ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO

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THE CASTLE OF BONCOURT[37] (1827)

I dream of the days of my childhood,
And shake my silvery head.
How haunt ye my brain, O visions,
Methought ye forgotten and dead!

From the shades of the forest uprises
A castle so lofty and great;
Well know I the battlements, towers,
The arching stone-bridge, and the gate.

The lions look down from the scutcheon
On me with familiar face;
I greet the old friends of my boyhood,
And speed through the courtyard space.

There lies the Sphinx by the fountain;
The fig-tree's foliage gleams;
'Twas there, behind yon windows,
I dreamt the first of my dreams.

I tread the aisle of the chapel,
And search for my fathers' graves—
Behold them! And there from the pillars
Hang down the old armor and glaives.

Not yet can I read the inscription;
A veil hath enveloped my sight,
What though through the painted windows
Glows brightly the sunbeam's light.
Thus gleams, O hall of my fathers,
Thy image so bright in my mind,
From the earth now vanished, the ploughshare
Leaves of thee no vestige behind.

Be fruitful, lov'd soil, I will bless thee,
While anguish o'er-cloudeth my brow;
Threefold will I bless him, whoever
May guide o'er thy bosom the plough.

But I will up, up, and be doing;
My lyre I'll take in my hand;
O'er the wide, wide earth will I wander,
And sing from land to land.

[Illustration: ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO]

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THE LION'S BRIDE[38]

With myrtle bedecked and in bridal array,
Comes the keeper's fair daughter, as blooming as May.
She enters the cage of the lion; he lies
Calm and still at her feet and looks up in her eyes.

The terrible beast, of whom men are afraid,
Lies peaceful and tame at the feet of the maid,
While she, in her tender adorable grace,
Is stroking his head as the tears stain her face.

"In the days that are gone, we were playmates so true;
Like brother and sister we played, I and you.
Our love was still constant in joy or in pain—
But alas for the days that will ne'er come again!

"You learned to toss proudly your glorious head,
And roar, as you tossed it, a warning of dread;
I grew from a babe to a woman—you see,
No longer a light-hearted child I can be.

"Oh, would that those days had had never an end,
My splendid strong playmate, my noble old friend!
But soon I must go, so my parents decree,
Away with a stranger—no more am I free.

"A man has beheld me, and fancied me fair;
He has asked for my hand—and the wreath's in my hair!
Dear faithful old comrade, my girlhood is dead;
And my sight is bedimmed with the tears I have shed.

"Do you know what I mean? Ah, your look is a sign!
I have made up my mind, and you need not repine.
But yonder he comes who must lead me away—
So I'll give the last kiss to my playmate today!"

As the last fond farewell with reluctance she took,
The huge frame so trembled the bars even shook;
But when, drawing near a strange man he espied,
A sudden alarm seized the heart of the bride.

The lion stands guard by the door of the cage—
He is lashing his tail, he is roaring with rage.
With threats, with entreaties she bids him to cease,
But in vain—in his might he denies her release.

Without are confusion and cries of despair
"Bring a gun!" shouts the bridegroom; "our one hope is there!
I will snatch her away from his horrible claws * * *"
But the lion defies him with foam-dripping jaws.

The girl makes a last frenzied dash for the door—
But his past love the beast seems to measure no more;
The sweet slender body goes down 'neath his might,
All bleeding and lifeless, a pitiful sight.

Then, as if he knew well what a crime he had wrought,
He throws himself down by her, caring for naught;
He lies all unheeding what dangers remain,
Till the bullet avenging speeds swift through his brain.

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WOMAN'S LOVE AND LIFE[39] (1830)

Since mine eyes beheld him,
Blind I seem to be;
Wheresoe'er they wander,
Him alone they see.
Round me glows his image,
In a waking dream;
From the darkness rising
Brighter doth it beam.

All is drear and gloomy
That around me lies;
Now my sister's pastimes
I no longer prize;
In my chamber rather
Would I weep alone;
Since my eyes beheld him
Blind methinks I'm grown.

He, the best of all, the noblest,
O how gentle! O how kind
Lips of sweetness, eyes of brightness,
Steadfast courage, lucid mind.

