Transcriber's notes: Prepared from Web Archive text files (http://www.archive.org/stream/trumpeterskking00schegoog/trumpeterskking00schegoog_djvu.txt) and scans by Google (http://www.archive.org/details/trumpeterskking00schegoog)

THE TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN.

THE

THE TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN

A Song from the Upper Rhine.

BY

JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

MRS. FRANCIS BRÜNNOW.

Translation authorised by the Poet.

London:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.

NEW YORK: SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO.
1877.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS.
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

O Song, at home well known to fame,

That German hearts hath deeply stirred

And long hath made of Scheffel's name

A dear and honoured household word,

Go forth in thy first foreign dress,

Go forth to Albion's noble land!

Will she not greetings kind express,

And warmly clasp the stranger's hand?

The Emerald Isle will surely give

A welcome neither cold nor faint;

For on thy pages still doth live

The name of Erin's ancient Saint.

Across the sea my country's shores

As Hope's bright star before me rise;

Will she not open wide her doors

To one who on her heart relies?

Farewell, oh work of vanished hours;

When suffering rent my weary heart,

Thy breath of fragrant woodland flowers

Did life renew, fresh strength impart.

Oh Scheffel! may thy years be long!

And may'st thou live to see the time,

When this thy genial Schwarzwald song

Will find a home in every clime.

Basel, June, 1877.

CONTENTS.

[DEDICATION.]

"Who is yonder light-haired stranger

Who there like a cat is roaming

O'er the roof of [Don Pagano]?"--

Thus asked many honest burghers,

Dwellers on the Isle of Capri,

When they from the market turning

Looked up at the palm-tree and the

Low-arched roof of moorish fashion.

And the worthy Don Pagano

Said: "That is a strange queer fellow,

And most strange his occupation.

Came here with but little luggage,

Lives here quite alone but happy,

Clambers up the steepest mountains,

Over cliffs, through surf is strolling,

Loves to steal along the sea-shore.

Also lately 'mid the ruins

Of the villa of Tiberius

With the hermits there caroused.

What's his business?--He's a German,

And who knows what they are doing?

But I saw upon his table

Heaps of paper written over,

Leaving very wasteful margins;

I believe he is half crazy,

I believe he's making verses."

Thus he spoke.--And I myself was

This queer stranger. Solitary

I had on this rocky island

Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.

I went as a wand'ring scholar

To far countries, to Italia;

With much art became acquainted,

Also with bad vetturinos,

And with many burning flea-bites;

But the sweet fruit of the lotus,

Which doth banish love of country

And the longing to return there,

I have never found here growing.

'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter

On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city:

Hard? for even Marcus Brutus

Would have caught a bad catarrh then;

And the rain seemed never-ending.

Like a dream then rose the vision

Of the Schwarzwald, and the story

Of the young musician Werner

And the lovely Margaretta.

In my youth I have stood often

By their graves close to the Rhine shore;

Many things which lie there buried

Are, however, long forgotten.

But like one to whom a sudden

Ringing in his ears betokens

That at home of him they're thinking,

So I heard young Werner's trumpet

Through the Roman Winter, through the

Carnival's gay flower-show--

Heard it from afar, then nearer,

Like the crystal which of vap'rous

Fine materials is condensing

And increases radiating;

So the figures of this song grew--

Even followed me to Naples.

In the halls of the Museum

Who should meet me but the Baron

Shaking his big cane and smiling,

And before Pompeii's gate sat

The black tom-cat [ Hiddigeigei].

Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study;

What is all this ancient rubbish,

E'en that dog there in mosaic

In the tragic Poet's dwelling,

In comparison with me--the

Epic type of all cat-nature?"

This I could no longer stand, so

Now began this ghost to banish.

From the brother of the lovely

Luisella, from the crooked

Cunning druggist of Sorrento

Quantities of ink I ordered,

And sailed o'er the bay to Capri.

Here began my exorcisms.

Many pale-gold coloured sea-fish,

Many lobsters, many oysters,

I ate up without compassion;

Drank the red wine like Tiberius,

Without mercy poetising;

On the roof went up and down till

All resounded metrically,

And the charm was then accomplished:

Chained up in four-measured trochees

Lay those figures which so long now

From my couch sweet sleep had banished.

