The Project Gutenberg eBook of Translations of German Poetry in American Magazines, by Edward Ziegler Davis

The stormy winter drives us from the green,
Nor leaves a flower to decorate the scene;
The winds arise—with sweep impetuous blow,
And whirl around the flakes of fleecy snow;
Yet shall imagination fondly rise
And gather fair ideas as she flies:
The images that blooming spring pourtrays,
The sweets that bask in summer's sultry rays,
The rich and varied fruits of autumn's reign
Shall ope their treasures, in a bounteous train;
Of these the best, with choicest care display'd,
Shall form a wreath, for thee, my lovely maid!
So the fond shepherd, for his darling fair,
Culls beauteous flowers to deck her flowing hair.
The garden's rise shall grace my humble strains;
If Daphne smiles 'twill well repay my pains!
'Twas, in the morn of youth, a shepherd found
This happy art to decorate the ground;
This is the spot, the enamour'd Lycas cries,
Lycas the young, the gentle and the wise;
Under this elm, fair Adelaide first gave
The kiss of love to her devoted slave!
Whilst he, in am'rous accents told his flame,
With beating heart and agitated frame!
Here faint and weak my charmer sank to rest,
On the warm pillow of my panting breast!
"Lycas," with interrupting sobs, she said,
"Take the soft secret of an am'rous maid:
Of all the swains that strive this heart to move,
'Tis Lycas only Adelaide can love!
Ye peaceful groves—ye solitary springs—
To you I oft confess'd my secret stings!
And ye, sweet flowers bear witness to the truth
Of the soft flame that prey'd upon my youth;
Oft have your leaves that round me clust'ring grew,
Drank my warm tears as drops of morning dew."
My heart is full—what transport is my own!
For, in my bosom, love has fixed his throne.
Sacred to love this spot shall ever stand
Deck'd with luxuriant beauties by my hands.
Under this elm, the shadiest of the trees,
The rose shall pour its odours on the breeze;
Around its trunk the woodbine too shall rear
Its white and purple flowers aloft in air.
The treasures of the spring shall hither flow;
The piony by the lily here shall blow.
Over the hills, and through the meads I'll roam,
And bring the blooming spoils in rapture home:
The purple violet, the pink shall join,
The od'rous shrubs shall all their sweets combine,
Of these a grove of balmy sort shall rise,
And, with its fragrant blossoms, scent the skies!
Then round this little favour'd isle, I'll bring,
With gentle windings, yonder silver spring;
While eglantine and thorn shall interpose
Their hedge, a rampart 'gainst invading foes—
Lest sheep and rambling goats the place annoy,
And spoil the promise of our future joy.
Oh then approach, ye favour'd of the loves!
Come and dwell here ye gentle turtle doves!
On yonder spreading branches, perch'd on high,
With coos repeated greet the lover's sigh!
Then sportive sparrows round the roses play,
And sing, delighted, from the bending spray!
Ye butterflies, arrayed in coats of gold,
On beds of roses fluttering revels hold!
Here rest, upon the lily's waving stalk,
And add new beauty to the evening walk.
Then shall the shepherd passing, free from care,
When zephyr spreads the perfumes thro' the air,
Inhale the fragrance, and with transport cry,
What hallow'd place is this? what goddess nigh?
Does Venus own this gay, enchanted place?
Or has Diana, wearied in the chace,
Chosen a spot where choicest sweets abound,
To slumber on the consecrated ground?

At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake,
Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played;
The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays,
The nightingale's enchanting tender note,
Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance.
At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps,
And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines
Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch
Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found
His venerable parent—his grey head
Supported by his arm, while through the leaves
The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face.
With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart,
He stood before his father—long he stood,
His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage,
Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears,
And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven,
Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek.
Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods,
I reverence, my father—ah, how soft
Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good
How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps
Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer
To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task
Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me,
Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies,
How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods
Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands
Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent
With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd
Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd?
Upon the golden produce of our fields?
When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek,
To see me, anxious, cherish and support
Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven,
You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son;
Ah! then, what words his blessings could express!
My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears
O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks—
When yester morn, reclining on my arm,
You left our cot to feel the quickening beams
Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport
The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd,
And all the fertile country blooming round,
"My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words;
"Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest!
"My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view
"Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains
"Must I exchange you—plains beyond the skies."
Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon
Lose thee! my nearest friend!—distressing thought!
Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise
A modest altar, and with ardour seek
Each blest occasion to relieve the woes
Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day,
That gives the happy chance of doing good,
I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave,
And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot—
He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears,
Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said,
How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers!
Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er,
In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul;
Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare
And shining temples, and his silver beard;
Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve—
Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss
His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up,
And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep,
On softest furs, to slumber out the night.

