The Trumpeter of Säkkingen: A Song from the Upper Rhine.

Scorching lay the heat of summer

Over Rome, th' Eternal City;

Sluggishly his yellow waters

Rolls the Tiber, rolls them seaward,

Through the sultry air; however,

Not so much from choice, but rather

From a sense of duty, knowing

That it is a river's business.

Deep down at the river's bottom,

Sat old Tiber, and he muttered:

"Oh how slowly time is dragging!

I am weary! Would the end were

Of this dull monotonous motion!

Will no storm ere raise a flood-tide,

To engulf this little country,

And drag all the brooks and rivers,

Also me--the river veteran--

And embrace us all together

In the ocean's mighty bosom?

E'en to wash the walls forever

Of old Rome I find most tedious.

And what matter that this region

And myself are held as classic?

Vanished, turned to dust and ashes,

Are those genial Roman poets,

Who, their brows adorned with laurel,

And their hearts imbued with rhythm,

Formerly have sung my praises.

Then came others, long since vanished,

Others followed in their stead, like

Pictures in a magic lantern.

Well! to me 'tis all the same, if

Only they would not disturb me.

Oh what have these busy mortals

Thrown into my quiet waters,

Quite regardless of my comfort!

Where my nymphs with sacred rushes

Had arranged for me a pillow,

For my usual siesta,

There now lie great heaps of rubbish,

Roman helmets, Gaulish weapons,

Old utensils of Etruria,

And the lovely marble statues

Which once from the tomb of Hadrian

Down upon thick-headed Goths fell;

And the bones all mixed together

Of defenders and aggressors;

Just as if my river-bed were

An historic lumber chamber.

Oh how sick I am and weary!

Worn-out world, when wilt thou die?"

Whilst now thus the worthy Tiber

Gave full vent unto his anger

By this discontented grumbling,

There above gay life was surging,

And arrayed in festal garments

Crowds went toward the Vatican.

On St. Angelo's Bridge was hardly

Room enough for all the passers.

Crowding came in Spanish mantles,

Wigs and swords, the grand Signori;

Then some black Franciscan friars,

Also Capuchins, and common

Roman burghers. Here and there a

Sun-burnt and wild-looking shepherd

Of the near Campagna wore with

Classic grace his tattered garment;

And among them, with light footsteps,

Walked the lovely Roman maidens,

With black veils, although this covering

Did not hide their fervent glances.

(O how can the glowing sunshine,

Even when its rays are gathered

By adepts in their reflectors,

E'er compare with Roman glances?

Heart which felt their flames, be silent!)

From the castle of St. Angelo

Flutter gaily many banners,

Bearing all the Pope's insignia,

Both the mitre and the crossed keys,

Giving notice of the feast-day

Kept in honour of St. Peter.

There before the proud cathedral

Were the sparkling fountains playing;

Through the spray the vivid rainbow

Glitters o'er the granite basins.

And the obelisk gigantic

Of Rameses, King of Egypt,

Looked upon the crowd of people,

In his native tongue lamenting:

"Most perplexing are these Romans!

In the time of Nero hardly

Did I comprehend their doings;

Now still less I understand them.

But this much I have discovered,

That the climate here is chilly.

Amun-Rè, thou god of sunlight,

Take me home to my old friends there,

To the Sphinx, and let me once more

Hear the prayer of Memnon's column

Through the glowing desert ringing!"

On the broad steps of the Vatican

And beneath the marble columns

Tall Swiss halberdiers are walking

To and fro in keeping watch there.

Clanging through the hall the echo

Of their heavy tread is ringing.

To the gray old corporal turning

Speaks a youthful soldier sadly:

"Fine, indeed, and proud we Swiss are,

And I see no other soldiers

In the streets of Rome as jaunty

As we look with our cuirasses,

In the black, red, yellow doublet.

Many burning glances shyly

From the windows fall upon us;

But the heart is wildly yearning

Homeward, homeward for the mountains,

As at Strasburg on the bulwarks

When the Alpine horn was blowing.

