Snugly in the well-warmed chamber,

Now before the supper table,

Sat the Trumpeter and Pastor,

On the dish, right hot and steaming

Had a roasted fowl paraded,

But it had completely vanished;

Only now a spicy fragrance

Floated gently through the chamber,

Like the songs by which the minstrel

Still lives on through after ages;

And the empty plates bore witness

That a great and healthy hunger

Lately here had been appeased.

Now the Pastor raised a brimming

Jug of wine, then filled the glasses

And began, his guest accosting:

"After supper 'tis the duty

Of the host, his guest to question:

Who he is, from whence he cometh?

Where his country and his parents?

In old Homer I have read oft

That the King of the Phæacians

Thus the noble hero questioned;

And I hope you can relate me

Just as many strange adventures

As Ulysses. Take your comfort,

Seat yourself in that warm corner,

Yonder by the stove, which is a

Hatching nest of solid thinking;

'Tis according to our custom

The narrator's seat of honour.

And I'll listen with attention.

Still the old man hears with pleasure

Of the storms of youth's wild passions."

Then the young man: "I am sorry

Not to be a proven hero,

Neither have I conquered Ilium,

Nor have blinded Polyphemus,

Neither have I ever thus far

Met with any Royal Princess,

Who when spreading out the linen

Felt for me a soft compassion.

But with pleasure I obey you."

On the bench he took his seat now

By the stove all covered over

With glazed tiles much ornamented.

From the stove streamed out warm comfort,

And the Pastor kindly told him

To stretch out his weary legs there.

He, however, would not do so;

Took a swallow of the red wine,

And began to tell his story:

"Know, my name is Werner Kirchhof;

I was born and grew to manhood,

In the Pfalz, at Heidelberg."

Old Heidelberg, thou beauty.

With many honours crowned;

Along the Rhine and Neckar,

No town like thee is found.

Thou town of merry fellows,

Of wisdom full and wine,

Clear flows thy placid river,

Blue eyes therein do shine.

When from the south is spreading

Spring's smile o'er hill and lea,

He out of blossoms weaveth

A bridal robe for thee.

Thee as a bride I fondly

Enshrine within my heart;

Like early love's sweet echoes,

Thy name doth joy impart.

Become life's cares too burning,

And all abroad looks bare,

I'll spur my good horse homeward

To the Neckar vale so fair.

"On the borders of the Neckar

I have dreamt sweet dreams of childhood,

Also have a school attended,

Greek and Latin there have studied;

And a thirsty old musician

Taught me how to blow the trumpet.

When I reached my eighteenth birthday,

Said my guardian: 'You, young Werner,

With a clever head are gifted,

And are somewhat of a genius,

And cut out of right material;

You must now become a lawyer.

That brings office and great honours,

Gathers also golden ducats.

And already I do see you

As the well-appointed bailiff

Of His Grace the Grand Elector;

And I then must pay you homage.

I will venture the prediction,

If you act quite circumspectly,

Then a seat may yet await you

In th' Imperial Court at Wetzlar.'

Thus I then became a lawyer;

Bought myself a great big inkstand,

Also bought a huge portfolio,

And a heavy Corpus Juris,

And the lecture-room frequented,

Where, with yellow mummy visage,

Samuel Brunnquell, the professor,

Roman law to us expounded.

Roman law, when I recall it,

On my heart it lies like nightmare,

Like a millstone on my stomach,

And my head feels dull and stupid.

To much nonsense did I listen,

How they in the Roman Forum

Snarling, quarrelled with each other;

How Sir Gaius stuck to his point,

And to his Sir Ulpianus;

How then later comers dabbled.

Till the Emperor Justinianus,

He of all the greatest dabbler,

Sent them home about their business.

And I often asked the question:

'Must it really be our fate then

These dry bones to gnaw forever,

Which were flung to us as remnants

From their banquets by the Romans?

Why should not, from soil Germanic,

Spring the flower of her own law,

Simple, full of forest fragrance--

No luxuriant southern climber?

Sad fate of the late-born races!

