The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vii Part 81

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!

G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s; 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-CARAVAN[42] (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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 pa.s.sed 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration: DUSK ON THE DEAD SEA EUGEN BRACHT]

HAD I AT MECCA'S GATE BEEN NOURISHED[43] (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 impa.s.sioned 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.