FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
* * * * *
BARBAROSSA[49] (Between 1814 and 1817)
The ancient Barbarossa,
Friedrich, the Kaiser great,
Within the castle-cavern
Sits in enchanted state.
He did not die; but ever
Waits in the chamber deep,
Where hidden under the castle
He sat himself to sleep.
The splendor of the Empire
He took with him away,
And back to earth will bring it
When dawns the promised day.
The chair is ivory purest
Whereof he makes his bed;
The table is of marble
Whereon he props his head.
His beard, not flax, but burning
With fierce and fiery glow,
Right through the marble table
Beneath his chair does grow.
He nods in dreams and winketh
With dull, half-open eyes,
And once a page he beckons beckons—
A page that standeth by.
[Illustration: FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT]
He bids the boy in slumber
"O dwarf, go up this hour,
And see if still the ravens
Are flying round the tower;
And if the ancient ravens
Still wheel above us here,
Then must I sleep enchanted
For many a hundred year."
* * * * *
FROM MY CHILDHOOD DAYS[50] (1817, 1818)
From my childhood days, from my childhood days,
Rings an old song's plaintive tone—
Oh, how long the ways, oh, how long the ways
I since have gone!
What the swallow sang, what the swallow sang,
In spring or in autumn warm—
Do its echoes hang, do its echoes hang
About the farm?
"When I went away, when I went away,
Full coffers and chests were there;
When I came today, when I came today,
All, all was bare!"
Childish lips so wise, childish lips so wise,
With a lore as rich as gold,
Knowing all birds' cries, knowing all birds' cries,
Like the sage of old!
Ah, the dear old place—ah, the dear old place * * *
May its sweet consoling gleam
Shine upon my face, shine upon my face,
Once in a dream!
When I went away, when I went away,
Full of joy the world lay there;
When I came today, when I came today,
All, all was bare.
Still the swallows come, still the swallows come,
And the empty chest is filled—
But this longing dumb, but this longing dumb
Shall ne'er be stilled.
Nay, no swallow brings, nay, no swallow brings
Thee again where thou wast before—
Though the swallow sings, though the swallow sings,
Still as of yore.
"When I went away, when I went away,
Full coffers and chests were there;
When I came today, when I came today,
All, all was bare!"
* * * * *
THE SPRING OF LOVE[51] (1821)
Dearest, thy discourses steal
From my bosom's deep, my heart
How can I from thee conceal
My delight, my sorrow's smart?
Dearest, when I hear thy lyre
From its chains my soul is free.
To the holy angel quire
From the earth, O let us flee!
[Illustration: MEMORIES OF YOUTH]
Dearest, how thy music's charms
Waft me dancing through the sky!
Let me round thee clasp my arms,
Lest in glory I should die!
Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear,
Twined around me by thy lay.
For thy garlands, rich and rare,
O how can I thank thee? Say!
Like the angels I would be
Without mortal frame,
Whose sweet converse is like thought,
Sounding with acclaim;
Or like flowers in the dale;
Like the stars that glow,
Whose love-song's a beam, whose words
Like sweet odors flow;
Or like to the breeze of morn,
Waving round its rose,
In love's dallying caress
Melting as it blows.
But the love-lorn nightingale
Melteth not away;
She doth but with longing tones
Chant her plaintive lay.
I am, too, a nightingale,
Songless though I sing;
'Tis my pen that speaks, though ne'er
In the ear it ring.
Beaming images of thought
Doth the pen portray;
But without thy gentle smile
Lifeless e'er are they.
As thy look falls on the leaf,
It begins to sing,
And the prize that's due to love
In her ear doth ring.
Like a Memmon's statue now
Every letter seems,
Which in music wakes, when kissed
By the morning's beams.
* * * * *
"HE CAME TO MEET ME"[52] (1821)
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder;
My heart 'gan beating
In timid wonder.
Could I guess whither
Thenceforth together
Our path should run, so long asunder?