Willingly would I give up all,

Earnest money, silver scudi,

E'en the Holy Father's blessing,

E'en the wine of Orvieto

Which pearls sweetly in the goblet,

Could I once again be chasing

Boldly on their tracks the chamois

O'er the rocks, near avalanches,

On the craggy steep Pilatus;

Or steal gently in the moonlight

Over fragrant Alpine meadows

To the faintly-lighted cottage,

To the dairy-maid, the light-haired

Kunigund of Appenzell;

And then greet the golden sunrise

With a joyful heartfelt jodel.

Oh Saint Peter, thy fine music

I should miss without regretting,

Could I hear again the well-known

Sharp shrill whistle of the marmot

In its lonely Alpine cave!"

On the steps of the cathedral

Stood in crowds close packed together

Elegant and idle dandies,

Holding muster over all the

Carriages and great state coaches

Which came quickly driving up there.

"Do you see the Eminenza

With that round face like the full moon,

With the double chin, he's leaning

On the servant in rich livery?

'Tis the Cardinal Borghese.

He would rather now be sitting

Quiet in the Sabine mountains

In the airy villa by the

Rural beauty Donna Baldi.

He's a man of taste, a scholar,

Loves the classics, and especially

Doth he love the true Bucolic."

"Who is that?" now asked another,

"That imposing-looking person?

Don't you see there what a splendid

Chain of honour he is wearing;

How he shakes his periwig now

Like th' Olympian Jupiter?"

"What, you do not known him?" answered

Then loquaciously another,

"Him, the Chevalier Bernini?

Who has just restored the Pantheon,

Who upon St. Peter's also

Has bestowed such rich adornments,

And the golden tabernacle

Built o'er Peter's grave, which cost more

Than a hundred thousand scudi.

Take your hat off! Since the world was,

Has she seen no greater master,

Nor--" He was then interrupted

By a man with gray moustaches,

Who his shoulder tapped and scornful

Said: "You are mistaken; never

Saw the world a greater bungler!

I say this, Salvator Rosa."

Coaches come, in front postilions;

Splendid uniforms are glittering

And with retinue attended

Steps an aged lady onward

To the portal of the Dome.

"How she's fading," said then someone,

"The illustrious Queen of Sweden!

Do you still recall her lovely

Looks when first she made her entrance?

Then the Gate del Popolo looked

Just as if built out of flowers;

And as far as Ponte Molle

Came the Romans out to greet her.

Down the long street of the Corso

Unto the Venetian Palace

Were the shouts of joy unending.

Do you see that little hunchback

Standing there, who now is sneezing?

He stands high in grace and favour

As one of the queen's attendants.

He's a scholar of deep learning,

The philologist Naudaeus.

He knows everything that happened,

And sometime ago he even,

Over there at Prince Corsini's,

Danced an ancient Saltarello

To instruct the royal party,

Whose loud laughter was heard plainly

Even far off by the Tiber."

In the throng now quite unnoticed

Came a heavy lumbering carriage;

In it were two black-robed ladies;

On the box sat worthy Anton

As their coachman, calling loudly:

"Room ye people for the gracious

Lady Abbess and my mistress!"

Called in German, which roused laughter.

With bewildered eyes he looked round

At the foreign scene, and just then

Passing by the queen's attendants,

He beheld a gray old coachman,

And he muttered from his coach-box:

"Don't I know thee, Swedish rascal?

Didst thou not belong once to the

Regiment of Sudermanland?

Do you now expect my thanks here

For the cut you had the kindness

To bestow upon my arm once

In the fight at Nuremberg?

A most marvellous place is truly

This old Rome, for long-forgotten

Friends and foes meet here again!"

On the classic soil of Italy

Now my song greets Margaretta.

Gladly would it strew its fairest

Blossoms on the path to welcome

And to cheer this pallid maiden,

So that smiles might light her features;

For, since Werner left the castle,

Pleasure had become a stranger.

Only once they saw her laughing,

When the Suabian younker came there;

But it was a bitter laughter,

Harsh, discordant as a string sounds

On a mandolin when snapping;

And the younker then returned thence

Single, as from home he started.