As on high, in Heaven's azure,
Bright and splendid, beams yon star,
Thus he in my heaven beameth,
Bright and splendid, high and far.

Wander, wander where thou listest,
I will gaze but on thy beam;
With humility behold it,
In a sad, yet blissful dream.

Hear me not thy bliss imploring
With prayer's silent eloquence?
Know me now, a lowly maiden,
Star of proud magnificence!

May thy choice be rendered happy
By the worthiest alone!
And I'll call a thousand blessings
Down on her exalted throne.

Then I'll weep with tears of gladness;
Happy, happy then my lot!
If my heart should rive asunder,
Break, O heart—it matters not!

Is it true? O, I cannot believe it;
A dream doth my senses enthrall;
O can he have made me so happy,
And exalted me thus above all?

Meseems as if he had spoken,
"I am thine, ever faithful and true!"
Meseems—O still am I dreaming—
It cannot, it cannot be true!

O fain would I, rocked on his bosom,
In the sleep of eternity lie;
That death were indeed the most blissful,
In the rapture of weeping to die.

Help me, ye sisters,
Kindly to deck me,
Me, O the happy one, aid me this morn!
Let the light finger
Twine the sweet myrtle's
Blossoming garland, my brow to adorn!

As on the bosom
Of my loved one,
Wrapt in the bliss of contentment, I lay,
He, with soft longing
In his heart thrilling,
Ever impatiently sighed for today.

Aid me, ye sisters,
Aid me to banish
Foolish anxieties, timid and coy,
That I with sparkling
Eye may receive him,
Him the bright fountain of rapture and joy.

Do I behold thee,
Thee, my beloved one,
Dost thou, O sun, shed thy beam upon me?
Let me devoutly,
Let me in meekness
Bend to my lord and my master the knee!

Strew, ye fair sisters,
Flowers before him,
Cast budding roses around at his feet!
Joyfully quitting
Now your bright circle,
You, lovely sisters, with sadness I greet.

Dearest friend, thou lookest
On me with surprise,
Dost thou wonder wherefore
Tears suffuse mine eyes?
Let the dewy pearl-drops
Like rare gems appear,
Trembling, bright with gladness,
In their crystal sphere.

With what anxious raptures
Doth my bosom swell!
O had I but language
What I feel to tell!
Come and hide thy face, love,
Here upon my breast,
In thine ear I'll whisper
Why I am so blest.

Now the tears thou knowest
Which my joy confessed,
Thou shalt not behold them,
Thou, my dearest, best;
Linger on my bosom,
Feel its throbbing tide;
Let me press thee firmly,
Firmly, to my side!

Here may rest the cradle,
Close my couch beside,
Where it may in silence
My sweet vision hide;
Soon will come the morning,
When my dream will wake,
And thy smiling image
Will to life awake.

Upon my heart, and upon my breast,
Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!
Bliss, thou art love; O love, thou art bliss—
I've said it, and seal it here with a kiss.
I thought no happiness mine could exceed,
But now I am happy, O happy indeed!
She only, who to her bosom hath pressed
The babe who drinketh life at her breast;
'Tis only a mother the joys can know
Of love, and real happiness here below.
How I pity man, whose bosom reveals
No joys like that which a mother feels!
Thou look'st on me, with a smile on thy brow,
Thou dear, dear little angel, thou!
Upon my heart, and upon my breast,
Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!

Ah, thy first wound hast thou inflicted now!
But oh! how deep!
Hard-hearted, cruel man, now sleepest thou
Death's long, long sleep.

I gaze upon the void in silent grief,
The world is drear;
I've lived and loved, but now the verdant leaf
Of life is sere.

I will retire within my soul's recess,
The veil shall fall;
I'll live with thee and my past happiness,
O thou, my all!

[Illustration: Permission Franz Hanfstaengl, New York MORITZ VON
SCHWIND THE WEDDING JOURNEY]

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THE WOMEN OF WEINSBERG[40] (1831)

It was the good King Konrad with all his army lay
Before the town of Weinsberg full many a weary day;
The Guelph at last was vanquished, but still the town held out;
The bold and fearless burghers they fought with courage stout.