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder,
With guile to cheat me—
My heart to plunder.
Was't mine he captured?
Or his I raptured?
Half-way both met, in bliss and wonder!
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder;
Spring-blessings greet me
Spring-blossoms under.
What though he leave me?
No partings grieve me—
No path can lead our hearts asunder.
* * * * *
THE INVITATION[53] (1821)
Thou, thou art rest
And peace of soul—
Thou woundst the breast
And makst it whole.
To thee I vow
'Mid joy or pain
My heart, where thou
Mayst aye remain.
Then enter free,
And bar the door
To all but thee
Forevermore.
All other woes
Thy charms shall lull;
Of sweet repose
This heart be full.
My worshipping eyes
Thy presence bright
Shall still suffice,
Their only light.
* * * * *
MURMUR NOT[54]
Murmur not and say thou art in fetters holden,
Murmur not that thou earth's heavy yoke must bear.
Say not that a prison is this world so golden—
'Tis thy murmurs only set its harsh walls there.
Question not how shall this riddle find its reading;
It will solve itself full soon without thine aid.
Say not love hath turned his back, and left thee bleeding—
Whom hath love deserted, hast thou heard it said?
If death tries to fright thee, fear not beyond measure;
He will flee from those who boldly face his frown.
Hunt not thou the fleeting deer of worldly pleasure—
Lion it will turn, and hunt the hunter down.
Chain thyself no longer, heart, to any treasure;
Then thou shalt not say thou art into fetters thrown.
* * * * *
A PARABLE[55] (1822)
In Syria walked a man one day
And led a camel on the way.
A sudden wildness seized the beast,
And as they strove its rage increased.
So fearsome grew its savagery
That for his life the man must flee.
And as he ran, he spied a cave
That one last chance of safety gave.
He heard the snorting beast behind
Come nearer—with distracted mind
Leaped where the cooling fountain sprang,
Yet not to fall, but catch and hang;
By lucky hap a bramble wild
Grew where the o'erhanging rocks were piled.
He saved himself by this alone,
And did his hapless state bemoan.
He looked above, and there was yet
Too close the furious camel's threat
That still of fearful rage was full.
He dropped his eyes toward the pool,
And saw within the shadows dim
A dragon's jaws agape for him—
A still more fierce and dangerous foe
If he should slip and fall below.
So, hanging midway of the two,
He spied a cause of terror new:
Where to the rock's deep crevice clung
The slender root on which he swung,
A little pair of mice he spied,
A black and white one side by side—
First one and then the other saw
The slender stem alternate gnaw.
They gnawed and bit with ceaseless toil,
And from the roots they tossed the soil.
As down it ran in trickling stream,
The dragon's eyes shot forth a gleam
Of hungry expectation, gazed
Where o'er him still the man was raised,
To see how soon the bush would fall,
The burden that it bore, and all.
That man in utmost fear and dread
Surrounded, threatened, hard bested,
In such a state of dire suspense
Looked vainly round for some defense.
And as he cast his bloodshot eye
First here, then there, saw hanging nigh
A branch with berries ripe and red;
Then longing mastered all his dread;
No more the camel's rage he saw,
Nor yet the lurking dragon's maw,
Nor malice of the gnawing mice,
When once the berries caught his eyes.
The furious beast might rage above,
The dragon watch his every move,
The mice gnaw on—naught heeded he,
But seized the berries greedily—
In pleasing of his appetite
The furious beast forgotten quite.
You ask, "What man could ever yet,
So foolish, all his fears forget?"
Then know, my friend, that man are you—
And see the meaning plain to view.
The dragon in the pool beneath
Sets forth the yawning jaws of death;
The beast from which you helpless flee
Is life and all its misery.
There you must hang 'twixt life and death
While in this world you draw your breath.
The mice, whose pitiless gnawing teeth
Will let you to the pool beneath
Fall down, a hopeless castaway,
Are but the change of night and day.
