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

The conflict's o'er—ah! lovely maid, adieu!
Before these sad, these parting lines, you view;
Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom,
Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb:
No more to view the beauties of the day,
No more to listen to thy heavenly lay,
To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk,
Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk,
Along the margin of the winding flood,
Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood.
O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise,
And wintry storms descending from the skies,
The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below,
And all around one dreary waste of snow;
Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave,
For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve,
Recall the time when you so oft have seen
Thy hapless lover on the verdant green,
Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove,
To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love,
Gaze on thy angel form, for without she,
The world appear'd a boundless blank to me.
As when to seamen, from the midnight skies
The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise,
To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain,
Or land them on their native shores again;
Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see,
Than pass the vacant day, and gaze on thee,
Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die,
"And drink delicious poison from thine eye,"
As the lost insect round the taper flies,
And courts the fatal flame by which it dies.
But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled,
And Werter sinks among the silent dead
From the bright hopes of life forever gone,
His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown,
The time shall come, when in the vacant mind,
The fondest friend no trace of me shall find;
When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear,
And view my mould'ring grave without a tear,
Think on the light impressions of the mind,
Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind.
This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene,
Each fertile valley, and each level green,
Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood;
And the wild winds disturb the silent wood.
Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright,
Descend behind the western surge in night;
While on the hill to see its beams, I stood,
And view'd it sinking in the briny flood,
I felt my heart with double sorrows prest,
And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast;
The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight,
And all involv'd in one eternal night.
Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know,
In these sad realms of misery and woe,
Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd,
For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind,
Some winding valley, or some shady grove,
Some blissful mansions in the realms above,
Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet,
Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete,
In the bright regions of eternal light,
Where all is perfect joy and pure delight.
When in the summer's eve you chance to stray
Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway,
Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees,
You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze,
Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom,
Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb—
Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow,
On him who could no greater blessing know
Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee,
Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye,
Observe the beauteous image of thy mind,
Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd,
Or view thy distant form amidst the trees,
And thy white tresses floating in the breeze;
Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays,
Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise;
Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear,
And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear.
Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see,
And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.

The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen with the gardener.

Cold blows the blast:—the night's obscure:
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack:
The sun had sunk:—and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor—was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat,
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin,
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:
He comes not, from the garden, in;
Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee!
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!
And what's impossible, can't be;
And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces through the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak,—
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall,
She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming sweetly—"Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said
In answers can but ill succeed;
And, dogs that hear when they are dead
Are very cunning dogs, indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way,
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray—
Though a large mould of four to th' pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown her cheek a salt tear stole,
When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death watch tick'd;
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd;
A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;—
Her shadow did the maid appal;—
She trembled at her lovely nose—
It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;—
Three stories high, long, dull and old—
As great lords' stories often are.

All Nature now appear'd to pause;
And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"
No "curtain'd sleep" had she;—because
She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay;—with iron din,
The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes;
And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear struck damsel faintly said,
"What would my Thomas?"—he replied,
"O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."

"All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd;
I was not ill—but in the well
I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.

"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're friends;—this is not he and I;
We are not here—for we are there.

"Yes;—two foul water fiends are we;
Maid of the moor! attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand;—we come for thee!
The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"

"To wind her in her cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
Such sheets there are in Holland dykes."

The fiends approach; the maid did shrink;
Swift through the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.

[Burlesque on the Style, in which most of the German romantic Ballads are written.]

Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "Tales of Terror." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "The Monk." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "Cloud Kings," and "Water Kings," and "Fire Kings," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "Tales of Terror" undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amusement.

Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.

The birds they sung, the morning smil'd
The mother kiss'd her darling child,
And said ... "My dear, take custards three,
And carry to your grandmummie."

The pretty maid had on her head
A little riding hood of red,
And as she pass'd the lonely wood,
They call'd her small red riding hood.

Her basket on her arm she hung,
And as she went thus artless sung:
"A lady lived beneath a hill,
Who if not gone, resides there still."

The wolf king saw her pass along,
He ey'd her custards heard her song,
And cried "That child and custards three
This evening shall my supper be!"

Now swift the maid pursu'd her way,
And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay;
Nor had she pass'd the murky wood,
When lo! the wolf king near her stood.

"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!
Oh! whither do you bend your way?"
"My little self and custards three
Are going to my grandmummie."

"While you by yonder mountain go,
On which the azure blue bells grow,
I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear,
Or I before you will be there.

"And when our racing shall be done,
A kiss you forfeit, if I've won;
Your prize shall be, if first you come,
Some barley sugar and a plumb."

"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she,
And dropt a pretty courtesie:
The little maid then onward hied,
And sought the blue bell mountain side.

The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor,
And faintly tapp'd at granny's door:
"Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The crafty wolf the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.

He pac'd the bed room eight times four,
And utter'd thrice a hideous roar;
He pac'd the bed room nine times three,
And then devour'd poor grandmummie.

He dash'd her brains out on the stones,
He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones;
He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore,
And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!

Grandmummy's bed he straight got in,
Her night-cap tied beneath his chin;
And, waiting for his destin'd prey,
All snug between the sheets he lay.

Now at the door a voice heard he,
Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three;
Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The little dear the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.[42]

She plac'd the custards on the floor,
And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you four.[43]
I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie;
Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"

"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried),
And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"
Ah! little thought the child so gay
The cruel wolf king near her lay!

