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

Voltaire, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indifference would I view
Departing fortune's winged haste,
And at the goddess laugh like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And flatt'rers wordy emptiness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a prince and poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless sheers of fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank me with th' unconscious dead,
What will't avail that I was great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chants my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease, and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure
To what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, nor fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth
By which is measur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell,
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all his peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathless page,
In silent solitude resigned
To the mild virtues of a sage;
But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Brüin
By flames a house I hir'd was lost
Last year; and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground;
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes:
The gipsy knows her power and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And great thy wisdom Vander Brüin.

Yet a few years or days perhaps,
Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the sun these eyes shall view,
Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew,
And life's fantastick dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd I sink,
And endless darkness wraps me round!
Yes, Death, is ever at my hand,
Fast by my bed he takes his stand,
And constant at my board is found.

Earth, air and fire, and water join
Against this fleeting life of mine,
And where for succour can I fly?
If art with flattering wiles pretend
To shield me like a guardian friend,
By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.

I see this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to dust consigned,
Once call'd from dust by power divine:
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold—
Hence dreadful spectre! to behold
Thy aspect, is to make it mine.

And can I then with guilty pride,
Which fear nor shame can quell or hide,
This flesh still pamper and adorn?
Thus viewing what I soon shall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,
Or look on aught around with scorn?

But then this spark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?
Can this be dust, a kneaded clod!
This yield to death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heaven, and mounts the wind,
That knows at once itself and God?

Great Cause of all, above, below,
Who knows thee must forever know,
Immortal and divine!
Thy image on my soul imprest,
Of endless being is the test,
And bids Eternity be mine.

Transporting thought!—but I am sure
That endless life will joy secure?
Joys only to the just decreed!
The guilty wretch expiring goes,
Where vengeance endless life bestows,
That endless mis'ry may succeed.

Great God, how awful is the scene!
A breath, a transient breath between;
And can I jest, and laugh and play?
To earth, alas! too firmly bound,
Trees, deeply rooted in the ground,
Are shiver'd when they're torn away.

Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains,
How do ye bind with silken claims,
Which ask Herculean strength to break!
How with new terrours have ye arm'd
The power whose slightest glance alarm'd!
How many deaths of one ye make!

Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold
Man's thoughtless race in errour bold,
Forget or scorn, the laws of death;
With these no projects coincide,
Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide,
Each thinks he draws immortal breath.

Each blind to fate's approaching hour,
Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power,
And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke:
And he who tott'ring scarce sustains
A century's age, plans future gains,
And feels an unexpected stroke.

Go on, unbridled desp'rate band,
Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land,
And spoil new worlds wherever found.
Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize,
And sighs, and tears and prayers despise,
Nor spare the temple's holy ground.

They go, succeed, but look again,
The desperate hand you seek in vain,
Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn.
But who, that saw their treasures swell,
That heard th' insatiate rebel,
Would e'er have thought them mortal born?

See the world's victor mount his car,
Blood marks his progress wide and far,
Sure he shall reign while ages fly;
No, vanish'd like a morning cloud,
The hero was but just allow'd
To fight, to conquer, and to die.

And is it true, I ask with dread,
That nations heap'd on nations bled
Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel,
With trophies to adorn the spot,
Where his pale corse was left to rot,
And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal?

Yes, fortune weary'd with her play,
Her toy, this hero, casts away,
And scarce the form of man is seen:
Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow,
Around my brows no roses glow,
The cypress mine, funereal green.

Yet in this hour of grief and fears,
When awful Truth unveil'd appears,
Some power unknown usurps my breast;
Back to the world my thoughts are led,
My feet in folly's labyrinth tread,
And Fancy dreams that life is blest.

How weak an empress is the mind,
Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind,
And captive to her altars lead!
Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage,
And all the world is Folly's stage,
And all that act are fools indeed.

And yet this strange and sudden flight,
From gloomy cares to gay delight,
This fickleness so light and vain,
In life's delusive transient dream,
Where men nor things are what they seem,
Is all the real good we gain.