Must read till their brows are sweating,

And must try to disentangle

Knotty twisted skeins forever.

Can't we have a sword to cut them?'

"Often, nightly, by the lamp-light

I sat poring o'er the Codex,

Read the Glossary and Cujacius

Till my weary brain was racking;

But this zeal brought me no blessing.

Merrily would then my thoughts fly

From my studies to that time when

Old Cujacius' lovely daughter

Mounted in her father's rostrum,

With her voice sweet and melodious,

Read for him his written lectures

To the lucky youth of Paris.

Usucaption and inheritance,

And Novella hundred and eighteen,

Changed into a dark-haired maiden

Peeping from the Corpus Juris.

From my trembling hands the pen fell,

Overturned were sand and inkstand,

And I caught hold of the trumpet:

Usucaption and inheritance,

And Novella hundred and eighteen,

Wailing in adagio tempo.

Flew forth from the study window

Far into the starry night.

"Yes, this zeal brought me no blessing.

I one day went from my lodging,

'Neath my arm the Corpus Juris

('Twas the Elzevir edition,

Which at Rotterdam was published)

To the Heugass', to the pawn-house,

Where the Jew, Levi Ben Machol,

With his squinting eyes rapacious,

Took it in his arms paternal,

Paid me then two golden ducats--

Someone else may now redeem it!

I became a saucy fellow,

Wandered much o'er hill and valley

Clinking spurs and serenading.

If I ever caught one sneering,

Quickly grasped my hand the rapier:

'Fight a duel! draw your weapons!

Now advance!' That whistled nicely

Through the air; on many smooth cheeks

Wrote my sword so sharp and steady

A memento everlasting.

I, however, must confess here,

That I did not choose the finest

Company to wander round with.

What I liked, was to sit drinking

Up in the Elector's Castle,

By our age's greatest marvel

Which the German mind has wrought out,

By the tun of Heidelberg.

A most worthy hermit dwelt there,

Who was the Elector's court fool,

Was my dear old friend Perkéo;

Who had out of life's wild whirlpool

Peacefully withdrawn himself where

He could meditate while drinking,

And the cellar was his refuge.

Here he lived, his care dividing

'Twixt himself and the big wine-tun;

And he loved it--truer friendship

Never has the world yet witnessed;

'Twas as if it were his bride.

With a broom he swept it shining,

Chased away the ugly spiders,

And whenever came a feast-day,

Hung it o'er with wreaths of ivy;

Sang to it the morning greeting,

Also sang the song of evening,

And he carved in wood the image

Of himself as his best offering.

But when sipping his reward then

From the big tun's mouth with kisses,

Forth he launched in flights of fancy.

Often at his feet I listened

To his odd and comic speeches:

'There above, they call me foolish,

Let them gossip, my dear fellow,

Gossip never doth annoy me.

Oh, the world has grown quite stupid!

How they grope, and how they stumble,

Over paths, to find what Truth is;

Still in fog they are enveloped.

To the first cause of all being

We must needs go back, and bring the

Last result of our researches

In a concrete form together.

Thus we comprehend the world well;

For this purpose I am drinking

Truly cosmogonically.

Mundane space to me is nothing

But a roomy vaulted cellar,

Where as first and central wine-tun,

Firmly stands the sun erected!

Next to him the rank and file of

Smaller casks, fixed stars and planets.

As the divers casks are holding

Wines of various sorts and flavours,

So comprise the heavenly bodies

Various spiritual natures.

Land-wine this--that Rüdesheimer;

But the earth-cask holds a mixture;

Fermentation has half clouded

And half volatilised the spirit

The antagony of matter

And of spirit is, by thinking,

Blended into higher union.

Thus soars my creative genius

Far on high, while I am drinking.

And when through my brain are rushing

Revelations from the wine-fumes,

And when then my feeble body

Tottering sinks down by the wine-tun,

'Tis the triumph of the spirit,

'Tis the act of self-deliverance

From the narrow bounds of being.

Thus my solitude doth teach me

Nature's everlasting system.