"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear,
Why does your voice so gruff appear?"
"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said),
I've got a small cold in my head!"

"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind,
Why you've a tail grows out behind?"
"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear,
My pincushion I hang on there!"

"Why do your eyes so glare on me?"
"They are your pretty face to see."
"Why do your ears so long appear?"
"They are your pretty voice to hear."

"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night
Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44]
Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim,
"They are to tear you limb from limb!"

His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd,
His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd,
He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood,
And fell on small red riding hood.

He tore her bowels out one and two,
"Little maid, I will eat you!"
But when he tore out three and four,
The little maid she was no more!

Take warning hence, ye children fair;
Of wolves' insidious arts beware;
And, as you pass each lonely wood,
Ah! think of small red riding hood!

With custards sent, nor loiter slow,
Nor gather blue bells as you go;
Get not to bed with grandmummie,
Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!

The following piece of singular and original composition was found amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The manuscript has suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the city of Albany.

Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay,
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.

I sleep none in de day, nor nite,
Mit such impashuns I duz burn,
Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite,
Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.

Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew,
Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney,
Und zhall not I more anguish sho,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay.

A shacket I has lately bot,
Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk,
Stripd as your under petticote,
Und vite as any buttermilk.

Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum,
Mine vaders goin to di, you zee,
Und Yacups cot his viddle home,
Und we shall haf a daring bee.

I feres zum Yanky vull uv art,
More cunnin, as de ferry dele,
Vill git away yorn little hart,
Zo as da will our horshes stele.

If any wun yore hart shool blunder,
Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke,
Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder,
I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.

Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend
Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be,
Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend,
O die dem on, und dink on me.

["se feel" (stanza I). "se" is no Dutch word and the verb "feel" (voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill" appears in the place of "will." This is most likely a misprint, since "w in Dutch is a particularly tenacious sound" and is not replaced by m, as is sometimes the case in German. "Brokenbrooks" is a coined word.

The author is indebted for the above information to Professor Wm. H. Carpenter, of Columbia University, and to Arnold Katz, the Dutch vice-consul at Philadelphia.]

I shall not soon tire of copying ballads from the "Tales of Terror." They are the legitimate offspring of genius. We are conducted by a versatile guide, sometimes into the vale of tears, and sometimes into the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection he is alter et idem.

Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.

'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends—and one than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care—thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.

Thou hears't my prayer—I feel thy holy flame—
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship—sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.

In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the whole was finished. He was carried home, and died.

To melt the soul, to captivate the ear,
(Angels such melody might deign to hear,)
To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n,
'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.

Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise,
With sound celestial, with melodious lays:
A last farewell, his languid looks express'd,
And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.

"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you,
"Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu!
"Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire,
"And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:

"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE
COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY,
BY W. WORDSWORTH.

[William Wordsworth, idem.
"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms."]

WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE
COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

'A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the kettle
And the tongs and the poker.'—W. W.

In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold,
Nought is now said, but hath been said of old;
Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull,
If for that word I give thee not a Gull:
Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position;
I say thou art a man of fair condition,
A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands,
Of high descent and left good store of lands;
Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd,
Corrupted never widow, wife or maid,
And, as for swearing, none in all this realm,
Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.
In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample,
For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.
This, I dare swear, none ever said before,
This, I may swear, none ever will say more.

"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour?
Nos claires ruisseaux,
Nos couteaux [sic],
Nos hameaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornament de nos campagnes,
La si gentille Isabeau?
A l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objects de mon amour?
Mon père,
Ma mère,
Mon frère
Ma soeur,
Mes agneaux
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergère?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objet de mon amour?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?—our clear streams, our cottages [sic], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?—Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?—my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?—When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?

Skogul.
From midst the dusty fields of war
To realms beyond the northern star,
To loud Valhalla's echoing halls,
I bear the hero ere he falls;
The valiant dwell in those abodes,
And sit amid carousing gods;
Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold,
But skulls of mantling mead they hold;
The coward while he gasps for breath,
Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.

Harold.
O be it mine, from conflict borne,
To reach the realms of endless morn;
At Odin's board my lips I'll lave
In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.

Odin.
Who breaks the dusty fields of war,
Death travels by his clattering car;
Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower,
On comes the sable tempest's power;
Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room,
A godlike guest in youthful bloom,
Harold from fields of battle see,
Begin th' immortal revelry.

Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard
Receives those talents verse requires,
O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard
They should be all such wicked liars.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar.

Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern lays,
Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene,
The monarch spurn, the robber raise.
Bound in thy necromantic spell
The audience taste the joys of hell,
And Briton's sons indignant grown
With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nation stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul
Disdaining reason's weak control,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,
Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly
Fair Comedy's theatric brood,
Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,
And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.
Swift they disperse, and with them go,
Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe;
Congreve averts the indignant eye,
And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.

Ruffians, in regal mantle dight,
Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound,
Spectres, that haunt the shades of night,
And spread a waste of ruin round.
These form thy never-varying theme,
While, buried in thy Stygian stream,
Religion mourns her wasted fires
And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.

O mildly on the British stage,
Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings;
Not fired with all the frantic rage,
With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings.
As thou in native garb art seen,
With scattered tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains and hideous cry
By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.

In specious form, dread Queen! appear;
Let falsehood fill the dreary waste;
Thy democratic rant be here,
To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish and to wed,
To low-born arrogance to bend,
Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.