Читать книгу: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07», страница 34

The Hebrew inscription on the tree read: "When thou comest near this spot, thou wilt suffer what thou didst to me."

* * * * *

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH

THE DURATION OF LOVE³⁹ (1831)

 
  Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
    Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
  The hour will come when bitterly
    Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!
 
 
  And let thy breast with kindness glow,
    And gentle thoughts within thee move,
  While yet a heart, through weal and woe,
    Beats to thine own in faithful love.
 
 
  And who to thee his heart doth bare,
    Take heed thou fondly cherish him;
  And gladden thou his every hour,
    And not an hour with sorrow dim!
 
 
  And guard thy lips and keep them still;
    Too soon escapes an angry word.
  "O God! I did not mean it ill!"
    But yet he sorrowed as he heard.
 
 
  Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
    Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
  The hour will come when bitterly
    Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone.
 
 
  Unheard, unheeded then, alas!
    Kneeling, thou'lt hide thy streaming eyes
  Amid the long, damp, churchyard grass,
    Where, cold and low, thy loved one lies,
 
 
  And murmur: "Oh, look down on me,
    Mourning my causeless anger still;
  Forgive my hasty word to thee—
    O God! I did not mean it ill!"
 
 
  He hears not now thy voice to bless,
    In vain thine arms are flung to heaven!
  And, hushed the loved lip's fond caress,
    It answers not: "I have forgiven!"
 
 
  He did forgive—long, long ago!
    But many a burning tear he shed
  O'er thine unkindness—softly now!
    He slumbers with the silent dead.
 
 
  Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
    Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
  The hour will come when bitterly
    Thou'lt mourn by silent graves—alone!
 

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANTS⁴⁰ (1832)

 
  I cannot take my eyes away
    From you, ye busy, bustling band,
  Your little all to see you lay
    Each in the waiting boatman's hand.
 
 
  Ye men, that from your necks set down
    Your heavy baskets on the earth,
  Of bread, from German corn baked brown,
    By German wives, on German hearth.
 
 
  And you, with braided tresses neat,
    Black Forest maidens, slim and brown,
  How careful, on the sloop's green seat,
    You set your pails and pitchers down.
 
 
  Ah! oft have home's cool shady tanks
    Those pails and pitchers filled for you;
  By far Missouri's silent banks
    Shall these the scenes of home renew—
 
 
  The stone-rimmed fount, in village street,
    Where oft ye stooped to chat and draw—
  The hearth, and each familiar seat—
    The pictured tiles your childhood saw.
 
 
  Soon, in the far and wooded West
    Shall log-house walls therewith be graced;
  Soon, many a tired, tawny guest
    Shall sweet refreshment from them taste.
 
 
  From them shall drink the Cherokee,
    Faint with the hot and dusty chase;
  No more from German vintage, ye
    Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace.
 
 
  Oh say, why seek ye other lands?
    The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn;
  Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands;
    In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn.
 
 
  Ah, in strange forests you will yearn
    For the green mountains of your home;
  To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn;
    In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam.
 
 
  How will the form of days grown pale
    In golden dreams float softly by,
  Like some old legendary tale,
    Before fond memory's moistened eye!
 
 
  The boatman calls—go hence in peace!
    God bless you, wife and child, and sire!
  Bless all your fields with rich increase,
    And crown each faithful heart's desire!
 

* * * * *

THE LION'S RIDE ⁴¹ (1834)

 
  King of deserts reigns the lion; will he through his realm go riding,
  Down to the lagoon he paces, in the tall sedge there lies hiding.
  Where gazelles and camelopards drink, he crouches by the shore;
  Ominous, above the monster, moans the quivering sycamore.
 
 
  When, at dusk, the ruddy hearth-fires in the Hottentot kraals are
    glowing,
  And the motley, changeful signals on the Table Mountain growing
  Dim and distant—when the Caffre sweeps along the lone karroo—
  When in the bush the antelope slumbers, and beside the stream the gnu—
 
 
  Lo! majestically stalking, yonder comes the tall giraffe,
  Hot with thirst, the gloomy waters of the dull lagoon to quaff;
  O'er the naked waste behold her, with parched tongue, all panting
    hasten—
  Now she sucks the cool draught, kneeling, from the stagnant, slimy basin.
 