Silently the maiden sorrowed

As the months and years sped onward;

Till at last the Princess Abbess,

Filled with pity, told the Baron:

"On our soil your child no longer

Thrives as heretofore, but slowly

Her poor heart from grief is withering.

Change of air oft worketh wonders.

Let me take then Margaretta

With me to the Holy City,

Where in spite of age I'm going;

For, in Chur the wicked bishop

Threatens to deprive our convent

Of our fairest Swiss possessions,

And I shall complain of him there,

Saying to the Holy Father:

'Show me mercy, justly punish

The harsh bishop of the Grisons.'"

Said the Baron: "Take her with you;

And may Heaven grant its blessing,

That you may bring back my daughter

Rosy-cheeked and happy-hearted."

Thus to Italy they travelled

With old Anton as their coachman.

Now the carriage-door he opened,

And alighting, the old Abbess,

Followed by fair Margaretta,

Walked up to the church and entered.

Margaretta gazed in wonder

At the vastness of the building,

Where man seems reduced to nothing;

At the giant marble columns,

And the dome with gold overladen.

In the niche of the great nave stands

The bronze statue of St. Peter,

Which this day in papal vestments

Was arrayed, the gold brocade robe

Hanging stiffly on the statue;

On the head the Bishop's mitre.

And they saw how many people

Kissed the foot of this bronze statue.

Then a papal chamberlain led

Both the German ladies forward

To a seat close by the altar,

Place of honour kept for strangers.

Now was heard the sound of music;

And the Holy Father coming

Through the side-door from the Vatican

Made his entrance to St. Peter's.

Stout Swiss halberdiers were marching

At the head of the procession,

Followed by the celebrated

Singers of the papal choir.

Heavy music-books were carried

By the choristers, some hardly

Strong enough to bear the folios.

Then there came in motley order

Monsignori robed in violet;

Abbots followed then and prelates,

And the canons of St. Peter's,

Heavy looking, their fat figures

Corresponding to their livings.

Leaning on his staff the General

Of the Capuchins walked slowly

For a load of more than ninety

Years was resting on his shoulders;

But his brain was working out still

Many plans with youthful vigour.

With Franciscans from the cloister

Ara c[oe]li also came the

Prior of Pallazuola.

By the shores of Lake Albano,

'Neath the shade of Monte Cavo,

Stands his little monastery,

Peaceful spot for idle dreamers.

On he walked in deep thought buried;

And who knows wherefore his mutterings

Did not sound like prayer, but more like

"Fare-thee-well, Amalia."

After them the choicest portion,

All the cardinals, were walking,

Their long robes of scarlet colour

On the marble pavement trailing.

"Heart, be patient," so was thinking

Cardinal di Ottoboni;

"Now I'm second to the Pope yet,

But in seven years most likely

I shall mount St Peter's chair."

Then a train of cavaliers came

With their shining swords, and followed

In strict military order;

'Twas the Pope's own guard of honour.

And at last the Holy Father

Made his entrance, being carried

On a throne by eight strong bearers.

O'er his head were held by pages

The great fans of peacock-feathers.

Snow-white were his festal garments;

And his right hand, raised in blessing,

Wore the signet-ring of Peter.

Low the crowd knelt down in silence.

At the foot of the High Altar

The procession had arrived now,

And the Pope held solemn service

Over the Apostle's grave.

Solemnly and gravely sounded

The peculiar choral measures

Which old Master Palestrina

Had in his strict style composed.

And the aged Lady Abbess

Prayed with fervent deep devotion.

But fair Margaretta's glances

Were directed up to heaven,

Whence these solemn strains of music

Seemed to her to be descending.

But her eye was then attracted

To the singers' box--she trembled:

For, amid the group of singers,

Though half hidden by a column,

Stood a stately light-haired figure.

And again she looked now upward;

From her sight the Pope had vanished,

All the Cardinals had vanished,

Likewise all the nine-and-eighty

Burning lamps o'er Peter's grave.

"My old dream, dost thou return then?

My old dream, why dost thou haunt me

Even in these sacred precincts?"

The last notes had died out softly,

And the Holy Mass was ended.

"Oh how pale you look, dear lady!"

