III.
Sir Olave, ’tis the midnight hour,
Thy days of life are number’d;
In a king’s daughter’s arms instead
Thou thoughtest to have slumber’d.
The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead,
The man the red coat wearing
Already before the black block stands,
His polish’d hatchet bearing.
Sir Olave descends to the court below,
Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;
The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,
And he speaks with a countenance beaming:
“I bless the sun, and I bless the moon,
“And the stars in the heavens before me;
“I bless too the little birds that sing
“In the air so merrily o’er me.
“I bless the sea and I bless the land,
“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;
“I bless the violets, which are as soft
“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.
“Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife,
“My life for your sakes I surrender!
“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade
“We plighted our vows of love tender.”
11. THE WATER NYMPHS.
The waves were plashing against the lone strand,
The moon had risen lately,
The knight was lying upon the white sand,
In vision musing greatly.
The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep,
Their veils around them floated;
They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleep
The youth’s repose denoted.
The plume of his helmet the first one felt,
To see if perchance it would harm her;
The second took hold of his shoulder belt,
And handled his heavy chain armour.
The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright,
As the sword from the scabbard drew she;
On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,
And heartfelt pleasure knew she.
The fourth one danced both here and there,
And breath’d from her inmost bosom:
“O would that I thy mistress were,
“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”
The fifth her kisses with passionate strength
On the hand of the knight kept planting;
The sixth one tarried, and kissed at length
His lips and his cheeks enchanting.
The knight was wise, and far too discreet
To open his eyes midst such blisses;
He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweet
Continue their loving kisses.
12. BERTRAND DE BORN.
A noble pride on every feature,
His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,
He could subdue each mortal creature,
Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.
How wondrously his sweet notes caught her,
Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!
Both sons as well as lovely daughter
He sang into his net, I ween.
The father too he fool’d discreetly!
Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scorn
On hearing him discourse so sweetly,
The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.
13. SPRING.
The waters glisten and merrily glide,—
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,
And twines her garlands so tender.
All nature is budding with fragrant perfume,
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom
“Shall I my garlands surrender?”
A horseman is riding beside the clear brook,
A kindly greeting he utters;
The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,
The plume in his hat gaily flutters.
She weeps and into the gliding waves flings
Her flowery garlands so tender;
Of kisses and love the nightingale sings—
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
14. ALI BEY.
Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero,
Happy lies in maids’ embraces;
Allah granteth him a foretaste
Here on earth of heavenly rapture.
Odalisques, as fair as houris,
Like gazelles in every motion—
While the first his beard is curling,
See, the second smoothes his forehead.
And the third the lute is playing,
Singing, dancing, and with laughter
Kissing him upon his bosom,
Where the flames of bliss are glowing.
But the trumpets of a sudden
Sound outside, the swords are rattling,
Calls to arms, and shots of muskets—
Lord, the Franks are marching on us!
And the hero mounts his war-steed,
Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;
For he fancies he is lying
As before in maids’ embraces.
Whilst the heads of the invaders
He is cutting off by dozens,
He is smiling like a lover,
Yes, he softly smiles and gently.
15. PSYCHE.
In her hand the little lamp, and
Mighty passion in her breast,
Psyche creepeth to the couch where
Her dear sleeper takes his rest.
How she blushes, how she trembles,
When his beauty she descries!
He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,
Soon awakes and quickly flies.
Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!
And the poor thing nearly died!
Psyche fasts and whips herself still,
For she Amor naked spied.
16. THE UNKNOWN ONE.
Every day I have a meeting
With my golden-tressèd beauty
In the Tuileries’ fair garden
Underneath the chesnuts’ shadow.
Every day she goes to walk there
With two old and ugly women—
Are they aunts? or else two soldiers
Muffled up in women’s garments?
Overawed by the mustachios
Of her masculine attendants,
And still farther overawed too
By the feelings in my bosom,
I ne’er ventured e’en one sighing
Word to whisper as I pass’d her,
And with looks I scarcely ventured
Ever to proclaim my passion.
For the first time I to-day have
Learnt her name. Her name is Laura,
Like the Provençal fair maiden
Whom the famous poet loved so.
Laura is her name! I’ve gone now
Just as far as Master Petrarch,
Who the fair one celebrated
In canzonas and in sonnets.
Laura is her name! like Petrarch
I can now platonically
Revel in this name euphonious—
He himself no further ventured.
17. THE CHANGE.
With brunettes I now have finish’d,
And this year am once more fond
Of the eyes whose colour blue is,
Of the hair whose colour’s blond.
Mild the blond one, whom I love now,
And in meekness quite a gem!
She would be some blest saint’s image,
Held her hand a lily stem.
Slender limbs of wondrous beauty,
Little flesh, much sympathy;
All her soul is glowing but for
Faith and hope and charity.
She maintains she understands not
German,—but it can’t be so;
Hast ne’er read the heavenly poem
Klopstock wrote some time ago?
18. FORTUNE.
Madam Fortune, thou in vain
Act’st the coy one! I can gain
By my own exertions merely
All thy favours prized so dearly.
Thou art overcome by me,
To the yoke I fasten thee;
Thou art mine beyond escaping—
But my bleeding wounds are gaping.
All my red blood gushes out,
My life’s courage to the rout
Soon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,
And in victory’s hour am dying.
19. LAMENTATION OF AN OLD-GERMAN YOUTH.
The man on whom virtue smiles is blest,
He is lost who neglects her instructions;
Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’d
By evil companions’ seductions.
For cards and dice soon dispossess’d
My pockets of all their money;
At first the maidens consoled me
With smiles as luscious as honey.
But when they had fuddled with wine their guest,
And torn my garments, straightway
(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,
And bundled me out at the gateway.
On waking after a bad night’s rest,—
Sad end to all my ambition!—
Poor youth that I am, I was filling
At Cassel a sentry’s position.