 
  Hark, a rustling in the sedges! with a roar, the lion springs
  On her back now. What a race-horse! Say, in proudest stalls of kings,
  Saw one ever richer housings than the courser's motley hide,
  On whose back the tawny monarch of the beasts tonight will ride?
 
 
  Fixed his teeth are in the muscles of the nape, with greedy strain;
  Round the giant courser's withers waves the rider's yellow mane.
  With a hollow cry of anguish, leaps and flies the tortured steed;
  See her, how with skin of leopard she combines the camel's speed!
 
 
  See, with lightly beating footsteps, how she scours the moonlit plains!
  From their sockets start the eyeballs; from the torn and bleeding veins,
  Fast the thick, black drops come trickling, o'er the brown and dappled
    neck,
  And the flying beast's heart-beatings audible the stillness make.
 
 
  Like the cloud, that, guiding Israel through the land of Yemen, shone,
  Like a spirit of the desert, like a phantom, pale and wan,
  O'er the desert's sandy ocean, like a waterspout at sea,
  Whirls a yellow, cloudy column, tracking them where'er they flee.
 
 
  On their track the vulture follows, flapping, croaking, through the air,
  And the terrible hyena, plunderer of tombs, is there;
  Follows them the stealthy panther—Cape-town's folds have known him well;
  Them their monarch's dreadful pathway, blood and sweat full plainly tell.
 
 
  On his living throne, they, quaking, see their ruler sitting there,
  With sharp claw the painted cushion of his seat they see him tear.
  Restless the giraffe must bear him on, till strength and life-blood fail
    her;
  Mastered by such daring rider, rearing, plunging, naught avail her.
 
 
  To the desert's verge she staggers—sinks—one groan—and all is o'er.
  Now the steed shall feast the rider, dead, and smeared with dust and
    gore.
  Far across, o'er Madagascar, faintly now the morning breaks;
  Thus the king of beasts his journey nightly through his empire makes.
 

* * * * *

THE SPECTRE-CARAVAN⁴² (1835)

 
  'Twas at midnight, in the Desert, where we rested on the ground;
  There my Bedouins were sleeping, and their steeds were stretched around;
  In the farness lay the moonlight on the mountains of the Nile,
  And the camel-bones that strewed the sands for many an arid mile.
 
 
  With my saddle for a pillow did I prop my weary head,
  And my caftan-cloth unfolded o'er my limbs was lightly spread,
  While beside me, both as Captain and as watchman of my band,
  Lay my Bazra sword and pistols twain a-shimmering on the sand.
 
 
  And the stillness was unbroken, save at moments by a cry
  From some stray belated vulture sailing blackly down the sky,
  Or the snortings of a sleeping steed at waters fancy-seen,
  Or the hurried warlike mutterings of some dreaming Bedouin.
 
 
  When, behold!—a sudden sandquake—and atween the earth and moon
  Rose a mighty Host of Shadows, as from out some dim lagoon;
  Then our coursers gasped with terror, and a thrill shook every man,
  And the cry was "Allah Akbar!—'tis the Spectre-Caravan!"
 
 
  On they came, their hueless faces toward Mecca evermore;
  On they came, long files of camels, and of women whom they bore;
  Guides and merchants, youthful maidens, bearing pitchers like Rebecca,
  And behind them troops of horsemen, dashing, hurrying on to Mecca!
 
 
  More and more! the phantom-pageant overshadowed all the Plains,
  Yea, the ghastly camel-bones arose, and grew to camel-trains;
  And the whirling column-clouds of sand to forms in dusky garbs,
  Here, afoot as Hadjee pilgrims—there, as warriors on their barbs!
 