The black one gnaws concealed from sight
Till comes again the morning light;
From dawn until the eve is gray,
Ceaseless the white one gnaws away.
And, 'midst this dreadful choice of ills,
Pleasure of sense your spirit fills
Till you forget the terrors grim
That wait to tear you limb from limb,
The gnawing mice of day and night,
And pay no heed to aught in sight
Except to fill your mouth with fruit
That in the grave-clefts has its root.
* * * * *
EVENING SONG[56] (1823)
I stood on the mountain summit,
At the hour when the sun did set;
I mark'd how it hung o'er the woodland
The evening's golden net.
And, with the dew descending,
A peace on the earth there fell—
And nature lay hushed in quiet,
At the voice of the evening bell.
I said, "O heart, consider
What silence all things keep,
And with each child of the meadow
Prepare thyself to sleep!
"For every flower is closing
In silence its little eye;
And every wave in the brooklet
More softly murmureth by.
"The weary caterpillar
Hath nestled beneath the weeds;
All wet with dew now slumbers
The dragon-fly in the reeds.
"The golden beetle hath laid him
In a rose-leaf cradle to rock;
Now went to their nightly shelter
The shepherd and his flock.
"The lark from on high is seeking
In the moistened grass her nest;
The hart and the hind have laid them
In their woodland haunt to rest.
"And whoso owneth a cottage
To slumber hath laid him down;
And he that roams among strangers
In dreams shall behold his own."
And now doth a yearning seize me,
At this hour of peace and love,
That I cannot reach the dwelling,
The home that is mine, above.
* * * * *
CHIDHER[57] (1824)
Chidher, the ever youthful, told:
I passed a city, bright to see;
A man was culling fruits of gold,
I asked him how old this town might be.
He answered, culling as before
"This town stood ever in days of yore,
And will stand on forevermore!"
Five hundred years from yonder day
I passed again the selfsame way,
And of the town I found no trace;
A shepherd blew on a reed instead;
His herd was grazing on the place.
"How long," I asked, "is the city dead?"
He answered, blowing as before
"The new crop grows the old one o'er,
This was my pasture evermore!"
Five hundred years from yonder day
I passed again the selfsame way.
A sea I found, the tide was full,
A sailor emptied nets with cheer;
And when he rested from his pull,
I asked how long that sea was here.
Then laughed he with a hearty roar
"As long as waves have washed this shore
They fished here ever in days of yore."
Five hundred years from yonder day
I passed again the selfsame way.
I found a forest settlement,
And o'er his axe, a tree to fell,
I saw a man in labor bent.
How old this wood I bade him tell.
"'Tis everlasting, long before
I lived it stood in days of yore,"
He quoth; "and shall grow evermore."
Five hundred years from yonder day
I passed again the selfsame way.
I saw a town; the market-square
Was swarming with a noisy throng.
"How long," I asked, "has this town been there?
Where are wood and sea and shepherd's song?"
They cried, nor heard among the roar
"This town was ever so before,
And so will live forevermore!"
"Five hundred years from yonder day
I want to pass the selfsame way."
* * * * *
AT FORTY YEARS[58] (1832)
When for forty years we've climbed the rugged mountain,
We stop and backward gaze;
Yonder still we see our childhood's peaceful fountain,
And youth exulting strays.
One more glance behind, and then, new strength acquiring,
Staff grasped, no longer stay;
See, a further slope, a long one, still aspiring
Ere downward turns the way!
Take a brave long breath and toward the summit hie thee—
The goal shall draw thee on;
When thou think'st it least, the destined end is nigh thee—
Sudden, the journey's done!
* * * * *
BEFORE THE DOORS[59]
I went to knock at Riches' door;
They threw me a farthing the threshold o'er.
To the door of Love did I then repair—
But fifteen others already were there.
To Honor's castle I took my flight—
They opened to none but to belted knight.
The house of Labor I sought to win—
But I heard a wailing sound within.
To the house of Content I sought the way—
But none could tell me where it lay.
