The foaming waters around her roar,
To save her, no bark pushes off from the shore.
Her gaze once again she lifts up to Heaven,
Then
gently away by the flood she is driven.
NO DAM, NO PLAIN! TO MARK THE PLACE
SOME STRAGGLING TREES ARE THE ONLY TRACE.
The rushing water the
wilderness covers,
Yet Susan's image still o'er it hovers.--
The water sinks, the plains re-appear.
Fair Susan's lamented with many a tear,--
May he who refuses her story to tell,
Be neglected in life and in death as well!
1809.
-----
THE FISHERMAN.
THE waters rush'd, the waters rose,
A
fisherman sat by,
While on his line in calm repose
He cast his patient eye.
And as he sat, and hearken'd there,
The flood was cleft in twain,
And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair
Sprang from the troubled main.
She sang to him, and spake the while:
"Why lurest thou my brood,
With human wit and human guile
From out their native flood?
Oh,
couldst thou know how
gladly dart
The fish across the sea,
Thou wouldst
descend, e'en as thou art,
And truly happy be!
"Do not the sun and moon with grace
Their forms in ocean lave?
Shines not with twofold charms their face,
When rising from the wave?
The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,--
The moist yet
radiant blue,--
Not thine own form,--to tempt thy lot
'Midst this
eternal dew?"
The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,
His heart with
longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
And ne'er again was seen.
1779.*
-----
THE KING OF THULE.*
(* This
ballad is also introduced in Faust, where it is sung by
Margaret.)
IN Thule lived a monarch,
Still
faithful to the grave,
To whom his dying mistress
A golden
goblet gave.
Beyond all price he deem'd it,
He quaff'd it at each feast;
And, when he drain'd that
goblet,
His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.
And when he felt death near him,
His cities o'er he told,
And to his heir left all things,
But not that cup of gold.
A regal
banquet held he
In his
ancestral ball,
In yonder sea-wash'd castle,
'Mongst his great nobles all.
There stood the aged reveller,
And drank his last life's-glow,--
Then hurl'd the holy
gobletInto the flood below.
He saw it falling, filling,
And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,
He never drank again.
1774.
-----
THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER.
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED COUNT.
COUNT.
I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,
Ah, how I hold it dear!
To seek it I would fain repair,
Were I not prison'd here.
My sorrow sore oppresses me,
For when I was at liberty,
I had it close beside me.
Though from this castle's walls so steep
I cast mine eyes around,
And gaze oft from the lofty keep,
The flower can not be found.
Whoe'er would bring it to my sight,
Whether a
vassal he, or
knight,
My dearest friend I'd deem him.
THE ROSE.
I
blossom fair,--thy tale of woes
I hear from 'neath thy grate.
Thou
doubtless meanest me, the rose.
Poor
knight of high estate!
Thou hast in truth a lofty mind;
The queen of flowers is then enshrin'd,
I doubt not, in thy bosom.
COUNT.
Thy red, in dress of green array'd,
As worth all praise I hold;
And so thou'rt treasured by each maid
Like precious stones or gold.
Thy
wreath adorns the fairest face
But still thou'rt not the flower whose grace
I honour here in silence.
THE LILY.
The rose is wont with pride to swell,
And ever seeks to rise;
But gentle sweethearts love full well
The lily's charms to prize,
The heart that fills a bosom true,
That is, like me, unsullied too,
My merit values duly.
COUNT.
In truth, I hope myself unstain'd,
And free from
grievous crime;
Yet I am here a prisoner chain'd,
And pass in grief my time,
To me thou art an image sure
Of many a
maiden, mild and pure,
And yet I know a dearer.
THE PINK.
That must be me, the pink, who scent
The warder's garden here;
Or
wherefore is he so intent
My charms with care to rear?
My petals stand in
beauteous ring,
Sweet
incense all around I fling,
And boast a thousand colours.
COUNT.
The pink in truth we should not slight,
It is the gardener's pride
It now must stand exposed to light,
Now in the shade abide.
Yet what can make the Count's heart glow
Is no mere pomp of
outward show;
It is a silent flower.
THE VIOLET.
Here stand I,
modestly" target="_blank" title="ad.谦虚地;有节制地">
modestly half hid,
And fain would silence keep;
Yet since to speak I now am bid,
I'll break my silence deep.
If,
worthy Knight, I am that flower,
It grieves me that I have not power
To breathe forth all my sweetness.
COUNT.
The violet's charms I prize indeed,
So
modest 'tis, and fair,
And smells so sweet; yet more I need
To ease my heavy care.
The truth I'll
whisper in thine ear:
Upon these rocky heights so drear,
I cannot find the loved one.
The truest
maiden 'neath the sky
Roams near the
stream below,
And breathes forth many a gentle sigh,
Till I from hence can go.
And when she plucks a flow'ret blue,
And says "Forget-me-not!"--I, too,
Though far away, can feel it.
Ay, distance only swells love's might,
When
fondly love a pair;
Though prison'd in the dungeon's night,
In life I
linger there
And when my heart is breaking nigh,
"Forget-me-not!" is all I cry,
And
straightway life returneth.
1798.
-----
SIR CURT'S WEDDING-JOURNEY.
WITH a bridegroom's
joyous bearing,
Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast,
To his mistress' home repairing,
There to hold his
wedding feast;
When a threatening foe advances
From a desert, rocky spot;
For the fray they couch their lances,
Not delaying,
speaking not.
Long the
doubtful fight continues,
Victory then for Curt declares;
Conqueror, though with wearied sinews,
Forward on his road he fares.
When he sees, though strange it may be,
Something 'midst the
foliage move;
'Tis a mother, with her baby,
Stealing
softly through the grove!
And upon the spot she beckons--
"Wherefore, love, this speed so wild?
Of the
wealth thy
storehouse reckons,
Hast thou
nought to give thy child!"
Flames of
rapture now dart through him,
And he longs for nothing more,
While the mother seemeth to him
Lovely as the maid of yore.
But he hears his servants blowing,