Perhaps, like Werter [40], pensive in the shade,
I mourn in vain, and curse relentless fate
Or while I love the sympathetic maid,
Adversity's black clouds around me wait.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
I wander through the gloom:
And with the tears of silent woe,
Each night bedew thy tomb.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
Thy friends, thy kindred flee?
Dost thou no longer Charlotte know?
Have friends no charms for thee?

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
All lonely, full of fears?
Behold thy friends are left to woe,
And Charlotte left in tears.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
To wander round thy tomb?
Alas! presentiments of woe
Foretold thy fatal doom.

Why Werter didst thou leave me so,
In terrible despair?
Those pistols did thy fate foreknow:
Ah! why was Charlotte there!

Why, Werter, didst thou leave me so?
Alas! thou wrong'dst my love,
To leave me weeping here below,
While thou art blest above.

Werter, thou shalt not leave me so:
We must not parted be:
I quit the world—to heav'n I go!
Werter, I fly to thee.

I
And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give?
Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love—
Since giv'n by her, 'twould be a crime to live—
No; come ye pistols; all your death I prove.

II
But first one kiss, for there did Charlotte touch,
Ye sacred relics, now are ye most dear;
Tho' o'er your deeds will Charlotte sorrow much,
And even Albert drop a pitying tear.

III
May heav'n forgive the unconsider'd deed!
It gave me passions, nor could I controul:
But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed,
The God of heav'n have mercy on thy soul.

IV
Charlotte I go!—my pistols have their load:
My last, my dying thoughts are fix'd on you!
I go! I go thro' death's untrodden road;
Once, and for ever, Charlotte—Oh! adieu!

I
Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below
This grass-green hill, with steady steps dost press;
Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know,
Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.

II
Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd,
Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd,
In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd;
False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.

III
Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave,
But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress:
By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave—
The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.

IV
Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring;
And annual flowers shall ever blossom here;
Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring,
And passing strangers shed the pitying tear.

[Thomas Gray, Poems.
Publ. by Dodsley—London, July 1768.
Publ. by Foulis—Glasgow, Sept. 1768.

Both editions contain the Descent of Odin. "The poem was written at Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay called Vegtams Kvida, and sometimes Baldrs draumar. The original is to be found in Bartholinus, de causis contemnendæ mortis; Hafniæ, 1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf. Works of Thomas Gray, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.]

Still on those plains their num'rous race survive,
And, born to labour, still are found to thrive;
Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs,
They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.
Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around—
Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground;
No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen;
Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean;
No idle fancy dares its whims apply,
Or hope attention from the master's eye.
All tends to something that must pelf produce,
All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use.
Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat,
Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat.
The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,—
These all their pleasure, these their darling joy.
The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move,
No nice ideas of romantic love;
He to her heart the readiest path can find,
Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind.
She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth,
Minds not the swain—but asks him, what he's worth?
No female fears in her firm breast prevail,
The helm she governs, and she trims the sail;
In some small barque the way to market finds,
Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds:
While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will,
Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.
Health to their toils—thus may they still go on—
Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn!
Is this the gen'ral taste? No—truth replies—
If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise,
See (where the social circle meant to grace)
The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face;
She, early led to happier talks at home,
Prefers the labours that her sex become;
Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art,
And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.

Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought,
Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought.
A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms
Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms:
For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee;
And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free.
But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall,
Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball;
Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind
Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find.
None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid;
But who of that would not have been afraid,
If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd.

History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a numerous army, and committed the greatest enormities; but was at last overthrown, his army routed, and himself slain by one of those women whom he had brutally abused.

Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain,
By nature form'd for sport;
The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain,
To annual games resort.

High o'er their heads was hung the hoary brow,
Which cast an ample shade;
From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow—
"Fierce foes your sports invade!"

They upward gaze—a warrior struck their sight;
He bore aloft his lance,
All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright,
Where beamy splendors dance.

