3.
Silently the moon is hiding
In the dark green fir-tree’s rear,
And our lamp within the chamber
Flickers faint, with glimmer drear.
But my azure eyes are beaming
With a light that brighter plays,
And the purple rose is glowing,
And the darling maiden says:
“Little elves and little people
“Pilfer all our bread and bacon;
“In the drawer at night they’re lying,
“But by morning all is taken.
“Next our cream the little people
“From the milk are wont to sup,
“Leaving, too, the bowl uncover’d,
“And the cat the rest drinks up.
“And the cat a witch indeed is,
“For she crawls, while night-storms lower,
“Up the spirit-mountain yonder
“To the ancient ruin’d tower.
“There a castle erst was standing,
“Full of joy and glittering arms;
“Knights and squires, in merry torch-dance,
“Mingled with the ladies’ charms.
“Then a wicked old enchantress
“Men and castle too bewitch’d;
“Nought remaineth but the ruins,
“Where the owls their nest have pitch’d.
“Yet my late aunt used to tell us:
“If the proper word is said
“At the proper hour at nighttime
“At the proper place o’erhead,
“Then the ruins will be changèd
“To a castle fair once more,
“Knights and squires and ladies gaily
“Will be dancing as of yore.
“Him by whom that word is spoken
“Men and castle will obey;
“Drums and trumpets will proclaim him,
“Heralding his sov’reign sway.”
Thus the charming legends issue
From the mouth so like a rose,
While an azure starry radiance
From her sweet eyes overflows.
Round my hand the little maiden
Twines her golden hair with glee,
Calls by pretty names my fingers,
Kisses, laughs, then mute is she.
All within that silent chamber
On me looks with trusting eye;
Table, cupboard,—I could fancy
I had seen them formerly.
Like a friend the house-clock prattles,
The guitar scarce audibly
Of itself begins to tinkle,
And as in a dream sit I.
Now’s the proper place discover’d,
Now the proper hour hath sounded;
If the proper word I utter’d,
Maiden, thou wouldst be astounded.
If that word I straightway utter’d,
Midnight would grow dim and quake,
Fir and streamlet roar more loudly,
And the aged mountain wake.
Lute’s soft strains and pigmy music
From the mountain’s clefts would burst,
And a flowering wood shoot from them
As in joyous spring-time erst.
Flowers, all-hardy magic flowers,
Leaves of size so fabulous,
Fragrant, varied, hasty-quiv’ring,
As though passion stirr’d them thus.
Roses, wild as flames all-glowing,
Dart from out the mass like gems;
Lilies, like to crystal arrows,
Upward shoot tow’rd heaven their stems.
And the stars, like suns in greatness
Downward gaze with yearning glow;
In the lily’s giant-calix
They their gushing radiance throw.
Yet ourselves, my darling maiden,
Alter’d more than all we seem;
Gold and silk and torches’ lustre
Joyously around us gleam.
Thou, yea thou, becom’st a princess,
To a castle turns this cot;
Knights and squires and ladies gaily
Dance with rapture, tiring not.
Thee and all, both men and castle,
I, yea I, have gain’d to-day;
Drums and trumpets loud proclaim me,
Heralding my sov’reign sway!