'Twas high time, too; Spring already

Now gave signal of his coming--

Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees;

Shots were cracking, for with guns and

Nets they were the quails pursuing,

Who towards home their flight were taking;

And the minstrel was in peril

Then of seeing feathered colleagues

Set upon the table roasted.

This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand

Flew against the wall together.

Ready now and newly soled were

My strong boots which old Vesuvius

Had much damaged with his sulphur.

Farther now I journey onward.

Up, my good old Marinaro!

Off from land! the waves with pleasure

Bear light hearts and weightless freightage.

But the song, which with such happy

Spring-born feelings from my heart welled,

Bears my greetings to my country

And to you, my honoured parents.

Many faults are in it, truly:

Tragic pathos may be wanting,

And a racy tendance; also,

As in [Amaranth], the fragrant

Incense of a pious soul, its

Sober but pretentious colouring.

Take him, as he is, this ruddy.

Rough, uncouth son of the mountains,

With a pine branch on his straw hat.

What he's wanting in, pray, cover

With the veil of kind indulgence.

Take him not as thanks, for always

In your Book of Love I'm debtor,

But as greeting and as witness,

That a man whom worldly fortune

Has not placed 'mid smiling verdure,

Yet can, happy as a lark pour

Out his song on leafless branches.

Capri, May 1st, 1853.

PREFACE

[TO THE SECOND EDITION.]

Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by

Since thou didst venture thy first course to run,

A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try,

But no great laurels so far hast thou won.

In circles of prosaic breathing mortals

No praise was given thee of any kind--

Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals,

Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find.

And in the coteries of hoops and laces

Few were the readers, fewer still the praises.

Not everything suits everyone: the hill

Grows different flowers than the vale and lea:

But here and there in German homes there will

Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee;

Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying

With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound;

Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying,

And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found,

And e'en of pastors it has been reported

To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted.

And many who have taken a young bride

To spend the honeymoon 'midst rural scenes,

Do like to read thee, sitting side by side;

Of happy hours thou often art the means.

Then Säkkingen, the fair Black Forest's treasure,

Which found at first in thee not much delight,

Has by degrees derived from thee great pleasure,

And to her heart with love has pressed thee tight.

Upon the whole, success outweighs detraction,

And thou canst view thy fate with satisfaction.

Now that thou wilt a second course begin,

I should for thee a better dress prepare,

With finer threads the verses' measure spin,

Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care,

I know it well, right often have I faltered,

Some of thy trochees sound a little lame;

But the old humour now, alas! is altered,

The mood which gave thee birth is not the same.

O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded,

Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded!

Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest,

And near me rush the healing waters out,

On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest,

And in the brook are sporting tiny trout.

From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending,

With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace,

And stately giant pines in rows unending,

Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace.

A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow,

And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow.

And yet--should I now try new songs to sing,

The old accustomed tone I could not find;

Too often grief my soul with pangs doth wring,

Instead of mirth, scorn filleth now my mind.

The world serves idols now, the good ignoring,

And truth is silent, beauty hides her face;

What is unnatural men are adoring,

God is forgotten. Mammon takes his place!

The Poet, now, should be a prophet warning,

Like those of old, reproving, praying, mourning!

'Tis not my sphere; a mighty stirring song

Requires another man, a different art;

But though so much prevails that's sad and wrong.

One may not quite disdain a merry heart.

Go forth, my song, then, as thou didst before,

A cheerful memory of life's fresh spring;

Cheer up those hearts, which grief made sad and sore,

And to friends far and near my greeting bring.

Whenever men to nobler aims aspire,

Then higher too will ring the poet's lyre.

Rippoldsau, September, 1858.

PREFACE

[TO THE THIRD EDITION.]

Hiddigeigei, his opinion:

"Strange, perverse, are all mankind,

Who, when discord holds dominion,

In such ditties pleasure find....

Questions which the world are shaking,

Now the thinker's mind assail,

And no light as yet is breaking,

Which solution shall prevail.

"Yet our song unto perdition

Has not been condemned, I hear--

What a marvel!--an edition

For the third time will appear.

