Читать книгу: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07», страница 35

THE TRUMPET OF GRAVELOTTE⁴⁷ (Aug. 16, 1870)

 
  Death and Destruction they belched forth in vain,
    We grimly defied their thunder;
  Two columns of foot and batteries twain,
    We rode and cleft them asunder.
 
 
  With brandished sabres, with reins all slack,
    Raised standards, and low-couched lances,
  Thus we Uhlans and Cuirassiers wildly drove back,
    And hotly repelled their advances.
 
 
  But the ride was a ride of death and of blood;
    With our thrusts we forced them to sever;
  But of two whole regiments, lusty and good,
    Out of two men, one rose never.
 
 
  With breast shot through, with brow gaping wide,
    They lay pale and cold in the valley,
  Snatched away in their youth, in their manhood's pride—
    Now, Trumpeter, sound to the rally!
 
 
  And he took the trumpet, whose angry thrill
    Urged us on to the glorious battle,
  And he blew a blast—but all silent and still
    Was the trump, save a dull hoarse rattle,
 
 
  Save a voiceless wail, save a cry of woe,
    That burst forth in fitful throbbing—
  A bullet had pierced its metal through,
    For the Dead the wounded was sobbing!
 
 
  For the faithful, the brave, for our brethren all,
    For the Watch on the Rhine, true-hearted!
  Oh, the sound cut into our inmost soul!—
    It brokenly wailed the Departed!
 
 
  And now fell the night, and we galloped past,
    Watch-fires were flaring and flying,
  Our chargers snorted, the rain poured fast—
    And we thought of the Dead and the Dying!
 

* * * * *

MORITZ GRAF VON STRACHWITZ

DOUGLAS OF THE BLEEDING HEART⁴⁸ (1842)

 
  Earl Douglas, don thy helm so bright,
    And buckle thy sword with speed,
  Bind on thy sharpest spurs to-night
    And saddle thy swiftest steed!
 
 
  "The death watch ticks in the hall of Scone,
    All Scotland hears its warning,
  King Robert in pains of death does groan,
    He'll never see the morning."
 
 
  For nigh on forty miles they sped
    And spoke of words not four,
  And horse and spur with blood were red
    When they came to the palace door.
 
 
  King Robert lay at the north tower's turn;
    With death he'd begun to battle:
  "I hear the sword of Bannockburn
    On the stairway clatter and rattle.
 
 
  "Ha! Welcome in God's name, gallant lord!
    My end cometh presently,
  And thou shalt harken my latest word
    And write down my will for me:
 
 
  "'Twas on the day of Bannockburn,
    When Scotland's star rose high,
  'Twas on the day of Bannockburn
    That a vow to God vowed I;
 
 
  "I vowed that, should He defend my right
    And give me the victory there,
  With a thousand lances I'd go to fight
    For His holy sepulchre.
 
 
  "I'm perjured, for still my heart doth stand,
    'Twas broken with care and strife;
  The man who would rule o'er the Scottish land
    May scarce lead a pilgrim's life.
 
 
  "But thou, when my voice has sunk to rest,
    When grief and glory depart,
  Shalt straightway cut from out my breast
    My battle-o'erwearied heart.
 
 
  "Then thou shalt wrap the samite red
    And lock it in yellow gold,
  And when o'er my bier the mass is said,
    Let the flag of the cross be unrolled.
 
 
  "Take a thousand steeds at thy command
    And a thousand knights also,
  And carry my heart to the Savior's land
    That peace my soul may know."
 

* * * * *

 
  "Make ready, gallants, for the start,
    Let plume from helmet sway!
  The Douglas bears the Bruce's heart,
    And who shall bar his way?
 
 
  "Now cut the ropes, ye seamen brave
    And hoist the sail so free!
  The king must to his dark, dark grave,
    And we to the dark-blue sea."
 
 
  Then into the east they sailed away
    Full ninety days and nine,
  And at the dawn of the hundredth day
    They landed in Palestine.
 
 
  Across the yellow desert they wound
    As a shining river might flow,
  The sun it pierced through their helmets' round
    Like an arrow shot from a bow.
 
 
  The desert was still, there breathed no gust,
    All limply the flags were streaming,
  When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust
    Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.
 
 
  The desert was thronged, the din grew loud,
    The dust was on every side.
  And thick as rain from each bursting cloud
    Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.
 
 
  Ten thousand lances glittered to right,
    Ten thousand sparkled to left,
  "Allah il Allah!" they shouted to right,
    "Il Allah!" they echoed to left.
 