One quiet house I yet could name,
Where last of all, I'll admittance claim;
Many the guests that have knocked before,
But still—in the grave—there's room for more.
[Illustration: AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND]
AUGUST VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND
* * * * *
THE PILGRIM BEFORE ST. JUST'S[60] (1819)
'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er the moor;
Oh, Spanish father, ope the door!
Deny me not the little boon I crave,
Thine order's vesture, and a grave!
Grant me a cell within thy convent-shrine—
Half of this world, and more, was mine;
The head that to the tonsure now stoops down
Was circled once by many a crown;
The shoulders fretted now with shirt of hair
Did once the imperial ermine wear.
Now am I as the dead, e'er death is come,
And sink in ruins like old Rome.
* * * * *
THE GRAVE OF ALARIC[61] (1820)
On Busento's grassy banks a muffled chorus echoes nightly,
While the swirling eddies answer and the wavelets ripple lightly.
Up and down the river, shades of Gothic warriors watch are keeping,
For they mourn their people's hero, Alaric, with sobs of weeping.
All too soon and far from home and kindred here to rest they laid him,
While in youthful beauty still his flowing golden curls arrayed him.
And along the river's bank a thousand hands with eager striving
Labored long, another channel for Busento's tide contriving.
Then a cavern deep they hollowed in the river-bed depleted,
Placed therein the dead king, clad in proof, upon his charger seated.
O'er him and his proud array the earth they filled, and covered loosely,
So that on their hero's grave the water-plants would grow profusely.
And again the course they altered of Busento's waters troubled;
In its ancient channel rushed the current—foamed, and hissed, and bubbled.
And the Goths in chorus chanted: "Hero, sleep! Tiny fame immortal
Roman greed shall ne'er insult, nor break thy tomb's most sacred portal!"
Thus they sang, and paeans sounded high above the fight's commotion;
Onward roll, Busento's waves, and bear them to the farthest ocean!
* * * * *
REMORSE[62] (1820)
How I started up in the night, in the night,
Drawn on without rest or reprieval!
The streets with their watchmen were lost to my sight,
As I wandered so light
In the night, in the night,
Through the gate with the arch medieval.
[Illustration: THE MORNING HOUR]
The mill-brook rushed from its rocky height;
I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;
Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,
As they glided so light
In the night, in the night,
Yet backward not one was returning.
O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,
The stars in melodious existence;
And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;
They sparkled so light
In the night, in the night,
Through the magical, measureless distance.
And upward I gazed in the night, in the night,
And again on the waves in their fleeting;
Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight;
Now silence, thou light,
In the night, in the night,
The remorse in thy heart that is beating.
* * * * *
WOULD I WERE FREE AS ARE MY DREAMS[63] (1822)
Would I were free as are my dreams,
Sequestered from the garish crowd
To glide by banks of quiet streams
Cooled by the shadow-drifting cloud!
Free to shake off this weary weight
Of human sin, and rest instead
On nature's heart inviolate—
All summer singing o'er my head!
There would I never disembark,
Nay, only graze the flowery shore
To pluck a rose beneath the lark,
Then go my liquid way once more,
And watch, far off, the drowsy lines
Of herded cattle crop and pass,
The vintagers among the vines,
The mowers in the dewy grass;
And nothing would I drink or eat
Save heaven's clear sunlight and the spring
Of earth's own welling waters sweet,
That never make the pulses sting.
* * * * *
SONNET[64] (1822)
Oh, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain,
May feel again what I have felt before;
Who has beheld his bliss above him soar
And, when he sought it, fly away again;
Who in a labyrinth has tried in vain,
When he has lost his way, to find a door;
Whom love has singled out for nothing more
Than with despondency his soul to bane;
Who begs each lightning for a deadly stroke,
Each stream to drown the heart that cannot heal
From all the cruel stabs by which it broke;
Who does begrudge the dead their beds like steel
Where they are safe from love's beguiling yoke—
He knows me quite, and feels what I must feel.