Myrtil.
Whither so early sister, ere the sun,
Has, from behind yon hill, his course begun?
Scarce has the swallow to the morning ray,
Ventur'd to modulate his twittering lay.
The early cock, whom richest plumes adorn
Has yet but faintly hail'd the golden morn;
Whilst thou, to some unknown attraction true,
With hasty footsteps brush the silv'ry dew!
What festival to-day, do you prepare,
For fill'd with flowers, your basket scents the air.

Daphne.
Welcome dear brother, whither points thy way,
Amidst the chilly damps of early day?
On what fair purpose from yon new form'd bower,
Hast thou come forth at twilight's silent hour?
For me—I've pluck'd the violet and the rose,
And sought each flower that round our cottage grows.
Whilst o'er our parents gentle slumbers spread
Their wings, I'll strew them on their peaceful bed;
Then when the sunbeams gild the glowing skies
Midst fragrant scents, they'll ope their aged eyes;
Their hearts shall then with pious joy rebound,
To find the blooming flowers, clust'ring round.

Myrtil.
My best belov'd, not life itself can prove,
Pleasing to me without a sister's love.
For me, dear girl, when yester eve we met,
Just as the sun had made a golden set,
Our parent, resting on our fav'rite hill,
Whilst we with fond attention watch'd his will;
"How sweet (he cried) on yonder spot to rear,
A shady bower to rest in, free from care!"
I heard his wish as though I heard it not,
Yet kept my thoughts fix'd firmly on the spot,
And ere her early beams Aurora sent,
My hasty steps toward the hill I bent,
And rear'd the bower and to its verdant side,
The waving, hazle branches, closely tied;
See, sister, see, the work at length is done;
Betray me not till I've his blessing won,
Till he himself shall thither bend his way;
Ah, then, with joy we'll celebrate the day.

Daphne.
How grateful, brother, will be his surprize,
When first the distant bower shall greet his eyes!
But let me haste and gently o'er their bed,
My morning offering of fragrance spread.

Myrtil.
When they shall wake amid the fragrant pile,
They'll greet each other with a tender smile;
And say, this is our Daphne's work, sweet child;
Thus has our love the morning hours beguil'd.
For our delight, how tender 'tis to keep
A studious care whilst we were lock'd in sleep.

Daphne.
Yes, brother, when at his accustomed hour,
Opening his casement he shall view thy bower,
"Sure (he'll exclaim) I do not see aright,
Or on yon hill an arbor greets my sight;
Yes, that is Myrtil's work,—for this bereft
Of his sweet sleep, his nightly couch he left:
Such are the plans, his filial thoughts engage,
And thus he soothes our fast declining age."
And when with joy we'll greet the morning ray,
With joy we'll celebrate the happy day,
Each work to-day commenc'd shall prosper well,
And peace and joy in every grove shall dwell.

Delia! when in your lover's eyes,
At your approach soft lustre rise,
When with charm'd ear, from thy sweet tongue,
He listens to the thrilling song,
O'er saddest scenes delights you fling,
And winter wears the smile of spring.

When o'er the mead with you I stray,
More fragrant is the new-mown hay,
When gath'ring flow'rets at your side,
The buds more vivid swell with pride,
And bend, your snowy hand to meet,
Or am'rous twine beneath your feet.

But when within your arms you press me,
When with a long, long kiss you bless me,
Ah! then in vain, the fairest flow'rs
Exert their balmy-breathing pow'rs;
In vain her sweets does Nature bring,
In vain she wears the smile of spring.

Then Delia! nought on earth but thee,
My ravish'd senses feel or see,
With Love's wild frenzy then possessed,
My trembling heart beats 'gainst thy breast,
Then fondly sink, o'erpower'd with bliss,
Only alive to Delia's kiss.

"Ah, William! art thou false or dead?"
Cried Leonora from her bed.
"I dreamt thou'dst ne'er return."
William had fought in Frederick's host
At Prague—and what his fate—if lost
Or false, she could not learn.

Hungaria's queen and Prussia's king,
Wearied, at length with bickering,
Resolv'd to end the strife;
And homewards, then, their separate routs
The armies took, with songs and shouts,
With cymbals, drum and fife.