 
  Whence we knew the Night was come when all whom Death had sought and
    found,
  Long ago amid the sands whereon their bones yet bleach around,
  Rise by legions from the darkness of their prisons low and lone,
  And in dim procession march to kiss the Kaaba's Holy Stone.
 
 
  More and more! the last in order have not passed across the plain,
  Ere the first with slackened bridle fast are flying back again.
  From Cape Verde's palmy summits, even to Bab-el-Mandeb's sands,
  They have sped ere yet my charger, wildly rearing, breaks his bands!
 
 
  Courage! hold the plunging horses; each man to his charger's head!
  Tremble not as timid sheep-flocks tremble at the lion's tread.
  Fear not, though yon waving mantles fan you as they hasten on;
  Call on Allah! and the pageant, ere you look again, is gone!
 
 
  Patience! till the morning breezes wave again your turban's plume;
  Morning air and rosy dawning are their heralds to the tomb.
  Once again to dust shall daylight doom these Wand'rers of the night;
  See, it dawns!—A joyous welcome neigh our horses to the light!
 

* * * * *

HAD I AT MECCA'S GATE BEEN NOURISHED⁴³ (1836)

 
  Had I at Mecca's gate been nourished,
    Or dwelt on Yemen's glowing sand,
  Or from my youth in Sinai flourished,
    A sword were now within this hand.
 
 
  Then would I ride across the mountains
    Until to Jethro's land I came,
  And rest my flock beside the fountains
    Where once the bush broke forth in flame.
 
 
  And ever with the evening's coolness
    My kindred to the tent would throng,
  When verses with impassioned fulness
    Would stream from me in glowing song.
 
 
  The treasure of my lips would dower
    A mighty tribe, a mighty land,
  And as with a magician's power
    I'd rule, a monarch, 'mid the sand.
 
 
  My list'ners are a nomad nation,
    To whom the desert's voice is dear;
  Who dread the simoon's devastation
    And fall before his wrath in fear.
 
 
  All day they gallop, never idle—
    Save by the spring—till set of sun;
  They dash with loosely swaying bridle
    From Aden unto Lebanon.
 
 
  At night upon the earth reclining
    They watch amid their sleeping herds,
  And read the scroll of heaven, shining
    With golden-lettered mystic words.
 
 
  They often hear strange voices mutter
    From Sinai's earthquake-shattered, height,
  While desert phantoms rise and flutter
    In wreaths of smoke before their sight.
 
 
  See!—through yon fissure deep and dim there
    The demon's forehead glows amain,
  For as with me so 'tis with him there—
    In the skull's cavern seethes the brain.
 
 
  Oh, land of tents and arrows flying!
    Oh, desert people brave and wise!
  Thou Arab on thy steed relying,—
    A poem in fantastic guise!
 
 
  Here in the dark I roam so blindly—
    How cunning is the North, and cold!
  Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly,
    To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!
 

* * * * *

WILD FLOWERS⁴⁴ (1840)

 
  Alone I strode where the broad Rhine flowed,
    The hedge with roses was covered,
  And wondrous rare through all the air
    The scent of the vineyards hovered.
  The cornflowers blue, the poppies too,
    Waved in the wheat so proudly!
  From a cliff near-by the joyous cry
    Of a falcon echoed loudly.
 
 
  Then I thought ere long of the old love song:
    Ah, would that I were a falcon!
  With its melody as a falcon free,
    And daring, too, as a falcon.
  As I sang, thought I: Toward the sun I'll fly,
    The very tune shall upbear me
  To her window small with a bolt in the wall,
    Where I'll beat till she shall hear me.
 
 
  Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave,
    And ships by the bank are lying,
  Two brown eyes dream o'er the lazy stream—
    Oh, thither would I be flying!
 
 
  With talons long and strange wild song
    I'd perch me at her feet then,
  Or bold I'd spread my wings o'er her head,
    And gladly we should greet then.
 
 
  Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang,
    No pinions had I to aid me;
  I took my path through the corn in wrath—
    So restless my love had made me.
  Then branch and tree all ruthlessly
    I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting
  Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn
    I sank down, weary and panting.
 