With mankind it would be better,

Had the great Germanic race but

Understood their high vocation,

And throughout the world had carried

High the standard of the wine-cask,

Made of drinking a devotion--

As the Persians worship fire!'

O Perkéo! better were it

Now with me, if to thy wisdom

I had never, never listened!

'Twas a sharp cold winter morning,

When down in the cosy cellar

We were taking a potation,

Talking philosophically;

But when I stepped out at midday,

The whole world and everybody

Looked most strangely queer and funny.

Rosy hues lit up all Nature,

Angel-voices I heard plainly.

On the balcony of the castle

Stood surrounded by her ladies,

Full of grace, of all the fairest,

The Electress Leonora,

Up to her start my bold glances,

Up to her my daring longing;

Clouded was my understanding.

Quickly I approached the terrace

And began to sing the wild air

Which the Palsgrave Frederic once sang,

As a love-sick serenader,

To his lovely English bride."

I kneel to thee as thy faithful true knight,

Fair Princess, of women the pearl!

Command, and I fight the Emperor's host,

Command, and I hold the most dangerous post,

To atoms the world I will hurl.

I'll fetch thee from Heaven the sun and the moon.

Fair Princess, of women the crown!

I'll fetch countless stars from yon azure height,

Spit them like frogs on my spear sharp and bright,

And low at your feet lay them down.

Command, I will even become a fool,

Fair Princess, of women the prize!

Indeed, I am one already I see,

The light is far too dazzling for me,

Which streams from thy sunny blue eyes.

"Do you hear the trumpets blowing?

Do you hear the cannon roaring?

There, near Prague, at Weissenberg, now

For Bohemia's throne they're fighting.

Palsgrave, 'twas a short sad winter!

Palsgrave, thou wast sore defeated!

Spur thy horse and seek a refuge!

"O thou fairest of all women,

From my dream what an awaking!

For there came to me the Beadle,

Summoned me before the Rector.

Grimly wrinkled he his forehead,

Wild with rage his locks were shaking;

Sternly he pronounced my sentence--

His Magnificence the Rector:

'For your unpermitted blowing,

For your unpermitted sing-song

In the Castle's sacred precincts,

You must quit the town and college

In three days; by special favour

Of our gracious sovereign princess,

Further punishment is spared.'

"Leave the town now--was I dreaming?

No, it was a fact well founded.

But before I left the city,

All my debts I fully settled,

In such cases quite unusual;

And I rode on the third morning

Out of Heidelberg; the fourth day

Out of the Elector's country

Unoffended; though my home had

Thrust me out--the bolts drawn on me--

Yet I will not cease to love her.

And the trumpet, cause of mischief,

I hung gaily on my shoulder.

And I augur it shall yet peal

Joyful tunes to help me onward.

I don't know now to what haven

Horse and tempest may yet bear me,

Still I look not backward more.

Cheerful heart and courage daring

Knows no sorrow, nor despairing,

Fortune has good luck in store.

Thus I came into the Schwarzwald.--

My kind host, pray tell me frankly

Whether my long tale has made you

Feel a heavy sleep approaching.

But if not, I'll be most grateful

If you'll give me some advice."

Smiling rang the good old Pastor

Glass to glass, and smiling said he:

"Your tale has a lucky ending.

I remember quite another,

Of a young and handsome carpenter,

And a Margravine's allurements.

But it ended on the gallows.

In this case, I am much puzzled

How to give you good advice.

In my code it is not written

How to counsel such a person,

Who with songs insults fair ladies,

Leaves his law books in the pawn-house,

With his trumpet loudly bloweth

To himself a rosy future.

But when human knowledge faileth,

Heaven graciously doth help us.

Way down in the forest-city,

There in Säkkingen is a worthy

Patron saint of all young people,

Is the holy Fridolinus,

And to-morrow is his feast-day.

Never has he yet forsaken

Him who prays for help in trouble;

Therefore ask Saint Fridolinus."

Lo! a ship comes o'er the ocean,

Near Franconia's coast approaching,

Foreign sails and foreign pendant.

At the rudder sits a pale man,

Clad in black and monkish robes.