The western sun-beam round his helmit flies,
He more than man appears;
And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice
That rang upon their ears.

"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale,
"Your rural games oh cease;
"Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale,
"Break off the sports of peace!

"The bloody Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes,
"He riots in our shame;
"The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds—
"Norway is but a name!

"The husband sees—curse on the tyrant's lust—
"He sees his beauteous bride—
"Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust—
"Oh where is Norway's pride!

"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain,
"Let helms o'ershade each brow;
"Let's meet these Swedish dæmons in the plain,
"And lay their triumphs low.

"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen!
"'Twas Sivard done the deed—
"Our hoary monarch, and our helpless queen,
"I—yes, I saw them bleed.

"Their daughter Ella—no, I will not tell!
"Norwegians ne'er enquire—
"Ne'er hear it—what the royal maid befel;
"I see your souls on fire.

"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields!
"Oh vindicate your fame!
"Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields;
"Remember Norway's name."

He said—tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains,
Rage fills each honest breast;
In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains,
Was ev'ry thought address'd.

Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,—
"Who'er thou art, come down,
"We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd,
"And war is all our own.

"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here:
"But stranger come thou down."
He came—Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;—
He gaz'd—but ceas'd to frown.

"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face,
"Or sure thou art his son!
"Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"—
Full quick the tidings run.

With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief;
The aged kiss his hand:
On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief,
Then Athold spoke the band—

"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair,
"There seize the sword and shield,
"And ere the morning's purple streaks the air,
"Meet Eric in the field.

"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go,
"And take refreshing sleep;
"Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe,
"Or break his harp and weep!"

'Twas night—in Athold's hall each took his place;
Of other times he sung;
Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face,
And groans responsive rung.

Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms,
The rustic vet'rans came:
And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms,
Now hop'd a patriot's name.

They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host;
Young Eric struck his shield;
Then high in air his heavy spear he tost,
And blaz'd along the field.

Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong;
Black Calmar lifts his mace;
Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along,
And all the rugged race.

Fierce came the Swede;—in strength of numbers proud;
He scorn'd his feeble foe;
But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud,
And many a Swede lay low.

Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead,
Full fifteen bleed beside:
Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head,
In all his youthful pride.

But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around,
On Sivard still he cri'd;
The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground—
Sivard! the hills repli'd.

In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield,
His mail, his helm, and spear;
He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field;
Now Norway knows no fear.

Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm,
His steeds are stain'd with blood;
Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm,
And flew to stop the flood.

He rag'd, he foam'd—fierce flew the thirsty spear,
Down fell the foremost steed:
Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear,
"Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"

Up sprang the youth—deep fell the sword,
Sunk in the tyrant's brow:
Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord,
His mighty pride laid low.

Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail,
But lo! he bleeds! he falls!
Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail,
And on his Gods he calls.

He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck
Fast falls the silky hair—
And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!
Oh pow'r of great despair!

Life ebbs apace—she lifts her languid head,
She strives her hand to wave;
Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said—
"Thanks, thanks companions brave:

"Freedom rewards you—naught can Ella give,
"Low, low poor Ella lies;
"Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."
She bleeds—she faints—she dies!

Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd,
And through dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms,
The Peasant of the Alps his cottage forms,
And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain,
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd,
Where long his unambitious heart attach'd,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.

There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And Love who teaches ev'ry art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care;
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place,
And roses there, the dewy leaves decline;
While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stor'd,
Prepared for him by hands ador'd
Is all the little luxury he knows:
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose.

But absent from the calm abode
Dark thunder gathers round his road,
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along;
Alarm'd he listens to the crash.

Of rifted ice!—Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot—a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fall'n—and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him—lost wretch—the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!
Glaz'd are his eyes—convuls'd his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine,
But I—in ling'ring pain repine,
And still my last felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become,
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.