Which in new dress, not inferior

(Of the old nought has been spared),

And, with quite unchanged interior,

For its third trip is prepared.

"I regret that I'm declining,

And I fear I have the mange;

And I show now, by my whining,

When the wind and weather change.

Coming storms, when brewing, ever

My keen senses do betray;

And the atmosphere was never

Sultry as it is to-day.

"Doubly thus I feel this parting,

But thy course must onward lead;

Take my blessing, song, on starting,

And the cat's well-meant good speed!

The green Rhine, the Schwarzwald breezes,

Bring with them health, peace, and rest;

Such a merry fellow pleases,

And is hailed a welcome guest.

"Golden Spring, thee still I'm praising;

When the trumpet-notes rang out,

Then my bristling fur seemed blazing,

And bright sparks flew all about;

And the trumpet with my growling

Then defied Fate's evil doom;

Gentle is to-day my howling

O'er the hidden future's gloom."

Summer, 1862.

PREFACE

TO THE [FOURTH EDITION.]

[The Boezberg] for the Rhine I have been leaving,

A home-sick longing stirred my heart within,

Once more that fragrant air I would be breathing

Again would see the town of Fridolin,

As if at my return with joy elated,

She lay there basking in the autumn sun,

Her minster's towers lately renovated,

Reflected in the river, brightly shone;

Far to the North, through bluish vapour breaking,

[The Hozzenwald], a stately background making.

From the [Gallus-Thurm] on the Roman wall erected,

To where the ancient convent buildings lie,

The well-known gable roofs I all detected,

Where often my light skiff had glided by;

And where the shore by gravel banks is bounded,

A sunny garden's blooming face doth smile;

Half hidden by the chestnuts which surround it

Lies cosily the castle's graceful pile.

To it my hat in greeting I am tossing,

As o'er the ancient covered bridge I'm crossing.

Unto the dead my steps at first were tending,

Unto [the graveyard] where the Rhine flows by,

For many had been called to rest unending,

Who once with me enjoyed this balmy sky.

The old stone wall I neared with deep emotion,

Inscribed with Werner Kirchhof s name and arms,

And of his wife a record of devotion,

Which, though long past, e'en now attracts and charms.

And Heaven's blessing on the pair alighted.

By death the same year they were re-united.

To the market then I turned. "Are ghosts here wandering.

Or is it you yourself who meets mine eyes?"

So said the mayor by the court-house standing,

Who slowly did the stranger recognise....

Long years have passed since friends were often going

To hear my judgments in the dusky court;

But though now many heads gray locks are showing,

Their hearts are fresh, their memory is not short;

And as we never shunned good cheer and drinking,

From foaming bumpers we'll not now be shrinking.

'Tis true the Button landlord has been moving

Out of his cosy tavern on the Square,

But still retains his former skill in brewing,

And in his new inn keeps the same good fare.

And as around the table we sat cheering

Our hearts with kindly memories of old,

From many lips I these glad news was hearing,

Which please the Poet more than heaps of gold:

The Trumpeter, whose story I'd been singing,

To young and old more joy was daily bringing.

As a vignette the weekly paper gracing

He's blowing politics instead of music now;

And even more, somebody has been placing

My hero on the stage--but ask not how.

Could I but see the walls of the new tower,

Which now is rising in the old one's place,

Embellished by an artist of great power--

The figures of my song devised with grace!

Thus might an artist's hand make expiation

For the abuse by stage-representation.

However, let that go, I am not fearing

Whatever purpose thou mayst serve my song;

Now that a new edition is appearing,

I send my greeting home with it along.

On thy fourth tour thou Schwarzwald-child be hieing,

Where truth and goodness dwell, there enter in,

And preach to those who with ennui are sighing,

How innocent amusement they may win.

As often as there comes a new edition,

"Preserve thee, God!" be ever my petition.

Seon in the Aargau, November, 1864.

PREFACE

[TO THE FIFTIETH[!--undoubtedly the fifth edition--] EDITION.]

The Trumpeter now, all alive and refreshed,

To the Jubilee loudly is blowing;

The present year has both of us blessed,

Great favour and lustre bestowing.