Said the aged Lady Abbess.

"Take my vial, it will help you,

It contains the finest essence

Which I bought myself in Florence

At the cloister of San Marco."

The procession of the singers

Passed just then before the ladies.

"God in heaven! oh have mercy!

Yes, 'tis he! I know the scar there

On his brow--it is my Werner!"

Dark before her eyes it grew now,

And her heart was beating wildly.

No more could her feet support her,

And the maiden sank down fainting

On the hard cold floor of marble.

Innocentius the Eleventh

Was kind-hearted; and his dinner

He had just now greatly relished.

At dessert he still was sitting,

And while luscious fruit enjoying,

Said to Cardinal Albani:

"Who was that young pallid lady,

Who this morning in St. Peter's

Fell upon the floor and fainted?"

Answered Cardinal Albani:

"On this subject just at present

I can give no information;

But the Monsignor Venusto

I will ask, for he knows always

What in Rome is daily happening;

Knows what in salons is gossiped,

What the senators are doing,

What is drunk by Flemish artists,

What is sung by Prima Donnas,

Even what the puppet-show is

Playing on the Square Navona.

There is naught the Monsignore

Can't unravel and discover."

E'en before was served the coffee

(At that time this was a novel

Beverage and rarely taken,

Only on the highest feast-days)

Had the Cardinal already

Learnt the facts. He thus related:

"This pale maiden is a noble

Lady, who has travelled hither

With that German Princess Abbess;

And she saw--most marvellously--

In the church a man this morning,

Whom she once had lost her heart with,

And whom, still more marvellously,

She unto this day is loving,

Notwithstanding and in spite of

Want of noble birth and titles,

And her father's stem refusal.

And the cause of this her fainting

Is, again most marvellously,

No one else but Signor Werner,

Chapel-master to your Holiness.

This the Monsignor Venusto

Heard to-day, when on a visit

To the Abbess who related

Confidentially these facts."

Then the Pope said: "This is truly

A most strange and touching meeting.

Were the subject not too modern,

And the actors of the drama

Not such semi-barbarous Germans,

Then some poet might win laurels

In the sweet groves of Arcadia,

Should he sing this wondrous meeting.

But I truly take an interest

In the grave young Signor Werner.

Greatly has improved the singing

Of my choir, since he leads it,

And the taste for solemn music;

While my own Italian singers

Care too much for operatic

Tunes of lighter character.

Quietly he does his duty,

Of his own accord ne'er speaking;

Never begs of me a favour;

Never was his hand extended

To receive the gifts of bribery.

Yet examples of corruption

Are more frequent with us, surely,

Than the fleas in sultry summer.

Monsignor Venusto knows this!

Seems to me that this grave German

Is consumed by secret sorrow.

I should really like to know now,

If he's thinking of his love yet?"

Said the Cardinal Albani:

"I well-nigh may answer for this.

In the books kept on the conduct

Of all high and low officials

In the State and Church departments,

It is mentioned as a wonder

That he strictly shuns all women.

First we nourished a suspicion

That his heart had fallen victim

To the charms of the fair hostess

Of the inn near Vale Egeria.

He was seen each evening strolling

Through the Porta Sebastiano,

And outside there is no dwelling

But the tavern just now mentioned.

Thus such nightly promenading

Of one yet in early manhood

Could not but arouse suspicion.

Therefore we once sent two persons

Carefully to track his footsteps,

But they found him 'mid the ruined

Tombs along the Appian Way.

There had once a great patrician

Built a tomb to his freed woman,

Whom he'd brought as a remembrance

From Judæa, at the time of

The destruction of the Temple.

She was called Zatcha Achyba.

There he sat, the spies related;

'Twas a subject for an artist:

The Campagna's sombre landscape;

Moonlight on the marble tombstone;

He his mantle wrapped around him;

Mournfully he blew his trumpet

Through the gloomy lonely silence.

This had brought upon him later

Many mocking jeers like this one:

'Signor Werner is composing

For the Jewess there a requiem.'"

At this smiled the Holy Father,

And the Cardinals did likewise;

Following these high examples,

All the chamberlains smiled also;

Even Carlo Dolci's features

Now relaxed their gloomy sadness.