But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and rolling down the rugged precipices:

The gay train,
Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,
may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compass of your imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy; the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the dreadful repetition: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening, the last gleam of sunshine fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:

Now all's at rest—and ere the wearied swain
Rise to his labour on the upland lawn,
Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain,
To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?

Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart,
Oft to the mountain side by memory led,
Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart,
And wish to share the quiet of his shed:

Where ev'ry sordid passion lull'd to rest,
Man knows each gift of nature how to prize:
Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast,
And there reposing waits serener skies.

Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power,
Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare?
Can the full triumph of ambition's hour,
When tempests threaten, sooth your anxious care?

Or shall the tenant of yon lonely cot,
That smiles with pity on your pageant state,
Pleas'd with his poor but independent lot,
Expose the wretchedness of being great?

Unknown to you, the houseless child of woe,
The friendless pilgrim, or the hungry poor;
Unleft the good ye carelessly bestow,
The hand that feeds them, drives them from your door.

Here cruel charity no off'ring makes,
That whilst it aids, insults the big distress,
The heart that welcomes, ev'ry grief partakes,
And only pities where it can't redress.

Such are the scenes, my dear Lord, such the hospitality I am now going to quit. I know not why I wished to jingle their virtues into rhyme, unless it was, that my prose began to run upon stilts, or that I mistook a momentary enthusiasm for a poetical inspiration. In fact, every thought and conception is so far raised above the common train of ideas, that the error is excusable, especially too when the imaginary poet sets out with
Sublimi seriens sidera vertice.

[Same as The Relaxation of War in Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron., I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

See! now the landscape fades away,
As westward flies the orb of day:
See the solemn night appear,
With silence her sedate compeer.

Hark! the surgy shore resounds,
As from the rocks the wave rebounds:
Rocks, on whose o'er-hanging brows,
The ragged surf-fed samphire grows.

Lo! the beacon's distant rays
O'er the waste of water plays,
Friendly to the port-bound bark,
On his watch, the seaman's mark.

Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile,
—Where murder oft did glut and smile,—
Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts,
—Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!—

Now a double gloom is spread
O'er each turret's murky head,
While from th' Owlet's dismal cry
Intruding joys affrighted fly.

Ye vengeful walls for ruin built!
Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt!
Direful were your fierce alarms—
Hist! the sentry calls—"To arms!"

How many barons here were slain,
In coats of armour lock'd in vain!—
How many feudal vassals dy'd,
Ebbing here life's crimson tide!

What secret woes lay close immur'd!
What anguish wretches erst endur'd!
When in your sable cells confin'd
Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.

How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r!
Seems it not on the cot to low'r?
As it looks, with proud disdain,
O'er the wide-extended plain.

Here the feudal times I trace;
The lordling's power—the poor's disgrace—
Here while it moulders, all may see
"A Monument of Chivalry."

[Same as The Relaxation of War in Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron., I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

Since writing these stanzas, I have met with two old Scotch ballads which have some resemblance with "The Water King"; one is called "May Colvin," and relates the story of a king's daughter who was beguiled from her father's house by a false Sir John; the other, intitled "Clerk Colvil," treats of a young man who fell into the snares of a false mermaid; the latter, indeed, bears a still stranger resemblance to the Danish tradition of "The Erl-King's Daughter." The fragment of "The Water King" may be found in "Herder's Volkslieder."

Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs mentioned a few pages back; I must inform my readers that all I know respecting the Water King (called in the German translation "Der Wasser-Mann") and the Erl-King (called in German Erlkönig) is gathered from the foregoing ballad and two others which I shall here insert. With respect to the Fire King and the Cloud King, they are entirely of my own creation; but if my readers choose to ascribe their birth to the "Comte de Gabalis," they are very welcome.

[J. G. Herder, Der Wassermann in the Fourth Book (Nordische Lieder) of Stimmen der Völker in Liedern. Trans. from the German.

M. G. Lewis, The Monk and Tales of Wonder. Cf. note to The Erl-King in Weekly Mag., III-93, Aug. 18, 1798.]