I have my fiftieth year attained,

Through joy and through sorrow surviving,

And his editions--such fame has he gained--

At the fiftieth are now arriving.

It may be that I a part of my youth

And joy with him have been leaving;

But still from these scenes--to tell the truth--

Great pleasure I now am receiving.

To [the Eggberg] I climbed, where on high are seen

The homes of the Hauenstein peasant;

Their straw-thatched roofs with mosses still green,

But no more quaint costumes at present.

Through gaps in the forest I see shining bright

The snow-peaks of Switzerland's Giants,

The steep Finsteraarhorn's towering height

The Jungfrau dazzling with diamonds;

And as to the west I turn my gaze,

Blue ridge above ridge is unfolding:

And, in the evening's golden haze,

I'm the Vosges' great Belchen beholding.

When now to Säkkingen downward I hie,

Through the dark green forest is gleaming

[The silvery lake], like the earth's clear eye,

Looking upward, invitingly beaming.

Gneiss rocks high o'er the grassy shore rise;

And placed so as best to show it,

Inscribed on a rock this meets mine eyes:

"Säkkingen, the town, to her Poet!"

And now, as by Bally's castle I stand,

There my Trumpeter also stands blowing,

Cast finely in bronze by a master's hand.

That they know us well here all are showing;

For, when I was going to pay at the inn,

The kind hostess refused quite indignant.

'Tis clear, in the town of St. Fridolin,

O'er us a bright star shines benignant.

The Trumpeter bravely has blown his way

Through much that his patience was tasking;

And the publisher also his joy doth betray:

For the author's likeness he's asking.

Accept then this book, my friends, as before,

With kind and growing affection;

When the Schwarzwald's Poet shall be no more,

Still hold him in fond recollection.

Carlsruhe, October, 1876.

THE

TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN.

[FIRST PART.]

HOW YOUNG WERNER RODE INTO THE SCHWARZWALD.

To the Schwarzwald soars my song, up

To [the Feldberg], where the last small

Cluster of its comrade mountains

Toward the south are boldly looking,

And, all mailed in fir-tree armour,

Keep good watch there on the Rhine.

Be thou greeted, peaceful forest!

Be ye greeted, ancient pine-trees,

Ye, who oft beneath your shadow

Me, the weary one, have sheltered.

Oddly twisted, spread your roots down

Deep within the earth's vast bowels,

Strength from out those depths imbibing,

While to us is closed the entrance.

And you envy not a transient

Human being's transient doings.

Only smile;--his feast at Christmas

You adorn with your young scions.

In your sturdy trunks lives also

Conscious life-sustaining power.

Resin through your veins is coursing;

And your dreamy thoughts are surging

Slow and heavy, upward, downward.

Oft I saw the clear and gummy

Tears which from your bark were oozing,

When a woodman's wanton axe-stroke

Rudely felled some loved companion.

Oft I heard your topmost summits

Spirit-like together whisper.

Then there breathed throughout my soul a

Sweet mysterious solemn dreaming.

Don't find fault then, if my song now

Soars within the forest shades.

'Twas in March: still played the Winter

Masquerade; the branches, laden

With fantastical ice-crystals,

To the ground were lowly drooping;

Here and there, out of Earth's bosom

Tender plants their heads were thrusting--

Wood-anemones and cowslips.

As the patriarch, old Noah,

At the time of the great Deluge,

Sent the dove to reconnoitre:

So with winter's ice sore burdened,

With impatience sends the Earth forth

These first flowers with a question,

Asking, whether the oppressor

Has not come to his last gasp yet.

Blustering from the Feldberg's summit

Now old Master Storm is rushing,

And rejoices, through the dark dense

Forest he again is blowing;

Says: "I greet you, ancient comrades;

Why I come, you know the reason--

They believe, poor mortal children,

When they see me tearing, snatching

Roughly some old hat away,

I am only there to frighten.

That would be a pretty business,

Breaking chimneys, smashing windows,

Scattering through the air some thatchings,

Tearing some old woman's clothing

Till she signs the cross in praying!

