout,  All colored, yellow, black and green;  Just freshly painted, neat and clean;  And on the dashboard proudly strutting  A strange, new-fangled fowl is sitting:  Now if they'd have me fixed up right—  The whole expense would be but slight—  I'd stand there quite as well as he  And none need feel ashamed of me!  —Fool! I reply, accept your fate,  And be not so immoderate.  Perhaps 'twould suit your high behest  If some one, for a common jest,  Would take you, stove and all, away  And set you up there on the sleigh,  With all the family round you too:  Man, woman, child—the whole blest crew!  Old image, what! so shameless yet,  And prone on gauds your mind to set?  Think on your latter end at last!  Your hundredth year's already past.* * * * *

THINK OF IT, MY SOUL!30 (1852)

  Somewhere a pine is green,  Just where who knoweth,  And in a garth unseen  A rose-tree bloweth.  These are ordained for thee—  Think, oh soul, fixedly—  Over thy grave to be;  Swift the time floweth.  Two black steeds on the down  Briskly are faring,  Or on their way to town  Canter uncaring.  These may with heavy tread  Slowly convey the dead  E'en ere the shoes be shed  They now are wearing.* * * * *

ERINNA TO SAPPHO31 (1863)

(Erinna was a Greek poetess, a friend and pupil of Sappho of Lesbos.

She died at the age of nineteen.)

  "Many the paths to Hades," an ancient proverb  Tells us, "and one of them thou thyself shalt follow,  Doubt not!" My sweetest Sappho, who can doubt it?  Tells not each day the old tale?  Yet the foreboding word in a youthful bosom  Rankles not, as a fisher bred by the seashore,  Deafened by use, perceives the breaker's thunder no more.  —Strangely, however, today my heart misgave me. Attend:  Sunny the glow of morn-tide, pouring  Through the trees of my well-walled garden,  Roused the slugabed (so of late thou calledst Erinna)  Early up from her sultry couch.  Full was my soul of quiet, although my blood beat  Quick with uncertain waves o'er the thin cheek's pallor.  Then, as I loosed the plaits of my shining tresses,  Parting with nard-moist comb above my forehead  The veil of hair—in the glass my own glance met me.  Eyes, strange eyes, I said, what will ye?  Spirit of me, that within there dwelled securely as yet,  Occultly wed to my living senses—  Demon-like, half smiling thy solemn message,  Thou dost nod to me, Death presaging!  —Ha! all at once like lightning a thrill went through me,  Or as a deadly arrow with sable feathers  Whizzing had grazed my temples,  So that, with hands pressed over my face, a long time  Dumb-struck I sat, while my thought reeled at the frightful abyss.  Tearless at first I pondered,  Weighing the terror of Death;  Till I bethought me of thee, my Sappho,  And of my comrades all,  And of the muses' lore,  When straightway the tears ran fast.  But there on the table gleamed a beautiful hair-net, thy gift,  Costly handwork of Byssos, spangled with golden bees.  This, when next in the flowery festal season  We shall worship the glorious child of Demeter,  This will I offer to her for thy and my sake,  So may she favor us both (for she much availeth),  That no mourning lock thou untimely sever  From thy beloved head for thy poor Erinna.* * * * *