Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 37

It was here the fond hope was inspired, That with gladness enlivens my heart That when this dull life is expired We shall meet again never to part.

Yes, Werter, thy presage was just; To cherish the hope be my care, For should it forsake me, how must I combat with grief and despair.

--A.

_Visitor_, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German.

_Select Reviews_, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila.

[Also in _Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]

To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott, and others, under the whimsical t.i.tles of "The Cloud-King," "The Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some amus.e.m.e.nt.

THE PAINT-KING.

Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young; No damsel could with her compare; Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, And bards without number in extacies sung The beauties of Ellen, the Fair.

But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw The darts of their eyes at her heart, From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew; For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew Not a drop from that petrified part.

Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore A something that could not be found; Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate sh.o.r.e, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar Of breakers high-dashing around.

From object to object, still, still would she stray Yet nothing, alas! could she find; Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day, And even at midnight, so restless, they say, In sleep would run after the wind.

Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still, When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a wood-p.e.c.k.e.r's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground.

One morn, as the maid from her cas.e.m.e.nt reclin'd, Pa.s.s'd a youth with a frame in his hand.

The cas.e.m.e.nt she clos'd; not the eye of her mind; For do all she could, no, she could not be blind; Still before her she saw the youth stand.

"And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh, "Ah! what with that frame can he do?

I wish I could know it." When suddenly by The youth pa.s.s'd again; and again did her eye The frame, and a sweet picture view.

"Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd, "I must see thee again or I die;"

Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, Till the youth, looking back, met her eye.

"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while), "This picture, I see, you admire; Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."

Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise, From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.

But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize: Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd!

'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd; And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone; Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd, And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd, "Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold, And press me this day as thy bride."

She said: when, behold, from the canva.s.s arose The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame; With a furious joy, his arms did enclose The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze The blood of the maid with his flame!

She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing "Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"

From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King!

And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift The loud-screaming maid, like a blast; And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift, While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift To the right and the left as he pa.s.s'd.

Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, With an eddying whirl he descends; The air all below him becomes black as night, And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd At the gates of a mountainous cave: The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd, While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd, Like an island of ice on the wave.

"Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms.

But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain.

"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"

She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms That wake her to horror again.

She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes Behold the fair youth she would woo: Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise; His face, like a palette of villainous dies, Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.

On a bright polish'd throne, of prismatical[47] spar, Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod; While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigar Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar, On the coast of the stormy Cape Cod.

And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen, In horrid festoons on the wall, Legs and arms, head and bodies, emerging between; Like the drawing room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane, By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.

"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet, "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"

"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat, "A far n.o.bler fortune thy person shall meet; Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"

Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, An oil-jug he plung'd her within.

Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair Did Ellen in torment convulse the dim air, All cover'd with oil to the chin.

On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid; With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone; But though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan; For life had forsook not the maid.

Now reaching his palette with masterly care, Each tint on the surface he spread; The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, The pearl and the white of her forehead so fair And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.

Then stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, "Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"

When lo! from a chasm unfathom'd there came A small tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame, By a team of ten glowworms upborne.

Enthron'd in the midst on an emerald bright, Fair Geraldine sat without peer; Her robe was the gleam of the first blush of light, And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, And a beam of the moon was her spear.

In a voice that stole on the still charmed air, Like the first gentle accent of Eve, Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair: "I come at thy call ... but, oh Paint-King! beware, Beware if again you deceive."

"'Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart!

Thy portrait I oft have essay'd; Yet ne'er to the canva.s.s could I with my art The least of thy wonderful beauties impart; And my failure with scorn you repaid.

"Now I swear, by the light of the Comet-King's tail!"

And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, "If again with these magical colours I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.

"But if I succeed, then, oh! fair Geraldine!

Thy promise with rapture, I claim, And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine Shall fill all the earth with my fame."

He spake; when, behold the fair Geraldine's form On the canva.s.s enchantingly glow'd; His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And the pure, pearly white, and the carnation warm, Contending in harmony, flow'd.