But you fir-trees know me better,

Me, the fair Spring's thorough cleaner,

Who what's mouldy sweeps afar off--

Who what's rotten blows to pieces--

Who the earth's domain well cleanses,

That his radiant Lord and Master

Worthily may make his entrance.

And you, noble forest comrades,

Who so oft, with bronze-like foreheads,

Bravely have withstood my rudeness,

Ye whose trunks I have to thank for

Many knocks against my skull-bone,

Ye alone shall hear my secret:

Soon the Spring himself he cometh,

And then, when the buds are bursting,

Lark and blackbird sing their carols,

And with fervent heat the Spring sun

Brightly on your heads is shining,

Then remember me, the Storm-wind,

Who to-day, with boisterous fury

As his harbinger swept past."

Speaking thus, he shook the tree-tops

With great roughness; boughs are snapping,

Branches falling, and a thick, fine

Rain of pine-leaves crackles downward.

But the fir-trees, quite indignant,

Took small notice of this homage.

From their summits rang the answer,

Rather scolding, I should call it:

"You unmannerly rude fellow!

We will have no business with you,

And regret much that the finest

Lords have oft the rudest servants.

To the Alps begone directly,

There is sport fit for your humour;

There stand walls of rock all barren;

Entertain yourself with them there."

Now, while thus the storm and fir-trees

Held such converse with each other,

Could be heard a horse's footfall.

Toiling through the snow-piled wood-path

Seeks his way a weary horseman;

Gaily flutters in the storm-wind,

To and fro, his long gray mantle,

His fair curling locks are waving,

And, from out the cocked-up hat there

Boldly nods a heron's feather.

On his lips was just appearing

Such a downy beard as ladies

Much admire, because it showeth

That its bearer is a man, still

One whose kisses will not wound them.

But not many pretty lips had

Felt the soft touch of this beard yet.

Which, as if for fun and mischief,

Snow and ice now decked with crystals.

In his clear blue eyes were glowing

Warmth and mildness, earnest meaning,

And you could not doubt his fist would

Strike a valiant blow, when needed,

With the heavy basket-hilted

Sword, which, worn suspended by a

Black belt from his shoulder, well-nigh

Grazed the ground as he was riding.

Wound around his riding-doublet

Was a sash, to which was tied the

Richly-gilded shining trumpet,

Which he often with his mantle

Sheltered from the falling snow-flakes;

But, whene'er the wind pierced through it,

Bringing forth tones shrill and wailing;

Then around his mouth there played a

Sweet strange smile of melancholy.

Silent through the forest's thicket

On he rode, while often roving

Were his glances--as the case is,

When a wanderer for the first time

Over unknown roads is travelling.

Rough the path--the poor horse often

In the snow was nearly sinking,

And o'er gnarl'd and tangled branches

Of the knotted pine-roots stumbling.

And the rider, in ill-humour,

Said: "Sometimes it is quite tedious,

Through the world alone to travel.

There are times, 'mid gloomy forests,

When one longeth for companions.

Since I bade farewell this morning

To the good monks of [ St. Blasien],

Lonely was the road and dreary.

Scattered here and there, a peasant,

Through the snow-storm running swiftly,

Hardly did my greeting notice.

Then a pair of coal-black ravens,

Who with hoarse discordant croakings,

O'er a dead mole fiercely quarrelled;

For the past two hours, however,

I not once have had the honour

To behold one living being.

And in this lone forest district,

Where the lofty snow-clad pine-trees

Look as if in shrouds enveloped,

I should like to have some comrades.

Were they even rogues or gipsies,

Or those two suspicious fellows

Who escorted the old knight once

Through the forest's gloom and thicket;

[Then appeared as Death and Devil],

Grinning in his face with scorn!

I should rather ride with them now--

Rather fight them, or play lively

Dances for them, than so lonely

Thus to trot through this dense forest."

All comes to an end, however,

Even riding through the forests.

Round the trunks it grew much lighter,

Storm and snow-clouds were receding,

And the blue sky smiled benignant

Through the dense shade of the pine-woods.

Thus the miner, looking upward.

Sees, far at the pit's mouth shining.

Like a star, the distant daylight,

Which he greets with joyful shouting.