Hollow, like a mournful wailing,

Sounds the strange speech of the pilgrims,

Sound their prayers, and cries of sailors.

'Tis the ancient Celtic language

From the Emerald Isle of Erin;

And the vessel bears the pious

Missionary Fridolinus.

"Cease thy grieving, dearest mother;

Not with sword nor with the war-axe

Shall thy son gain fame and honour:

Other ages, other weapons--

Faith and Love are my sole armour.

For the love I bear my Saviour

I go forth unto the heathen;

Celtic blood impels me onward.

And in dreams I've seen a vision--

A strange land and pine-clad mountains,

A clear stream with a green island,

Most as fair as my own country;

Thither points the Lord His finger,

Thither sails now Fridolinus."

With a few choice Irish comrades,

Filled with earnest, calm devotion,

Fridolin sailed o'er the ocean;

Came into the Frankish Empire,

Where at Paris reigned King Clovis.

Smiling spake he to the pilgrims:

"I had never great affection

For the saints and monkish orders;

Since, however, the accursèd

Allemanic lances whistled

Nearer me than I thought pleasant

On the battlefield of Zulpich,

I have changed my mind entirely--

Even kings will pray in danger.

Where you wander I'll protect you.

And unto your special notice

Recommend the Allemanni:

They are stubborn and thick-headed,

They are still most dogged heathen;

Try to make them good and pious."

Farther on the little band went,

To the land of the Helvetians;

There began their serious labour,

And the holy cross was planted

At the foot of snow-clad Säntis,

Planted by the Bodensee.

When descending from the Jura

Fridolinus saw the ruins

Of Augusta Rauracorum--

Roman walls--there still projected

From the rubbish mighty columns

Of the Temple of Serapis.

But the Altar and the Cella

Were o'ergrown with tangled brambles;

And the ox-head of Serapis

Had been built in o'er the stable

By an Allemanic peasant,

Whose forefathers had most likely

Killed the last priest of Serapis.

Seeing this then, Fridolinus

Crossed himself and travelled onward,

By the green banks of the river.

Evening came, and far already

Had the pious man now wandered.

There beheld he, how the river

Flowed in two divided branches;

And in the green waters smiling

Rose before him a small island,

Sack like lying in the river.

(Hence the peasants, who are never

Over squeamish in comparing,

Called the isle Sacconium.)

Evening came; the larks were singing

Fish sprang snapping from the water;

Through the heart of Fridolinus

Thrilled a thankful pious gladness.

On his knees he sank down praying,

For he recognised the island

As the vision of his dreaming--

And he praised the Lord in Heaven.

Oft, 'tis true, have many of us

Mortals in these modern ages

Also dreamt of tranquil islands,

Where we happily might nestle,

And the weary heart refresh with

Forest calm and Sabbath quiet.

Many also go with ardent

Longing on the journey, but when

Nearing as they hope their island,

Suddenly it fades before them,

As in southern climes the airy

Image of the fay Morgana.

Full of wonder, a wild native

Sculled the stranger to the island,

On a raft made of rough pine logs.

Wild the island: limes and alders

In low marshes here were growing;

On the shore with pebbles covered,

Also stood huge ancient willows;

And some scattered huts with thatched roofs.

Here in summer, when the salmon

Are migrating up the river,

Eager fishermen stand waiting

With their long sharp pikes to spear them.

Unremitting to his labour

Went the saint--soon stood his log-house

On the solid ground erected;

Near the house the cross he planted.

When the bell at dusk of evening

Rang out far, Ave Maria!

And he prayed devoutly kneeling;

From the Rhine vale, many people

Timidly looked at the island.

Fierce and stubborn were these Almains.

Once the Roman gods they hated;

Now Franconia's God they hated,

Who at Zulpich, like a tempest,

Had o'erthrown their mighty host.