 
  While I heard the sound from all around
    Of frolicking lads and lasses,
  Alone for hours I gathered flowers
    And bound them together with grasses.
  O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!—
    Though many a girl despise it,
  Yet come there may the happy day
    When thou, my love, shalt prize it.
 
 
  In fitting place it well might grace
    An honest farmer's dwelling
  These cornflowers mild and poppies wild,
    With others past my telling;
  The osier fine, the blossoming vine,
    The meadow-sweetening clover—
  All vagrant stuff, and like enough
    To him, thy vagrant lover.
 
 
  His dark eye beams, his visage gleams,
    His clenched hand—how it trembles!
  His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns,
    His brow the storm resembles.
  He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast—
    His weeds and he rejected!
  His flowers, oh, see!—shall they and he
    Lie here at thy door neglected?
 

* * * * *

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING⁴⁵ (July, 1848)

 
  The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow,
  You raised us on the bloody planks with wild and wrathful vow!
  High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain
  Might be an endless curse to him, at whose word we were slain;
  That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight's shine,
  Whether he turns his Bible's leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine;
  That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned,
  A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned;
  That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound,
  Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound;
  That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear;
  That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear—
  Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown,
  Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on bloody scaffold down!
 
 
  Thus, with the bullet in the breast, the gash upon the brow,
  You laid us at the altar's foot, with deep and solemn vow!
  "Come down!" ye cried—he trembling came—even to our bloody bed;
  "Uncover!" and 'twas tamely done!—(like a mean puppet led,
  Sank he whose life had been a farce, with fear unwonted shaken).
  Meanwhile his army fled the field, which, dying, we had taken!
  Loudly in "Jesus, thou my trust!" the anthem'd voices peal;
  Why did the victor-crowds forget the sterner trust of steel?
 
 
  That morning followed on the night when we together fell,
  And when ye made our burial, there was triumph in the knell!
  Though crushed behind the barricades, and scarred in every limb,
  The pride of conscious Victory lay on our foreheads grim!
  We thought: the price is dearly paid, but the treasures must be true,
  And rested calmly in the graves we swore to fill for you!
 
 
  Alas! for you—we were deceived! Four moons have scarcely run,
  Since cowardly you've forfeited what we so bravely won!
  Squandered and cast to every wind the gain our death had brought!
  Aye, all, we know—each word and deed our spirit-ears have caught!
  Like waves came thundering every sound of wrong the country through:
  The foolish war with Denmark! Poland betrayed anew!
  The vengeance of Vendean men in many a province stern!
  The calling back of banished troops! The Prince's base return!
  Wherever barricades were built, the lock on press and tongue!
  On the free right of all debate, the daily-practised wrong!
  The groaning clang of prison-doors in North and South afar!
  For all who plead the People's right, Oppression's ancient bar!
  The bond with Russia's Cossacks! The slander fierce and loud,
  Alas! that has become your share, instead of laurels proud—
  Ye who have borne the hardest brunt, that Freedom might advance,
  Victorious in defeat and death—June-warriors of France!
  Yes, wrong and treason everywhere, the Elbe and Rhine beside,
  And beat, oh German men! your hearts, with calm and sluggish tide?
  No war within your apron's folds? Out with it, fierce and bold!
  The second, final war with all who Freedom would withhold!
  Shout: "The Republic!" till it drowns the chiming minster bells,
  Whose sound this swindle of your rights by crafty Austria tells!
 
