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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
8. ANNO 1839.
Dear distant Germany, how often
I weep when I remember thee!
Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,
Her merry race gives pain to me.

In Paris, in this witty region,

’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;
O bells of folly and religion,
How sweetly sound at home your strains!

Courteous the men! Their salutation

I yet return with feelings sad;
The rudeness shown in every station
In my own country made me glad!

Smiling the women! but their clatter,

Like millwheels, never seems to cease;
The Germans (not to mince the matter)
Prefer I, who lie down in peace.

And all things here with restless passion

Keep whirling, like some madden’d dream;
With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,
And well-nigh void of motion seem.

Methinks I hear the distant ringing

Of the soft bugle’s notes serene;
The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,
With Philomel’s sweet strains between.

At home the bard, a happy vagrant

In Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;
From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant
My tender verses there I wove.
 9. AT DAWN.

On the Faubourg Saint Marçeau

Lay the mist this very morning,
Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,
And a white-hued night resembling.

Wandering through this white-hued night,

I beheld before me gliding
An enchanting female form
Which the moon’s sweet light resembled.

Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,

Lightly floating, tender, graceful;
Such a slender shape of limbs
I had here in France ne’er witness’d.

Was it Luna’s self perchance,

Who with some young dear and handsome
Fond Endymion had to-day
In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?

On my way home thus I thought:

Wherefore fled she when she saw me?
Did the Goddess think that I
Was perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?
10. SIR OLAVE.

I.
At the door of the cathedral
Stand two men, both wearing red coats,
And the first one is the monarch,
And the headsman is the other.

To the headsman spake the monarch:

“By the priest’s song I can gather
“That the wedding is now finish’d—
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”

To the sound of bells and organ

From the church the people issue
In a motley throng, and ’mongst them
Move the gay-dress’d bridal couple.

Pale as death and sad and mournful

Looks the monarch’s lovely daughter;
Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,
And his ruddy lips are smiling.

And with smiling ruddy lips he

Thus the gloomy king addresses:
“Father of my wife, good morning!
“Forfeited to-day my head is.

“I to-day must die,—O suffer,

“Suffer me to live till midnight,
“That I may with feast and torch-dance
“Celebrate my happy wedding!

“Let me live, O let me live, sire,

“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,
“Till the final dance is finish’d—
“Suffer me to live till midnight!”

To the headsman spake the monarch:

“To our son-in-law a respite
“Of his life we grant till midnight—
 Of his life we grant till midnight
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”

II.

Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast,

And every goblet is drained at last;
Upon his shoulder reclines
His wife and pines—
At the door the headsman is standing.

The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes hold

Of his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’d
They dance by the torches’ glow
Their last dance below—
At the door the headsman is standing.

The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad,

The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;
Whoever their dancing then saw
Was filled with awe—
At the door the headsman is standing.

And as they dance in the echoing hall,

To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:
“My love will be ne’er known to thee—
“The grave yawns for me—”
At the door the headsman is standing.

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.
 20. AWAY!

The day’s enamour’d of the night,

The springtime loves the winter,
And life’s in love with death,—
And thou, thou lovest me!

Thou lov’st me—thou’rt already seized

By fear-inspiring shadows,
And all thy blossoms fade,
To death thy soul is bleeding.

Away from me, and only love

The butterflies, gay triflers,
Who in the sunlight sport—
Away from me and sorrow!
21. MADAM METTE.

(From the Danish.)

Says Bender to Peter over their wine:
“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)
“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,
“My wife ’twill conquer never.”

Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse

“To your dog, or the devil is in it,
“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house
“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”

And when the hour of midnight drew near,

Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;
Right over the forest, right over the flood
His charming notes were ringing.

The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,

The flood stood still and listen’d,
The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,
The wise stars joyously glisten’d.

Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:

“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”
She put on her dress, and left the house—
Alas, it proved her destruction!

Right through the forest, right through the flood,

She speeded onward straightway;
While Peter, with the might of his song,
Allured her inside his own gateway.

And when she at morning return’d back home,

At the door her husband caught her:
“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!
“Your garments are dripping with water.”

“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,

“And heard the Future told by them;
“The mocking fairies wetted me through
 The mocking fairies wetted me through
“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”

“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,

“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;
“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,
“Your cheeks are also bloody.”

“I spent the night in the elfin wood,

“To see the elfin dances;
“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns
“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”

“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May

“On flowery plains, but the chilly
“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,
“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”

“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,

“He sang so mightily to me,
“That through the forest, and through the flood
“He irresistibly drew me.

“His song is mighty as death itself,

“To-night and perdition alluring;
“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,
“ A speedy death insuring.”

The door of the church is hung with black,

The funeral bells are ringing,
Poor Madam Mette’s terrible death
To public notice bringing.

Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,—

’Twas sad to hear him call so!—
“I now have lost my beautiful wife,
“And lost my true dog also.”
22. THE MEETING.
The music under the linden-tree sounds,
The boys and the maidens dance lightly;
Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,
Of figures noble and sightly.

They float about here, they float about there,

In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The maiden the youth thus addresses:

“My handsome youth, upon thy hat

There nods a lily splendid,
That only grows in the depths of the sea,—
From Adam thou art not descended.

“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maids

Would’st allure with thy arts of seduction;
I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”

They float about here, they float about there,

In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The youth the maid thus addresses:

“My handsome maiden, tell me why

“Thy hand so icy cold is?
“And tell me why thy snow-white dress
“So moist in every fold is?

“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,

“By thy bantering salutation;
“Thou art no mortal child of man,
“But the water-nymph, my relation.”

The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,

They part like sister and brother,
They know each other only too well
They know each other only too well,
And shun now the sight of each other.
23. KING HAROLD HARFAGAR.
The great King Harold Harfagar
In ocean’s depths is sitting,
Beside his lovely water-fay;
The years are over him flitting.

By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,

He is neither living nor dead now,
And while in this state of baneful bliss
Two hundred years have sped now.

The head of the king is laid on the lap

Of the beautiful woman, and ever
He yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,
And looks away from her never.

His golden hair is silver grey,

His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)
Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,
His body is wither’d and broken.

And many a time from his sweet dream of love

He suddenly is waking,
For over him wildly rages the flood,
The castle of glass rudely shaking.

He oftentimes fancies he hears in the wind

The Northmen shouting out gladly;
He raises his arms with joyous haste,
Then lets them fall again sadly.

He oftentimes fancies he hears far above

The seamen their voices raising,
The great King Harold Harfagar
In songs heroical praising.

And then the king from the depth of his heart

Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing,
When quickly the water-fay over him bends
When quickly the water-fay over him bends,
With loving kisses replying.
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