Likewise such a cheerful feeling

Brightens up our riders face.

So he reached the forest's border,

And his eyes, so long restricted

By dark woods to narrow prospects,

Gladly swept the wide horizon.

O how lovely woods and fields lay!

Green meads in the narrow valley,

Straw-thatched huts, low-roofed and mossy.

And the modest village steeple;

Deep below, where dusky forests

Stretch along unto the lowlands,

Like a long bright streak of silver,

Takes the Rhine his westward course.

[Far off from the island glisten]

Battlements and lofty houses,

And the minster's two tall spires;

While beyond, in misty distance

Shining, rise up unto Heaven

Snowy peaks of giant mountains,

Guardians of Helvetia's soil.

As the pallid ardent thinker's

Eye doth glow and cheek doth redden,

When a thought, new and creative,

Through his brain has flashed like lightning,

So the golden light of evening

Glows upon the Alpine Giants.

(Do they dream of throes of labour

Which their mother-earth of old felt,

When they from her womb were bursting?)

From the horse got off our rider,

To a pine-tree stump he bound it,

Gazed in wonder at the landscape,

Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up

In the air his pointed cocked hat,

And began to blow a cheering

Joyous tune upon his trumpet.

To the Rhine it bore a greeting,

Over toward the Alps it floated,

Merry now, then full of feeling,

Like a prayer devout and solemn,

Then again quite roguish, joyful.

Now trari-trara resounded,

Echo's voice her plaudits sending

From the bosom of the forest.

Fair it was o'er hill and valley,

But fair also to behold him,

As he in the deep snow standing

Lightly on his horse was leaning;

Now and then a golden sunbeam

Glory shed on man and trumpet,

In the background gloomy fir-trees,

Farther down among the meadows

Rang his tunes out not unheeded!

There was walking then the worthy

Pastor of the neighbouring village,

Who the snow-drifts was examining,

Which, fast melting with the surging

Waters rising o'er the meadows,

Threatened to destroy the grass there.

Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered

How to ward off this great danger.

Round him bounded, loudly barking,

His two white and shaggy dogs.

You who live in smoky cities,

And are separated wholly

From the simple life of nature,

Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will

Joyfully now sing the praises

Of a pastor in the country.

Simple is his life, and narrow:

Where the village ends, end also

All his labours and endeavours.

While men slaughtered one another,

In the bloody Thirty Years' War,

For God's honour, the calm grandeur

Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods

Breathed its peace into his soul.

Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves;

And, 'mid all the theologians'

Squabbles, he most likely never

Had read one polemic treatise.

With dogmatics altogether,

Science in her heavy armour,

He possessed but slight acquaintance.

But, whenever 'mongst his people

Could some discord be adjusted--

When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled;

When the demon of dissension

Marriage marred and children's duty;

When the daily load of sorrow

Heavily weighed down some poor man,

And the needy longing soul looked

Eagerly for consolation--

Then, as messenger from Heaven,

To his flock the old man hastened;

From the depths of his heart's treasure

Gave to each advice and comfort.

And if, in a distant village,

Someone lay upon a sick-bed,

With grim Death hard battle waging,

Then--at midnight--at each hour,

When a knock came at his hall-door--

E'en if snow the pathway covered--

Undismayed he went to comfort

And bestow the sacred blessing.

Solitary was his own life,

For his nearest friends were only

His two noble dogs (St. Bernards).

His reward: a little child oft

Bashfully approached him, kissing

His old hand with timid reverence;

Also oft a grateful smile played

O'er the features of the dying,

Which was meant for the old priest.

Unperceived the old man came now

By the border of the forest,

To the Trumpeter whose last notes

Rang resounding in the distance,

Tapped him friendly on the shoulder:

"My young master, may God bless you,

'Twas a fine tune you were playing!

Since the horsemen of the emperor

Buried here their serjeant-major,

Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had

Wounded mortally at [ Rhinefeld],

And they blew as a farewell then

The Reveille for their dead comrade--

Though 'tis long since it has happened,

I have never heard such sounds here.

Only on the organ plays my

Organist, and that quite poorly;

Therefore I am struck with wonder

To encounter such an Orpheus.