And the Pope said: "We must all have

Great respect for this young German.

It were well if many others

Who at night away are stealing,

To the Appian Way were going.

Signor Werner, I assure you,

Stands most high in my good graces,

And to-morrow he shall see it;

For, I recollect, I've granted

Then an audience to the Abbess."

On the first day of July in

Sixteen hundred seventy-nine, there

Rose the sun with special glory.

Cooling blew the tramontana

Through the cypresses and myrtles

In the Vatican's fair garden;

And the half-parched flowers gladly

Raised their heads, breathed out fresh fragrance,

O'er the bronze gigantic pine-cone,--

Which once Hadrian's museum

Had adorned, and now was living

'Mid the jessamines and roses,

As a pensioner contented,--

Lively lizards swiftly glided,

Snapping at the tiny insects

Ever dancing in the sunshine.

Fountains played, and birds were singing;

E'en the pale old marble statues

With warm life became imbued.

And the satyr, with his reed flute,

Raised his foot as if intending

To go dancing round the garden;

But Apollo's hand waved warning:

"Friend, those times have passed forever;

Thou wouldst only raise a scandal."

Bathed in sunlight, Rome looks smiling

O'er the river at the Vatican;

From the sea of houses, churches,

And fair palaces, the Quirinal

Proudly rises; in the distance

Towers up the Capitolium

In the violet autumn haze.

Through the Boscareccio's verdant

Alleys swept the shining white robe

Of His Holiness, who kindly

To the Abbess and the maiden

Here had granted audience.

And the Abbess gained assurance,

That her lawsuit would be taken

Into prompt consideration.

Then to Margaretta turning.

Said the Pope: "None of the pilgrims

Ever leave Rome without comfort;

So I, as the soul's physician,

Must prevent another fainting."

And he whispered to a servant:

"Go and fetch the chapel-master."

Werner came: to stately manhood

In this southern clime he'd ripened

Since he left, a hopeless suitor,

The old castle in the Rhine-land.

Life's wild whirlpool, since that morning,

Had well tossed him hither thither.

Willingly I would relate here,

How he went to many countries;

How o'er land and sea he travelled;

How he with the Knights of Malta

Cruised against the Turkish corsairs;

Till at last a fate mysterious

Unto Rome had duly brought him.

But my song becomes impatient;

Like a driver who is snapping

At the door his whip, 'tis calling:

"Onward! On to the conclusion!"

Werner came; bewildered gazed he

Twice, yes thrice, at Margaretta,

Gazed at her in utter silence;

But his glances did express more

Than a printed folio volume.

'Twas the glance with which Ulysses

Sitting by the suitors' corpses

Gazed upon his consort, from whom

He by twenty years of wandering

And of suffering had been parted.

Innocentius the Eleventh

Was kind-hearted, a discerner

Of men's hearts. Most kindly said he:

"Those whom Providence united

In His goodness and His wisdom,

Shall no more be separated.

Yesterday when in St. Peter's,

And to-day here in the garden,

I have come to the conviction,

That there is a case here waiting

For my papal interference.

"'Tis indeed a mighty power

Love, a power all subduing;

Than light even more ethereal,

Doth it penetrate all barriers,

And the chair of Peter also

Is not safe from its invasion

When it asks us for our help.

"But it is a pleasant duty

Of the head of Christendom,

To make smooth the path of lovers,

Every obstacle removing,

That true love may be victorious.

And of all the various nations,

'Tis the Germans who beyond all

Keep us busy with such matters.

So the Count of Gleichen brought here

With him a fair Turkish consort

From the Holy Land, though knowing

His own consort still was living.

And our annals make full mention

Of our predecessor's troubles

Brought about by this wild action.

So likewise the most unhappy

Of all knights came here, Tannhauser:

"'Pope Urbano, Pope Urbano,

Heal the sick man held as captive

Seven years within the mountain

Of the wicked goddess Venus!'

But to-day the case is different

And more pleasing; there is nothing

Which conflicts with any canon.

There is only a slight scruple--

If I've heard right--with the Baron.