As deck'd with boughs they march'd along,
From every door, the old and young
Rush'd forth the troops to greet.
"Thank God," each child and parent cry'd,
And "welcome, welcome," many a bride,
As friends long parted meet.

They joy'd, poor Leonora griev'd:
No kiss she gave, no kiss receiv'd;
Of William none could tell;
She rung her hands, and tore her hair;
Till left alone in deep despair,
Bereft of sense, she fell.

Swift to her aid her mother came,
"Ah! say," cried she, "in mercy's name,
"What means this frantic grief?"
"Mother 'tis past—all hopes are fled,
"God hath no mercy, William's dead,
"My woe is past relief."

"Pardon, O pardon, Lord above!
"My child, with pray'rs invoke his love,
"The Almighty never errs?"
"O, mother! mother! idle prate,
"Can he be anxious for my fate,
"Who never heard my prayers?"

"Be patient child, in God believe,
"The good he can, and will relieve,
"To trust his power endeavour."
"O, mother! mother! all is vain,
"What trust can bring to life again?
"The past, is past for ever."

"Who knows, but that he yet survives;
"Perchance, far off from hence he lives,
"And thinks no more of you.
"Forget, forget, the faithless youth,
"Away with grief, your sorrow soothe,
"Since William proves untrue."

"Mother, all hope has fled my mind,
"The past, is past, our God's unkind;
"Why did he give me breath?
"Oh that this hated loathsome light
"Would fade for ever from my sight,
"Come, death, come, welcome death!"

"Indulgent Father, spare my child,
"Her agony hath made her wild,
"She knows not what she does.
"Daughter, forget thy earthly love,
"Look up to him who reigns above,
"Where joys succeed to woes."

"Mother what now are joys to me?
"With William, Hell a Heaven could be,
"Without him, Heaven a Hell.
"Fade, fade away, thou hated light,
"Death bear me hence to endless night,
"With love all hope farewell."

Thus rashly, Leonora strove
To doubt the truth of heavenly love.
She wept, and beat her breast;
She pray'd for death, until the moon
With all the stars with silence shone,
And sooth'd the world to rest.

When, hark! without, what sudden sound!
She hears a trampling o'er the ground,
Some horseman must be near!
He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise
Dies soft away, a well-known voice
Thus greets her list'ning ear.

"Wake, Leonora;—dost thou sleep,
"Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep,
"Is William welcome home?"
"Dear William, you!—return'd, and well!
"I've wak'd and wept—but why, ah! tell,
"So late—at night you come?"

"At midnight only dare we roam,
"For thee from Prague, though late, I come."
"For me!—stay here and rest;
"The wild winds whistle o'er the waste,
"Ah, dear William! why such haste?
"First warm thee in my breast."

"Let the winds whistle o'er the waste,
"My duty bids me be in haste;
"Quick, mount upon my steed:
"Let the winds whistle far and wide,
"Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride,
"To reach our marriage bed."

"What, William! for a bridal room,
"Travel to night so far from home?"
"Leonora, 'tis decreed.
"Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear,
"The dead ride swiftly; never fear,
"We'll reach our marriage bed."

"Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed,
"What! where! this distant marriage bed?"
"Leonora, no delay.
"'Tis far from hence; still—cold—and small:
"Six planks, no more, compose it all;
"Our guests await, away!"

She lightly on the courser sprung,
And her white arms round William flung,
Like to a lily wreath.
In swiftest gallop off they go,
The stones and sparks around them throw,
And pant the way for breath.

The objects fly on every side,
The bridges thunder as they ride;
"Art thou my love afraid?
"Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear,
"The dead doth Leonora fear?"
"Ah, no! why name the dead?"

Hark! as their rapid course they urge,
A passing bell, a solemn dirge;
Hoarse ravens join the strain.
They see a coffin on a bier,
A priest and mourners too appear,
Slow moving o'er the plain.

And sad was heard the funeral lay;
"What the Lord gives, he takes away;
"Life's but a fleeting shade.
"A tale that's told,—a flower that falls;
"Death, when the least expected, calls,
"And bears us to his bed."

"Forbear;"—imperious William cry'd
"I carry home, a beauteous bride,
"Come, to our marriage feast;
"Mourners, away, we want your song;
"And as we swiftly haste along,
"Give us your blessing, priest.