Will you treat to such fine music

The wild beasts here of our forest,

Stag and doe, and fox and badger?

Or, perhaps, was it a signal,

Like the call of the lost huntsman?

I can see that you are strange here,

By your long sword and your doublet;

It is far still to the town there,

And the road impracticable.

Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already

High up towards these upland forests,

And it seems to me but prudent

That with me you take your lodging;

In the vale there stands my glebe-house,

Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider

Find sufficient shelter there."

Then the horseman quickly answered:

"Yes, I'm strange in a strange country,

And I have not much reflected

Where to-night shall be my lodging.

To be sure, in these free forests

A free heart can sleep if need be;

But your courteous invitation

I most gratefully accept."

Then unfastened he his horse and

Led it gently by the bridle,

And the Pastor and the rider

Like old friends walked to the village

In the twilight of the evening.

By the window of the glebe-house

The old cook stood, looking serious;

Mournfully her hands she lifted,

Took a pinch of snuff and cried out:

"Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes!

Stand by me in this my trouble!

Thoughtlessly my kind old master

Brings again a guest to stay here;

What a thorough devastation

Will he make in my good larder!

Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout,

Which I had reserved for Sunday,

When the Dean of [Wehr] will dine here.

Now farewell, thou hough of bacon!

The old clucking hen, I fear much,

Also now must fall a victim,

And the stranger's hungry horse will

Revel in our store of oats."

[SECOND PART.]

YOUNG WERNER WITH THE SCHWARZWALD PASTOR.

Snugly in the well-warmed chamber,

Now before the supper table,

Sat the Trumpeter and Pastor,

On the dish, right hot and steaming

Had a roasted fowl paraded,

But it had completely vanished;

Only now a spicy fragrance

Floated gently through the chamber,

Like the songs by which the minstrel

Still lives on through after ages;

And the empty plates bore witness

That a great and healthy hunger

Lately here had been appeased.

Now the Pastor raised a brimming

Jug of wine, then filled the glasses

And began, his guest accosting:

"After supper 'tis the duty

Of the host, his guest to question:

Who he is, from whence he cometh?

Where his country and his parents?

In old Homer I have read oft

That the King of the Phæacians

Thus the noble hero questioned;

And I hope you can relate me

Just as many strange adventures

As Ulysses. Take your comfort,

Seat yourself in that warm corner,

Yonder by the stove, which is a

Hatching nest of solid thinking;

'Tis according to our custom

The narrator's seat of honour.

And I'll listen with attention.

Still the old man hears with pleasure

Of the storms of youth's wild passions."

Then the young man: "I am sorry

Not to be a proven hero,

Neither have I conquered Ilium,

Nor have blinded Polyphemus,

Neither have I ever thus far

Met with any Royal Princess,

Who when spreading out the linen

Felt for me a soft compassion.

But with pleasure I obey you."

On the bench he took his seat now

By the stove all covered over

With glazed tiles much ornamented.

From the stove streamed out warm comfort,

And the Pastor kindly told him

To stretch out his weary legs there.

He, however, would not do so;

Took a swallow of the red wine,

And began to tell his story:

"Know, my name is Werner Kirchhof;

I was born and grew to manhood,

In the Pfalz, at Heidelberg."

Old Heidelberg, thou beauty.

With many honours crowned;

Along the Rhine and Neckar,

No town like thee is found.

Thou town of merry fellows,

Of wisdom full and wine,

Clear flows thy placid river,

Blue eyes therein do shine.

When from the south is spreading

Spring's smile o'er hill and lea,

He out of blossoms weaveth

A bridal robe for thee.

Thee as a bride I fondly

Enshrine within my heart;

Like early love's sweet echoes,

Thy name doth joy impart.

Become life's cares too burning,

And all abroad looks bare,

I'll spur my good horse homeward

To the Neckar vale so fair.

"On the borders of the Neckar

I have dreamt sweet dreams of childhood,

Also have a school attended,

Greek and Latin there have studied;

And a thirsty old musician

Taught me how to blow the trumpet.

When I reached my eighteenth birthday,

Said my guardian: 'You, young Werner,

With a clever head are gifted,

And are somewhat of a genius,

And cut out of right material;

You must now become a lawyer.