 
  The Douglas drew his bridle rein,
    And still stood earl and knight;
  "By the cross on which our Lord was slain
    'Twill be a deadly fight!"
 
 
  A noble chain his neck embraced
    In golden windings three.
  The locket to his lips he placed
    And kissed it fervently:
 
 
  "Since thou hast ever gone before,
    O heart, by night and day,
  E'en so today do thou once more
    Precede me in the fray.
 
 
  "And now may God this boon bestow,
    As I to thee have been true,
  That I may strike a Christian blow
    Against this heathen crew."
 
 
  He threw his shield o'er his left side,
    Bound on his helm so proud,
  And as to battle he did ride,
    He rose and called aloud:
 
 
  "Who brings this locket back to me
    Be his the day's renown!"
  Then 'mid the paynims mightily
    He hurled the king's heart down.
 
 
  Each made the cross with his left thumb,
    The right hand held the lance,
  No fear had they though fiends had come
    To check their bold advance.
 
 
  A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
    And mad death raging around—
  But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light
    From the desert there came no sound.
 
 
  For the pride of the east was there laid low
    In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
  And the sand so red in the afterglow
    Would never be white again.
 
 
  Of all the heathen, by God's good grace
    Not one had escaped that harm,
  Short patience have men of the Scottish race
    And ever a long sword-arm!
 
 
  But where had been the fellest strife,
    There lay in the moonlight clear
  The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
    By a hellish heathen spear.
 
 
  All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
    And finished his mortal smart.
  Yet under his shield he clasped once more
    King Robert Bruce's heart.
 

* * * * *

GEORG HERWEGH

THE STIRRUP-CUP⁴⁹ (1840)

 
  The anxious night is gone at last,
  Silent and mute we gallop past
    And ride to our destiny.
  How keen the morning breezes blow!
  Hostess, one glass more ere we go,
    We go to die!
 
 
  Thou soft young grass, why now so green?
  Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen,
    My blood thee red shall dye.
  The first quick sip with sword in hand
  I drink, a toast to our native land,
    For our native land to die.
 
 
  Now for the next, the time is short,
  The next to Freedom, the queen we court,—
    The fiery cup drain dry!
  These dregs—to whom shall we dedicate?
  To thee, Imperial German State,
    For the German State to die!
 
 
  My sweetheart!—But there's no more wine—
  The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine—
    To her the glass where the fragments lie!
  Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray!
  O horseman's joy, at the break of day,
    At the break of day to die!
 

* * * * *

EMANUEL GEIBEL

THE WATCHMAN'S SONG⁵⁰ (1840)

 
  Wake—awake! The cry rings out;
  From the high watch-tower comes the shout.
  Awake, imperial German land—
  Ye by distant Danube dwelling,
  And where the infant Rhine is swelling,
  And where the bleak dunes pile their sand!
    For hearth and home keep watch,
    Sword from its scabbard snatch;
      Every hour
    For bitter fight
    Prepare aright—
  The day of combat is in sight!
 
 
  Hear in the East the ominous cry
  That tells a greedy foe draws nigh—
  The vulture, thirsting for the strife.
  Hear in the west the serpent's hiss
  Whose siren-fangs are set for this,
  To poison all your virtuous life.
    Near is the vulture's swoop;
    The serpent coils to stoop
      For the stroke;
    Then watch and pray
    Until the day—
  Your swords be sharpened for the fray!
 
 
  Pure in life, in faith as strong,
  Let no man do your courage wrong;
  Be one, what time the trump shall sound.
 
 
  Cleanse your souls by fervent prayer,
  That so the Lord may find them fair
  When He shall make His questioning round,
    The Cross be still your pride,
    Your banner and your guide
      In the battle!
    Who in the field
    Their fealty yield
  To God, victorious weapons wield.
 
 
  Look Thou down from heaven above,
  Thou Whom the angels praise and love—
  Be gracious to our German land!
  Speak from the clouds with thunder-voice;
  Princes and people of Thy choice,
  Unite them with a mighty hand.
    Be Thou our fortress-tower,
    Bring us through danger's hour.
      Hallelujah!
    Thine is today
    And shall alway
  Kingdom, and power, and glory stay!
 

* * * * *

THE CALL OF THE ROAD⁵¹ (1841)

 
  Sweet May it is come, and the trees are in bloom—
  Who wills may sit listless with sorrow at home!
  As the clouds go a-roving up there in the sky,
  So away for a life of adventure am I!
 