"Sing on, that life is like a shade;
"A tale that's told, or flowers which fade:
"Such strains will yield delight.
"And, when we to our chamber go,
"Bury your dead, with wail and woe;
"The service suits the night."

While William speaks, they silent stand,
Then run obedient to command,
But, on with furious bound,
The foaming courser forward flew,
Fire and stones his heels pursue,
Like whirlwinds dash'd around.

On right and left, on left and right,
Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight,
As on they breathless prest;
"With the bright moon, like death we speed,
"Doth Leonora fear the dead?"
"Ah! leave the dead at rest."

Behold, where in the moon's pale beam,
As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam,
Join'd hand in hand, a crowd
Of imps and spectres hover nigh,
Or round a wasted wretch they fly,
When William calls aloud:

"Hither, ye airy rabble, come,
"And follow till I reach my home;
"We want a marriage dance."
As when the leaves on wither'd trees,
Are rustled by an edying breeze,
The muttering sprites advance.

But, soon with hurried steps, the crew
Rush'd prattling on, for William flew,
Clasp'd by the frighted fair:
Swifter than shafts, or than the wind,
While struck from earth fire flash'd behind,
Like lightnings through the air.

Not only flew the landscape by,
The clouds and stars appear'd to fly.
"Thus over hills and heath
"We ride like death; say, lovely maid,
"By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?"
"Ah! speak no more of death."

"The cock hath crow'd—Away! away!
"The sand ebbs out: I scent the day.
"On! on! away from here!
"Soon must our destin'd course be run,
"The dead ride swift,—hurrah! 'tis done,
"The marriage bed is near."

High grated iron doors, in vain
Barr'd their way.—With loosened rein
Whil'st William urg'd the steed,
He struck the bolts;—they open flew,
A churchyard drear appear'd in view;
Their path was o'er the dead.

As now, half veil'd by clouds, the moon
With feebler ray, o'er objects shone,
Where tombstones faint appear,
A grave new dug arrests the pair,
Cry'd William, and embrac'd the fair,
"Our marriage bed is here."

Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell,
His flesh like touchwood from him fell,
His eyes forsook his head.
A skull, and naked bones alone,
Supply the place of William gone,
'Twas Death that clasp'd the maid.

Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd,
As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd,
Poor Leonora fell;
The hideous spectres hover round,
Deep groans she hears from under ground,
And fiends ascend from hell.

They dance, and say, in dreadful howl,
"She asks no mercy for her soul;
"Her earthly course is done.
"When mortals, rash and impious! dare
"Contend with God, and court despair,
"We claim them as our own."

"Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains,
"Call on the Lord, while life remains,
"Unite your heart to his;
"When man repents and is resign'd,
"God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind,
"And grant him future bliss."

"We claim as ours, who impious dare
"Contend with God, and court despair;"
Again the spectres cry'd.
"Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd,
"God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind,"
The gentler voice reply'd.

Leonora, e'er her sense was gone,
Thus faint exclaim'd,—"thy Will be done,
"Lord, let thy anger cease."
Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r;
The spectres vanish'd into air,
And all was hush'd in peace.

Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn,
And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn;
The night is chas'd away.
The sun ascends, new warmth he gives,
New hope, new joy; all nature lives,
And hails the glorious day.

No more are dreadful fantoms near;
Love and his smiling train, appear;
They cull each sweetest flow'r,
To scatter o'er the path of youth,
To deck the bridal bed, when Truth
And Beauty own their pow'r.

Ah,—could your pow'r avert the blast
Which threatens Bliss!—could passion last!
Ye dear enchanters tell;
What purer joy could Heaven bestow,
Than when with shar'd affection's glow
Our panting bosoms swell?

Sweet spirits wave the airy wand,
Two faithful hearts your care demand;
Lo! bounding o'er the plain,
Led by your charm, a youth returns;
With hope, his breast impatient burns;
Hope is not always vain.

"Wake, Leonora!—wake to Love!
For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;"
Death vainly aim'd his Dart.
The Past was all a dream; she woke—
He lives;—'twas William's self who spoke,
And clasp'd her to his Heart.

[G. A. Bürger, Lenore. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.]

If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a burnt offering, as a just punishment for time misspent.