That brings office and great honours,

Gathers also golden ducats.

And already I do see you

As the well-appointed bailiff

Of His Grace the Grand Elector;

And I then must pay you homage.

I will venture the prediction,

If you act quite circumspectly,

Then a seat may yet await you

In th' Imperial Court at Wetzlar.'

Thus I then became a lawyer;

Bought myself a great big inkstand,

Also bought a huge portfolio,

And a heavy Corpus Juris,

And the lecture-room frequented,

Where, with yellow mummy visage,

Samuel Brunnquell, the professor,

Roman law to us expounded.

Roman law, when I recall it,

On my heart it lies like nightmare,

Like a millstone on my stomach,

And my head feels dull and stupid.

To much nonsense did I listen,

How they in the Roman Forum

Snarling, quarrelled with each other;

How Sir Gaius stuck to his point,

And to his Sir Ulpianus;

How then later comers dabbled.

Till the Emperor Justinianus,

He of all the greatest dabbler,

Sent them home about their business.

And I often asked the question:

'Must it really be our fate then

These dry bones to gnaw forever,

Which were flung to us as remnants

From their banquets by the Romans?

Why should not, from soil Germanic,

Spring the flower of her own law,

Simple, full of forest fragrance--

No luxuriant southern climber?

Sad fate of the late-born races!

Must read till their brows are sweating,

And must try to disentangle

Knotty twisted skeins forever.

Can't we have a sword to cut them?'

"Often, nightly, by the lamp-light

I sat poring o'er the Codex,

Read the Glossary and [ Cujacius]

Till my weary brain was racking;

But this zeal brought me no blessing.

Merrily would then my thoughts fly

From my studies to that time when

Old Cujacius' lovely daughter

Mounted in her father's rostrum,

With her voice sweet and melodious,

Read for him his written lectures

To the lucky youth of Paris.

Usucaption and inheritance,

And Novella hundred and eighteen,

Changed into a dark-haired maiden

Peeping from the Corpus Juris.

From my trembling hands the pen fell,

Overturned were sand and inkstand,

And I caught hold of the trumpet:

Usucaption and inheritance,

And Novella hundred and eighteen,

Wailing in adagio tempo.

Flew forth from the study window

Far into the starry night.

"Yes, this zeal brought me no blessing.

I one day went from my lodging,

'Neath my arm the Corpus Juris

('Twas the Elzevir edition,

Which at Rotterdam was published)

To the Heugass', to the pawn-house,

Where the Jew, Levi Ben Machol,

With his squinting eyes rapacious,

Took it in his arms paternal,

Paid me then two golden ducats--

Someone else may now redeem it!

I became a saucy fellow,

Wandered much o'er hill and valley

Clinking spurs and serenading.

If I ever caught one sneering,

Quickly grasped my hand the rapier:

'Fight a duel! draw your weapons!

Now advance!' That whistled nicely

Through the air; on many smooth cheeks

Wrote my sword so sharp and steady

A memento everlasting.

I, however, must confess here,

That I did not choose the finest

Company to wander round with.

What I liked, was to sit drinking

Up in the Elector's Castle,

By our age's greatest marvel

Which the German mind has wrought out,

By the tun of Heidelberg.

A most worthy hermit dwelt there,

Who was the Elector's court fool,

Was my dear old friend Perkéo;

Who had out of life's wild whirlpool

Peacefully withdrawn himself where

He could meditate while drinking,

And the cellar was his refuge.

Here he lived, his care dividing

'Twixt himself and the big wine-tun;

And he loved it--truer friendship

Never has the world yet witnessed;

'Twas as if it were his bride.

With a broom he swept it shining,

Chased away the ugly spiders,

And whenever came a feast-day,

Hung it o'er with wreaths of ivy;

Sang to it the morning greeting,

Also sang the song of evening,

And he carved in wood the image

Of himself as his best offering.

But when sipping his reward then

From the big tun's mouth with kisses,

Forth he launched in flights of fancy.

Often at his feet I listened

To his odd and comic speeches:

'There above, they call me foolish,