Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 405, December 19, 1829», страница 6
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS
THE FOREIGN REVIEW, NO. IX
More than one acknowledgment is due from us to this excellent work, although the publishers may doubt our sincerity by our selecting the following interesting Ballad, from the German of Christian Count Stolberg; which, observes the reviewer, "is by some considered the poet's best effort, and a translation is therefore here attempted:"—
ELIZA VON MANSFIELD
A BALLAD OF THE TENTH CENTURY
"Still night! how many long for thee!
Now while I wake to weep,
O thou to them hast comfort brought,
Repose and gentle sleep.
Wished too, thou comest to me; now I
Am lonely, and am free,
And with my many sighs profound
May ease my misery.
Alas! what evil have I done
They treat me so severely?
My father always called me his
Good child whom he loved dearly.
My dying mother on my head
Poured her best blessings forth:
It may in heaven be fulfill'd,
But surely not on earth!
Change not this blessing to a curse
For those who me offend.
O God! forgive them what they do,
And cause them to amend.
Ah, I with patience might bear all,
If, Love, thou wouldst not be,
Thou who consumest my troubled heart
With hopeless agony!
If now, while one sweet hope remains,
I cannot this endure;
Thou breakest then, poor heart. So, 'till
Thou breakest, hold it sure."
Meanwhile, sweeps on a knightly man,
Upon his gallant steed,
And reaches, guided by the path,
The castle bridge, with speed.
There deeply sank into his heart,
The plaint of the ladye,
He deems she pleads to him for help,
And will her saviour be.
Full of impatience and desire,
His glowing eyes ranged round,
Till high, within the window, they
The lovely lady found.
"Ah! lady, speak, why mournest thou?
Confide thy grief to me,
And to thy cause this sword, this arm,
This life, devoted be!"
"Ah! noble knight, nor sword, nor arm
I need, right well I wot,
But comfort for my sorrowing heart.
And, ah, that thou hast not!"
"Let me partake thy saddening woe.
That will divide thy grief.
My tear of pity will bestow
Both comfort and relief."
"Thou good kind youth, then hear my tale;
An orphan I, sir knight,
And with my parents did expire
My peace and my delight
An uncle and an aunt are now
To me in parents' stead,
Who wound my heart, (God pardon it!)
As if they wished me dead.
My father was a wealthy Count:
The inheritance now mine—
Would I were poor! this wretched wealth
'Tis makes me to repine.
My uncle thirsteth, day and night,
For my possessions rare,
And therefore shuts me in this tower.
Hard-hearted and severe.
Here shall I bide, he threatens, choose
I not, in three days, whether
I wed his son, or leave the world.
For a cloister, altogether.
How quickly might the choice be made.
And I the veil assume,
Ah, had my youthful heart not loved
A youth in beauty's bloom.
The youngest at the tournament,
I saw him, and I loved,
So free, so noble, and so bold—
No one like him approved!"
"Be, noble lady, of good cheer.
No cloister shalt thou see,
Far less of that bad cruel man
The daughter ever be.
I can, I will deliver thee,
I have resolved it too,
To yield thee to thy youngling's arms.
As I am a Stolberg true!"
"Thou? Stolberg? O my grief is gone!
Mine angel led thee, sure;
Thou art the dear, dear youth for whom
These sorrows I endure.
Now say I free and openly,
What then my looks confest,
When I, my love, thy earliest lance
With oaken garland drest."
"O God! thou? my beloved child,
Eliza Mansfield Dove,
I loved thee, too, with the first look,
As none did ever love.
See on my lance the garland yet,
It ever carries there;
O could'st thou see thy image too,
Imprinted deeply here!
And now, why loiter we? Ere shine
The sun, I'll bring thee home,
And nothing more shall our chaste loves
Divide, whatever come."
"With all my soul I love thee, youth,
Yet still my virgin shame
Struggles against thy rash design,
And trembles for my fame."
"We'll seek my sister first, and there
Our wedding shall precede.
And then into my castle I
My noble bride will lead.—
Eliza' let us hasten, come—
It is the mid of night,
The moon will soon conclude her course,
That shineth now so bright."
Now softly by a secret way
The lady lightly trod.
Till she beneath the window—pale
As deadly marble, stood.
Yet soon she felt her heart again,
And sprung unto her knight,
Who press'd her speechless to his heart
That throbb'd with chaste delight.
Then lifts her gladly on his steed,
And her before sits he;
She winds about him her white arms,
Forth go they, valiantly.
Now, wakened by the prancing steed.
