“O would that to dry thine eyes could avail
My sorrow so fiercely glowing!
O could I but redden thy cheeks so pale
With the blood from my own heart flowing!”
And farther rides Sir Ulrich there,
The night o’er the forest is falling;
Many singular voices fill the air,
The evening breezes are calling.
The youth then hears his sorrowing words
Full often near him ringing;
’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birds
All twittering loudly and singing:
“Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song,
We call it the song of repentance:
And when he has reach’d the end of his song,
He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”
16. TO A SINGER, ON HER SINGING AN OLD ROMANCE.
Still think I of the magic fair one,
How on her first my glances fell!
How her dear tones resounded sweetly,
How they my heart enthrall’d completely,
How down my cheeks the tears coursed fleetly
But how it chanced, I could not tell.
There over me had crept a vision:
Methought I was again a child,
And in my mother’s chamber sitting
In silence, by the lamp-light flitting,
And reading fairy tales befitting,
Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.
The tales began with life to glimmer,
The knights arise from out the grave;
By Roncesvall the battle rages,
Sir Roland in the fight engages,
And with him many a valiant page is—
And also Ganelon, the knave.
By him is Roland ill entreated,
He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath;
Scarce can his horn, at such far distance,
Call Charlemagne to his assistance:
So passed away the knight’s existence,
And, with him, sank my dream in death.
It was a loud confusèd echo
That from my vision wakened me.
The legend that she sang was ended,
The people heartily commended,
And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!”
Low bow’d the singer gracefully.
17. THE SONG OF THE DUCATS.
O my golden ducats dear,
Tell me why ye are not here?
Are ye with the golden fishes
Which within the stream so gaily
Leap and splash and wriggle daily?
Are ye with the golden flow’rets
Which, o’er green fields scattered lightly,
In the morning dew gleam brightly?
Are ye with the golden bird-kins
Which we see in happy chorus
In the blue skies hov’ring o’er us?
Are ye with the golden planets
Which in radiant crowds each even
Smile in yonder distant heaven?
Ye, alas, my golden ducats,
Swim not in the streamlet bright,
Sparkle not on meadow green,
Hover not in skies serene,
Smile not in the heavens by night.—
Creditors, with greedy paws,
Hold you safely in their claws.
18. DIALOGUE ON PADERBORN HEATH.
Hear’st thou not far music ringing,
As of double-bass and fiddle?
Many fair ones there are springing
Gaily up and down the middle.
“You’re mistaken friend, in speaking
“Thus of fiddle and its brother;
“I but hear young porkers squeaking,
“And the grunting of their mother.”
Hear’st thou not the forest bugle?
Hunters in the chase are straying;
Gentle lambs are feeding, frugal
Shepherds on their pipes are playing.
“Ah, my friend, what you just now heard,
“Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters;
“I can only see the sow-herd
“Slowly driving home his grunters.”
Hear’st thou not the distant voices
In sweet rivalry contending?
Many an angel blest rejoices
Strains like these to hear ascending.
“Ah, that music sweetly ringing
“Is, my friend, no rival chorus;
“’Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing
“As they drive their geese before us.”
Hear’st thou not the church-bells holy,
Sweet and clear, with deep emotion?
To the village-chapel slowly
Wend the people with devotion.
“Ah, my friend, the bells ’tis only
“Of the cows and oxen also,
“Who, with sunken heads and lonely,
“Go back to their gloomy stalls so.”
See’st thou not the veil just moving?
See’st thou not those soft advances?
There I see my mistress loving,
Humid sorrow in her glances.
“She, my friend, who nods so much, is
“An old woman, Betsy namely;
“Pale and haggard, on her crutches
“O’er the meadow limps she lamely.”
Overwhelm me with confusion
At my questions, friend, each minute;
Wilt thou deem a mere illusion
What my bosom holds within it?
This earth resembles a highway vast,
We men are the trav’llers along it;
On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast,
And as runners or couriers throng it.
In passing each other, we nod