You, my Werner, have been faithful,

But I read 'neath all this quiet

Resignation to your duty,

That reluctantly you sang here,

As a caged-up bird is singing.

Oft you've asked for your dismission,

Which I ever did deny you,

And to-day would never grant you,

If it only were the custom,

That the papal chapel-master

Could like other mortals marry.

But in Rome we must keep always,

As you know, traditions sacred;

Palestrina for this reason

Went himself to foreign lands.

"Therefore go with my full favour;

And because the lady's father

Thinks the name of Werner Kirchhof

Much too simple, so I grant you

Knighthood by my sovereign power.

You, I know, care naught about it;

For you by your art ennobled

Think such titles of no moment.

But perhaps the gracious lady

May consider it more proper,

To bestow her hand in marriage

On the Marquis Camposanto

Rather than on Master Werner.

And because I hold the power

Both to bind as well as loosen,

I now solemnly betroth you.

E'en this loveless age rejoices

At examples of devotion.

You have shown one--be then happy,

And receive my papal blessing."

This he spoke with much emotion.

And overwhelmed with grateful feelings

Werner knelt with Margaretta

Down before the Holy Father;

And the Abbess wept so freely

That the grass thought it was raining.

With the tears of the good Abbess

Closes now the touching story

Of the young musician Werner

And the lovely Margaretta.

But who's wandering late at night-time

Through the Corso, who is stealing

Through that dark and narrow side-street?

'Tis the faithful coachman Anton;

Filled with joy is his whole being.

To give vent unto this feeling

He is going to the wine-house,

To the tavern del Fachino.

And to-night he is not drinking

Country wine in fogliette;

He has ordered a straw-covered

Bottle of good Orvieto

And of Monte Porzio.

Panes are crashing, fragments flying;

For he throws each empty bottle

In his rapture through the window.

Though indignant at the oil-drops

Which upon the wine are floating,

Just like comets in the ether,

Still he drinks and drinks with ardour;

Only while the tavern-keeper

Went to fetch him the sixth bottle

From the cellar, thus he spoke out:

"Thou, oh heart of an old coachman,

Now rejoice, for soon thou'lt harness

Thy good horses and drive homeward.

From the standpoint of a coachman

Italy is but a mournful

Land, behind in every comfort.

Horrid roads, and frequent toll-gates,

Musty stalls, and oats quite meagre,

Coaches rough! I feel insulted

Every time I see those waggons

Drawn by oxen yoked together.

The first element is wanting

Of a coachman's daily comfort,

'Tis the handy German hostler.

Oh how much I miss those worthies!

Oh how gladly I will welcome

One in pointed cap and apron!

In my joy again to see him

I will hug and even kiss him.

And at home what great surprises

Are in store! Oh never was I

So impressed with the grave duties

Of a coachman as at present

At a proud trot, such as never

Has been seen in this whole country,

Shall I drive my lord and ladies

Home through Florence and Milan.

"At Schaffhausen, the last station

For our night's rest, I must promptly

Send a messenger on horseback,

And he must alarm the city:

'Put up quickly all your banners,

Load your cannons for saluting,

And erect an arch of honour!'

Then we enter the next evening

Through the ancient gate in triumph,

And my whip I'll crack so loudly

That the town-house windows rattle.

Then I hear the aged Baron

Asking sharply: 'What's the meaning

Of these banners and this uproar?'

From afar I shout already:

'Heaven's blessing rests upon us;

Here a bridal pair are coming,

And, my lord, they are your children.'

This day ne'er shall be forgotten!

In remembrance shall the tom-cat

Hiddigeigei have a genuine

Whole well-smoked Italian sausage.

For the sake of after ages

Must the good schoolmaster make me

A fine poem on this subject;

I don't care, e'en should it cost me

The amount of two whole thalers,

And it must conclude as follows:

'From true love and trumpet-blowing

Many useful things are springing;

For true love and trumpet-blowing

E'en a noble wife are winning.

May true love and trumpet-blowing

Each one find good fortune bringing,

As our trumpeter young Werner,

On the Rhine at old Säkkingen.'"