 
  In vain! 'Tis time your faltering hands should disentomb us yet,
  And lift us on the planks, begirt with many a bayonet;
  Not to the palace-court, as then, that he may near us stand—
  No; to the tent, the market-place, and through the wakening land!
  Out through the broad land bear us—the dead Insurgents sent,
  To join, upon our ghastly biers, the German Parliament.
  Oh solemn sight! there we should lie, the grave-earth on each brow,
  And faces sunken in decay—the proper Regents now!
  There we should lie and say to you: "Ere we could waste away,
  Your Freedom-gift, ye archons brave, is rotting in decay!
  The Corn is housed which burst the sod, when the March sun on us shone,
  But before all other harvests was Freedom's March-seed mown!
  Chance poppies, which the sickle spared, among the stubbles stand;
  Oh, would that Wrath, the crimson Wrath, thus blossomed in the land!"
  And yet, it does remain; it springs behind the reaper's track;
  Too much had been already gained, too much been stolen back;
  Too much of scorn, too much of shame, heaped daily on your head—
  Wrath and Revenge must still be left, believe it, from the Dead!
  It does remain, and it awakes—it shall and must awake!
  The Revolution, half complete, yet wholly forth will break.
  It waits the hour to rise in power, like an up-rolling storm,
  With lifted arms and streaming hair—a wild and mighty form!
  It grasps the rusted gun once more, and swings the battered blade,
  While the red banners flap the air from every barricade!
  Those banners lead the German Guards—the armies of the Free—
  Till Princes fly their blazing thrones and hasten towards the sea!
  The boding eagles leave the land—the lion's claws are shorn—
  The sovereign People, roused and bold, await the Future's morn!
  Now, till the wakening hour shall strike, we keep our scorn and wrath
  For you, ye Living! who have dared to falter on your path!
  Up, and prepare—keep watch in arms! Oh, make the German sod,
  Above our stiffened forms, all free, and blest by Freedom's God;
  That this one bitter thought no more disturb us in our graves:
  "They once were free—they fell—and now, forever they are Slaves!"
 

* * * * *

HURRAH, GERMANIA!⁴⁶ (July 25, 1870)

 
  Hurrah! thou lady proud and fair,
    Hurrah! Germania mine!
  What fire is in thine eye, as there
    Thou bendest o'er the Rhine!
  How in July's full blaze dost thou
    Flash forth thy sword, and go,
  With heart elate and knitted brow,
    To strike the invader low!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  No thought hadst thou, so calm and light,
    Of war or battle plain,
  But on thy broad fields, waving bright,
    Didst mow the golden grain,
  With clashing sickles, wreaths of corn,
    Thy sheaves didst garner in,
  When, hark! across the Rhine War's horn
    Breaks through the merry din!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  Down sickle then and wreath of wheat
    Amidst the corn were cast,
  And, starting fiercely to thy feet,
    Thy heart beat loud and fast;
  Then with a shout I heard thee call:
    "Well, since you will, you may!
  Up, up, my children, one and all,
    On to the Rhine! Away!"
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  From port to port the summons flew,
    Rang o'er our German wave;
  The Oder on her harness drew,
    The Elbe girt on her glaive;
  Neckar and Weser swell the tide,
    Main flashes to the sun,
  Old feuds, old hates are dash'd aside,
    All German men are one!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  Suabian and Prussian, hand in hand,
    North, South, one host, one vow!
  "What is the German's Fatherland?"
    Who asks that question now?
  One soul, one arm, one close-knit frame,
    One will are we today;
  Hurrah, Germania! thou proud dame,
    Oh, glorious time, hurrah!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  Germania now, let come what may,
    Will stand unshook through all;
  This is our country's festal day;
    Now woe betide thee, Gaul!
  Woe worth the hour a robber thrust
    Thy sword into thy hand!
  A curse upon him that we must
    Unsheathe our German brand!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  For home and hearth, for wife and child,
    For all loved things that we
  Are bound to keep all undefiled
    From foreign ruffianry!
  For German right, for German speech,
    For German household ways,
  For German homesteads, all and each,
    Strike home through battle's blaze!
      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 
 
  Up, Germans, up, with God! The die
    Clicks loud—we wait the throw!
  Oh, who may think without a sigh
    What blood is doom'd to flow?
  Yet, look thou up, with fearless heart!
    Thou must, thou shalt prevail!
  Great, glorious, free as ne'er thou wert,
    All hail, Germania, hail!
      Hurrah! Victoria!
      Hurrah! Germania!
 

* * * * *