And that true griffin's neigh,
The damsel from the window spied
Her lady borne away.
She wildly shrieks, and plains to all
Of her calamity:
The old man foams, and cursing, swears
His niece in shame shall die.
He summon'd all his people up,
And ere the day began,
They left the castle ready armed,
Led by that wicked man.
Meanwhile, cheered by the friendly moon,
Through common, field, and mead,
Far over hill, and vale, and wood,
That knightly pair proceed.
What torrent now with dashing foam
Roars loud before them so
"Fear not, my love," the Stolberg said,
"This stream full well I know."
The gallant roan makes head, his feet
Approve the flood with care,
Then dashes, neighing, through, as if
A tiny brook it were.
Now come they to the castle wet,
Yet wrapt in heavenly bliss;
Let them describe who such have felt,
The intensity of this.
Now, sate they at the early meal;
The cup careered about …
But entering soon—"Up noble Count!
The Mansfield!" cried a scout.
The bride and sister fearfully
Their hair in sorrow tore;
The Count already had to horse,
And his full armour wore.
Forth went he out to meet the strife.
And called to Mansfield loud,
"In vain your anger is, for she
My wife is, wed and vow'd.
And am I not of noble stem,
Whose fame is bruited wide,
Who princes to our nation gave,
E'en in the heathen tide?"
With lance in rest, upon him springs
That uncle bad and old,
His people follow—but the knight
Awaits him calm and bold.
And draws his sword. As Mansfield nears,
His fury stoppage found—
He lays about, and cleaves his scull,
And smites him to the ground.
The rest disperse, and Stolberg hastes
Into the house again,
And him throughout the long sweet night
Her gentle arms enchain.
A FEARFUL PROSPECT
(From the "Noctes" of Blackwood.)
Shepherd.—I look to the mountains, Mr. North, and stern they staun' in a glorious gloom, for the sun is strugglin' wi' a thunder-cloud, and facing him a faint but fast-brightenin' rainbow. The ancient spirit o' Scotland comes on me frae the sky; and the sowl within me reswears in silence the oath o' the Covenant. There they are—the Covenanters a' gather'd thegither, no in fear and tremblin', but wi' Bibles in their bosoms, and swords by their sides, in a glen deep as the sea, and still as death, but for the soun' o' a stream and the cry o' an eagle. "Let us sing, to the praise and glory o' God, the hundred psalm," quoth a loud clear voice, though it be the voice o' an auld man; and up to Heaven hands he his strang wither'd hauns, and in the gracious wunds o' heaven are flying abroad his gray hairs', or say rather, white as the silver or the snaw.
North.—Oh, for Wilkie!
Shepherd.—The eagle and the stream are silent, and the heavens and the earth are brocht close thegither by that triumphin' psalm. Ay, the clouds cease their sailing and lie still; the mountains bow their heads; and the crags, do they not seem to listen, as in that remote place the hour o' the delighted day is filled with a holy hymn to the Lord God o' Israel!
North.—My dear Shepherd!
Shepherd.—Oh! if there should be sittin' there—even in that congregation on which, like God's own eye, looketh down the meridian sun, now shinin' in the blue region—an Apostate!
North.—The thought is terrible.
Shepherd.—But na, na, na! See that bonny blue-e'ed, rosy-cheek'd, gowden-haired lassie,—only a thought paler than usual, sweet lily that she is,—half sittin' half lyin' on the greensward, as she leans on the knee o' her stalwart grand-father—for the sermon's begun, and all eyes are fastened on the preacher—look at her till your heart melts, as if she were your ain, and God had given you that beautifu' wee image o' her sainted mother, and tell me if you think that a' the tortures that cruelty could devise to inflict, would ever ring frae thae sweet innocent lips ae word o' abjuration o' the faith in which the flower is growing up amang the dew-draps o' her native hills?
North.—Never—never—never!
Shepherd.—She proved it, sir, in death. Tied to a stake on the sea-sands she stood; and first she heard, and then she saw, the white roarin' o' the tide. But the smile forsook not her face; it brichten'd in her een when the water reach'd her knee; calmer and calmer was her voice of prayer, as it beat again' her bonny breast; nae shriek when a wave closed her lips for ever; and methinks, sir,—for ages on ages hae lapsed awa' sin' that martyrdom, and therefore Imagination may withouten blame dally wi' grief—methinks, sir, that as her golden head disappear'd, 'twas like a star sinkin' in the sea!
North.—God bless you, my dearest James! shake hands.