When the lazy master idly

Took his rest on winter evenings,

And, with eager zest, the women

Set their tongues in busy motion,

And of this and that they gossiped--

How the jug of milk had curdled,

How the hut was struck by lightning,

How a youth was badly injured

By a boar's sharp tusk when hunting--

Then in warning spoke the crafty

Aged Allemanic grandam:

"No one else have we to blame but

Him who dwells on yonder island--

That old pallid, praying stranger.

Trust ye not, I pray, the new God

Of the Franks, nor false King Clovis!"

And they feared the pious stranger.

Once, upon the summer solstice,

They all came unto his island,

Drank there--after ancient custom--

Mead from their enormous tankards;

And they tried to seize the stranger,

But he had gone down the river.

"We will leave this pallid man, then,

Tokens that we've held our feast here!"

Soon some lighted brands were flying

In the hut of Fridolinus;

And they sprang rejoicing through the

Flames in singing, "Praised be Woden!"

From the distance gazed with pleasure

The old grandam, and her face shone

Ghastly in the lurid light.

Fridolinus, when returning,

Saw his hut laid waste in ashes;

And he said, then smiling sadly:

"Lord, I thank thee for these trials,

As they but increase my courage."

Then he built anew his dwelling,

And soon found an entrance open

To the rough hearts of his neighbours.

First the children, then the women,

Listened to his gentle language;

And some of the stubborn fellows

Looked approval, when he showed them

How in Erin, his own country,

They could spear the salmon better;

When he sang them ancient legends--

How, upon the Caledonian

Cliffs, had raged a mighty battle

With the Romans; and how Fingal

Overthrew young Caracalla.

Then they said: "A strong and mighty

God has sent this man here to us;

And a good God, for this stranger

Bringeth blessing on our fishing."

And in vain the grandam warned them:

"Trust ye not, I pray, the new God

Of the Franks and false King Clovis!"

Yes, he touched these hearts so rugged

Taught to them the Christian doctrine;

And they understood that giving

Is more blessed than receiving;

That it was the Son of God who

On the cross for men did suffer.

Hardly had a year passed over--

'Twas Palm-Sunday--when descended,

From the slopes of all the mountains,

A great throng, who then rowed over

To the isle of Fridolinus.

Peacefully there on the island,

Sword, and shield, and axe they laid down;

And the children gaily gathered

For themselves the willow blossoms

And sweet violets by the river.

From his hut came Fridolinus,

Fully robed in priestly vestments;

By his side walked his companions

Who had come from distant places:

Gallas from Helvetia; also

From the Bodensee Columban.

And they led down to the shore then

The great throng of the converted,

And baptised them in the name of

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

She alone did not come with them

To the isle of Fridolinus,

She the old and stubborn grandam;

And she said: "No new gods need I,

As my life is fast declining.

I'm contented with the old ones,

Who to me are kind and gracious,

Who once gave me my dear husband--

My good, noble Siegebert.

When'er Death from here should take me,

I could never hope to find him;

And for him my heart is yearning.

In the woods I must be buried,

Where the mandrake grows 'neath fir-trees

Which with mistletoe are covered.

I don't wish a cross on my grave,

Shall not envy it to others."

On that very day, however,

Fridolin laid the foundations

Of the cloister and the city;

And his work waxed ever greater,

And afar throughout the country

Was the holy man revered.

When again he paid a visit

To King Clovis' court, in Paris,

On his right the king did place him,

And then solemnly donated

The whole island to his cloister,

And, besides, large tracts of country;

Even a great saint became he.

Have ye never heard the legend

Of the court-day, and Count Ursus,

Which the statues o'er the church door

Have preserved e'en to the present?

A great saint, indeed, became he,

And is still the Rhineland's patron.

To this day prevails the custom

That the peasants have their first-born

By the name of Fridli christened.

On the sixth of March young Werner

Gaily parted from the glebe-house;

Gratefully he shook the hand of

The good pastor, who sincerely

Wished him a most pleasant journey.

And the old cook was completely

Reconciled unto the stranger;

Bashfully she cast her eyes down

To the ground, while deeply blushing,

When young Werner, out of mischief,

Kissed his hand to her, when leaving.

Barking ran the two St. Bernards

A long distance with our rider.

