The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vii Part 66

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 amazed sight of all The dread hand writes upon the wall.

--Lastly the pictures represent How Sarah listens in the tent While G.o.d 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.

G.o.d asks when he the laughter hears: "Doth Sarah laugh then at G.o.d'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 G.o.d prefers to pa.s.s 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 beloved 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 G.o.d! again at three, A c.o.c.k-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 s.n.a.t.c.hes, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 t.i.tmouse 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 c.o.c.k 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 p.r.o.ne 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 SAPPHO[31] (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 seash.o.r.e, 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 gla.s.s 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.

MOZART'S JOURNEY FROM VIENNA TO PRAGUE (about 1850)