 
  Kind father, dear mother, God be with you now!
  Who knows what my fortune is waiting to show?
  There is many a road that I never have gone,
  There is many a wine that I never have known.
 
 
  Then up with the sun, and away where it leads,
  High over the mountains and down through the meads!
  The brooks they are singing, the trees hear the call;
  My heart's like a lark and sings out with them all.
 
 
  And at night, when I come to a cozy old nest,
  "Mine host, now a bottle—and make it your best!
  And you, merry fiddler, tune up for a song,
  A song of my sweetheart—I'll help it along!"
 
 
  If I come to no inn, then my slumber I'll snatch
  'Neath the kindly blue sky, with the stars to keep watch.
  The trees with their rustling will lull me to sleep;
  Dawn's kisses will wake me, and up I shall leap.
 
 
  Then ho! for the road, and the life that I love,
  And God's pure air to cool your hot brow as you rove.
  The heart sings for joy in the sun's merry beams—
  All, wherefore so lovely, wide world of my dreams?
 

* * * * *

AUTUMN DAYS⁵² (1845)

 
  Sunny days of the autumn,
    Days that shall make me whole,
  When a balm for wounds that were bleeding
    Drops silently on the soul!
 
 
  Now seem the hours to be brooding
    In still, beneficent rest,
  And with a quieter motion
    Heaves now the laboring breast.
 
 
  To rest from the world's endeavor,
    To build on the soul's deep base—
  That is my only craving,
    In the stillness of love to gaze.
 
 
  O'er the hills, through the dales I wander,
    Where the shy sweet streamlets call,
  Following each clear sunbeam,
    Whether scorching or kind it fall.
 
 
  There where the leaves are turning,
    I harken with reverent ear;
  All that is growing or dying,
    Fading or blooming, I hear.
 
 
  Blissful I learn my lesson—
    How through the world's wide sweep
  Matter and spirit together
    Their concord eternal keep.
 
 
  What blows in the rustling forest,
    Takes life from the sun and rain,
  Is a symbol of truth immortal
    To the soul that can read it plain.
 
 
  Each tiniest plant that blossoms
    With the perfume of its birth
  Holds in its cup the secret
    Of the whole mysterious earth.
 
 
  It looks down from the cliffs in silence,
    Speaks in the waves' long swell—
  But all its wonderful meaning
    The poet alone can tell.
 

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS⁵³ (1856?)

 
  On Cape Misenum shone a palace fair
  Among the laurels by the summer sea;
  Long colonnades, and wondrous artistry,
  And all that should a gorgeous feast prepare.
  Oft saw it scenes of midnight revelry
  Where moved soft boys, their brows with ivy crowned,
  And silver-footed damsels, capering round,
  The thyrsus swung; with merry shouts of glee
  And rippling laughter, and the lyre's soft tone,
  It rang till fell the dew, and night was gone.
 
 
  Tonight, how still! But here and there is traced
  A lighted window; in the shadowy space
  About the doors, slaves throng with awestruck face.
  Litters draw nigh, and men spring out in haste;
  And as each comes, a question runs its round
  Through all the quivering circle of the spies
  "What says the leech? How goes it?" Hush—no sound!
  The end is near—the fierce old tiger dies!
  Up there on purple cushion, in the light
  Of flickering lamps, pale Cæsar waits for morn;
  His sallow face, by hideous ulcers torn,
  Looks ghastlier than was e'er its wont tonight;
  Hollow the eyes; the fire of fell disease
  And burning fever runs through every limb;
  None but the aged leech abides with him,
  And Macro, trusted bearer of the keys.
 
 
  And now, with stifled cry, by fears oppressed,
  The sick man feebly throws his coverings off
  "Let me, O Greek, a cooling potion quaff!
  Ice—ice! Vesuvius burns within my breast.
  Gods! how it flames! Yet in my anguished brain
  The torturing thoughts burn fiercer far, and worse …
  A thousand times their tireless strength I curse,
  Yet cannot find refreshment. 'Tis in vain
  I cry for Lethe; where the frankincense
  Sends up its smoke, from all the ancient wars
  The victims lift their faces, seamed with scars,
  In grim reproachful gaze to call me hence.
  Germanicus—Sejanus—Drusus rise …
  Who brought you hither? Has the grave no bars?
  Ah, 'tis past bearing, how with corpse-cold eyes
  Ye suck the life-blood from me pitilessly!
  I know I slew you—but it had to be.
  Was it my fault ye threw the losing dice?
  Away! Alas—when ends my misery?"
 