Damon.
The gloomy tempest, Daphne, has blown o'er,
The thunder's awful voice is heard no more;
Tremble not then, my girl, the lightning's blaze
Through the dark cloud, no longer darts its rays.
Let us this arbour leave, the blue sky greet,
For, see, the sheep that sought this safe retreat,
Now from their fleeces shake the drops of rain,
And spread them o'er the bright'ning mead again,
Let us then leave this fav'rite shelt'ring bower,
To taste the beauties of this balmy hour;
To view the sunbeams gild the moisten'd ground,
And throw their rich and radiant glory round.
As from the grotto, hand in hand they past,
The gentle Daphne on her partner cast
Her swimming eyes, pressing his honest hand.

Daphne.
How lovely looks the gay, the smiling land,
She said; while through the scattering cloud appears
The blue sky, dissipating all our fears.
The clouds, as through the air they quickly pass,
Hurry their shadows o'er the glist'ning grass.
See, Damon, now, o'er yonder hill they throw
Their shade o'er herds and cottages, and lo!
They're flown, and while o'er flowery meads they run,
The hill's again illumin'd by the sun.

Damon.
The rainbow view, from hill to hill expand,
Its radiant arches o'er the laughing land;
'Midst the grey cloud, a happy omen shows;
With peace and safety every colour glows:
The quiet valley smiles beneath its beams,
And owns its beauties in her gliding streams.
Daphne with gentle arm embrac'd her swain;
And cried;

Daphne.
See balmy zephyrs breathe again;
More cheerful with the flowers they sport and play,
Dress'd by the drops of rain and light of day.
The butterflies, in richest coats array'd,
And fluttering insects joy to leave the shade,
Their velvet wings in quick vibrations shake,
While on the surface of the neighbouring lake,
Of shrubs and willows, wash'd from every stain,
The trembling branches glitter once again;
Again the peasant in its bosom sees
The heaven's blue concave and the spreading trees.

Damon.
Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms,
What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms,
Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes,
What unexhausted springs of rapture rise.
From the least plant to the bright star of day,
That kindles nature with its quickening ray,
All, all, our admiration ought to raise,
And tune our voices to the notes of praise!
How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow,
I view the spreading country stretch'd below.
Or, when amid the grass, in rural ease,
Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees,
I contemplate the various flowers and plants,
And their minutely fine inhabitants.
Or when amid the solemn hours of night,
I view the stars adorn the heavens with light;
The grateful changes of the seasons trace,
The progress of the vegetable race.
When all these wonders thro' my senses roll,
They fill with purest awe my swelling soul;
Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth,
Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth;
To him, my admiration I confess,
Father of light, of life, of every bliss:
Nought then my soul with equal joy can move,
Save the delight to know my Daphne's love.

Daphne.
Damon, around me also wonders rise,
And fill my bosom with a sweet surprize.
Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace,
When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face,
When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows,
Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws,
Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest,
Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest,
In broken accents we our wonder own,
And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne.
How inexpressible is the delight,
When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite.

That insects think, as well as speak,
Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show;
Esop, whom even children prize in Greek,
Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago.
Fontaine, in French, asserted just the same;
Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim
To faculties, the world esteems so low,
As scarce to notice, if you think or no?

Within a temple, where the builder's art,
Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd;
While due proportion, reign'd in every part,
And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd.
In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high,
A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly.
For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take,
And on one leg, the head will often hold,
And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold,
Only because they deep reflection's make;
And to the bottom dive to know,
The source of all things here below.

Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep,
With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow,
This fly began, around himself to peep,
And question whence the building rose, and how?
No maker of this work can I perceive,
Quoth he—and that there is one, scarce believe;
For who should such a maker be?
"Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see,
For, wheresoever turns your eye,
Fix'd laws, and order you descry;
And hence, a fair conclusion grows,
That from the hand of Art, the building rose."
At this the fly, in his conceptions proud,
Laugh'd out aloud,
And with a sneer of scorn, replied—
"Most learned sir, I oft have tried,
At this same Art to get a sight,
But never on him yet could light;
And now, the more I think, the more I find,
Your Art is but a fiction of the mind.
Now learn from me how this same temple grew:
Once on a time, it so by chance befel
That pebbles numberless together flew,
And settling, form'd this hollow shell,
Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell;
Say, what can be more evidently true?"
A fly, for such a system, we forgive;
But if great geniuses should live,
Who deem this world's well-order'd frame,
Sprung from blind accident alone,
And chance, as author of their lives proclaim,
Rather than bow to God's eternal throne,
The sole excuse a creed, like this admits,
Is, that its votaries have lost their wits.