But then came hunger, hunger! That was a grievous guest;
They went to ask for favor, but anger met their quest.
"Through you the dust hath bitten full many a worthy knight,
And if your gates you open, the sword shall you requite!"

Then came the women, praying: "Let be as thou hast said,
Yet give us women quarter, for we no blood have shed!"
At sight of these poor wretches the hero's anger failed,
And soft compassion entered and in his heart prevailed.

"The women shall be pardoned, and each with her shall bear
As much as she can carry of her most precious ware;
The women with their burdens unhindered forth shall go,
Such is our royal judgment—we swear it shall be so!"

At early dawn next morning, ere yet the east was bright,
The soldiers saw advancing a strange and wondrous sight;
The gate swung slowly open, and from the vanquished town
Forth swayed a long procession of women weighted down;

For perched upon her shoulders each did her husband bear—
That was the thing most precious of all her household ware.
"We'll stop the treacherous women!" cried all with one intent;
The chancellor he shouted: "This was not what we meant!"

But when they told King Konrad, the good King laughed aloud;
"If this was not our meaning, they've made it so," he vowed,
"A promise is a promise, our loyal word was pledge;
It stands, and no Lord Chancellor may quibble or map hedge."

Thus was the royal scutcheon kept free from stain or blot!
The story has descended from days now half forgot;
'Twas eleven hundred and forty this happened, as I've heard,
The flower of German princes thought shame to break his word.

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THE CRUCIFIX[41] (1830)

In hopeless contemplation of his work
The master stood, a frown upon his brow,
Where shame and self-contempt appeared to lurk.

With all his art and knowledge he had now
Portrayed the suffering Savior's image there—
Yet could the marble not with life endow.

He could not make it live, for all his care—
What is not flesh knows not to suffer pain;
Cold stone can none but stone's cold likeness bear.

Beauty and due proportion though it gain,
The chisel's marks will never disappear
And nature wake, howe'er his prayer may strain:

"Ah, turn not from me, Nature! Thou most dear,
I long to raise thee to undreamed of height—
But thou art dumb * * * a sorry bungler's here!"

There entered then a loyal neophyte,
Who looked with reverence on the master's art
And stood beside him, flushed with new delight.

To the same muse was given his young heart,
The selfsame quest of beauty filled his days—
Yet must his soul with endless failure smart.

To him the master: "Scorn is in thy praise!
If so this dull, dead stone thy mind can fill,
To death, not life, thou must have turned thy face!"

Then boldly spoke the youth: "Admire I will!
What though thy Christ for death's repose prepare
So strangely silent and so strangely still,

Yet at a great thing greatly wrought I stare,
And long to match the marvel that I see;
I see what is, and thou what should be there."

The master looked upon him silently,
His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine,
And deemed there were no model such as he.

"A prey thou find'st me to despair malign—
How get from lifeless marble life and pain?
Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine.

To seek a hireling's aid were all in vain;
And sought I thine, though partner of my aims,
Naught but a cold refusal should I gain."

"Nay," said the youth, "in art's and God's high names,
I would perform unwearied, unafraid,
Whate'er of me thy need transcendent claims."

He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed,
Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace
Within the guarded workshop's sacred shade.

Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase
A thought that rose unbidden to his mind—
If pain upon that form its lines could trace!

"The help thou off'rest if I am to find,
Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * *"
Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned.

With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound,
Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails—
A martyr's death must close the destined round!

The first sharp nail went through, and piteous wails
Burst from the youth, but no compassion woke;
An eager eye the look of suffering hails.

With restless haste redoubled, stroke on stroke
Achieved the bleeding model that he sought.
Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.

A hideous joy upon his features wrought—
For nature now each shade of anguished woe
Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.

Unceasing worked his hands, above, below;
His heart was to all human feeling dead—
But in the marble * * * life began to show!

Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head,
Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth,
Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.

The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death,
As night the third long day of agony
Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,

"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?"
The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease,
The awful crime has reached its term—and see

There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!