 
  The grave physician held the cup; he drank
  Its cooling at a draught, then feebly sank
  Among the pillows, still with wandering eye
  About the chamber, from his forehead dank
  Wiping the dews: "They're gone? No more they try
  To fright me? Ah, perchance 'twas but the mist …
  Yet often have they come, by night—in what dread guise
  None knows but I … Come, sit thee near me … hist!
  And let me tell of dim old memories.
 
 
  "I too was young once, trusted in my star,
  Had faith in men; but all the glamour of youth
  Vanished too soon—and, piercing to the truth,
  I found some evil each fair show to mar.
  No thing I saw so high and free from blame
  But worms were at its heart; each noble deed
  Revealed self-seeking as its primal seed.
  Love, honor, virtue—each was but a name!
  Naught marked us off, vile creatures of the dust,
  From ravening brutes, save on the smiling face
  A honeyed falseness—in the heart so base
  A craven weakness and a fiercer lust.
  Where was a friend had not his friend betrayed
  A brother guiltless of a brother's death,
  A wife that hid no poisoned sting beneath
  A fond embrace? Of one clay all were made!
  Thus I became as they. Since only fear
  Could tame that crew, I bade its form draw near.
  It was a war I waged; I found a joy
  Undreamed-of in their death-cries, and in blood
  Full ankle-deep I waded—victor stood,
  To find at last that horror too could cloy!
  Now, grimly bearing what I may not mend,
  Remorseless, unconsoled, I wait the end."
 
 
  His dull voice sank to silence. Moaning low,
  He met new pains: cold sweat stood on his brow.
  In fearsome change his face the watchers saw
  Grow like some hideous mask; till Macro came
  Nearer the throne-like couch, and spoke a name
  "Shall I thy nephew call—Caligula?
  Thy sickness waxes—"
 
 
                          Hissed the prince in scorn:
  "My curse upon thee, viper! What to thee
  Is Caius? Still I live! And he was born
  To ape the others—lies, greed, roguery,
  And aught but manhood. If he had, 'twere vain;
  No hero now Rome's downfall may restrain.
  If gods there were, upon this ruined soil
  No god could bring forth fruit; but that weak lad!
  Nay, nay, not him—the spirits stern and sad
  That dog my steps and mock at all my coil,
  The Furies of the abyss that drive me mad,
  Them—them and chaos—leave I of my toil
  The heritage. For them the sceptre!"
 
 
                                       So
  Up leaped he as he was, dire agony
  Twisting his features, from the window high
  Tore back the curtain, cast with frenzied throw
  The wand of empire far into the night—
  Then, senseless, crumbled.
 
 
                              In the court below
  A soldier stood at guard—a man of might,
  Fair-haired and long of limb. Straight to his feet
  It rolled, the rounded ivory, and upsprang
  From off the polished marble with a clang
  That seemed to say 'twas minded him to greet.
  He took it up, unknowing what it meant;
  And soon his thoughts pursued their former bent.
  Of far-off, sombre German woods he dreamed;
  He saw the waving tree-tops of the north,
  He saw the comrades to their tryst go forth.
  Each word true as their own sharp weapons seemed,
  As much for friendship as for war their worth.
  Then thought he of his wife; he saw her sit
  In all the glory of her golden hair
  Before their hut, whirling the spindle there
  Send forth her thoughts across the leagues to flit
  And reach him here. In that same woodland shrine
  A merry boy was carving his first spear,
  His blue eyes flashing boldly in scorn of fear,
  As though he said—"A sword—the world is mine!"
  Then swift he saw another vision come
  Unbidden, hide the pictures of his home,
  Press on his soul with irresistible might—
  How once, far in the East, he stood to guard
  The cross where hung a Man with visage marred—
  And at His death the sun was plunged in night.
  Long since, that day had faded in the West;
  Yet could he ne'er the Sufferer's look forget—
  The deep abyss of infinite sorrow, and yet
  The fulness of all blessing it expressed.
  Now (what could this portend?) to his old home
  He saw that cross a conquering symbol come;
  And lo, the assembled tribes of all his race
  Innumerable moved, and o'er their host
  On all their banners, as their proudest boast,
  The same Man's image, a glory round His face …
 
 
  Sudden he started; from the halls above
  Came harsh, quick shouts—the lord of the world was dead!
  Awe struck the soldier stared where dawn hung red,
  And saw the Future's mighty curtain move.
 

* * * * *