Bright and warm the sun was shining

On the town of Fridolinus;

Solemn peals afar resounded,

From the organ of the minster,

As young Werner through the gate rode.

Quickly found he first good shelter

For his horse, and then he walked on

To the crowded lively market,

Went up to the old Cathedral,

And he stood with head uncovered

By the portal, where was passing

Then the festive long procession.

Through the war the precious relics

Of the Saint had been well hidden

In old Laufenburg's strong castle.

They had often in the city

Missed their presence with much sorrow.

Now that peace once more was settled,

They were striving with fresh ardour

To do honour to their saint.

At the head of the procession

Came gay troops of merry children.

But when they too loudly prattled,

Then their old and gray-haired teacher

Pulled them by the ear and scolded:

"Keep quite still, my little people!

Take great care, for Fridolinus

May be listening to your gabbling.

He, a Saint severe and holy,

Will complain of you in Heaven."

Twelve young men came next, who bore the

Coffin, rich with gold and silver,

Which enclosed the Saint's remains.

Bearing it they chanted softly:

Thou who dwellest high in Heaven,

Bless thy people and thy city,

Stretch o'er us thy arms of mercy,

Fridolinus, Fridolinus!

Grant us further thy protection;

From all danger mayst thou guard us,

War and pestilence keep from us,

Fridolinus, Fridolinus!

Then the Dean and all the Chaplains

Followed after--bearing tapers

Came the youthful Burgomaster,

Came the town's wise Corporation

And the other dignitaries:

Bailiff, Revenue-receiver,

Syndic, Notary, Attorney,

And the old Chief Ranger also.

(He came only for decorum,

For with Mother Church and Saints' Days

He was not upon good footing,

Prayed much rather in the forest.)

E'en the Messenger and Sergeant

Did not then, as was their custom,

Take a morning draught together,

But joined gravely the procession.

Then in dusky Spanish mantles,

Ornamented with white crosses,

Came the great Teutonic Order,

All the Knights and their Commander.

Down the river stood in Beuggen

The Teutonic Order's Castle

Whence at early dawn of morning

All these knights had come on horseback.

Then came black-robed, grave and aged,

Noble ladies of the Convent,

And in front by the blue standard

Walked the aged Lady Abbess,

And her thoughts were: "Fridolinus,

Though thou art so full of kindness,

One thing thou canst ne'er restore me,

'Tis my youth, so fair and golden.

It was charming fifty years since,

When my cheeks were red like roses,

And when many knights were captured

In the meshes of my glances!

Long have I done penance for this,

And I hope it is forgiven.

Deeply wrinkled is my forehead,

While the cheeks and lips are faded.

And the sunken mouth is toothless."

Next the train of noble ladies

Came the burghers' comely housewives,

At the end the elder matrons.

Only one in work-day garments

Kept aloof from the procession,

'Twas the hostess from the ancient

Tavern of the "Golden Button;"

So demanded ancient custom.

There--so learn we from the legend--

Stood once in those heathen ages

An old tavern; Fridolinus,

When he first upon the island

Set his foot, had there sought shelter;

But the landlord, a rude heathen,

Spoke unto the holy man thus:

"All you priests are good for nothing,

But to vilify our old gods;

And you seldom carry even

One red farthing in your pocket.

So begone from off my threshold!"

Now the purse of Fridolinus

Had indeed but little in it,

And he had to take his night's rest

Underneath the shady lindens

In the meadow. But the angels

Cared well for him, and he found out,

On awaking, that his purse was

Filled with golden Roman pieces.

Then again the Saint did visit

The inhospitable tavern,

Took a meal, and paid in shining

Money what the host demanded;

And to shame him left moreover

Seven gold coins as a present.

Thus for an eternal warning

To all landlords void of pity,

Although ages had elapsed since,

No one from the "Golden Button"

Could join in the Saint's procession.

As the flowers in the mown field

Gaily bloom 'mid dried up stubble,

So close by the elder matrons

Walked the lovely group of maidens,

Clad in snow-white festive garments.

Many old men, as they saw them

Passing by in youthful beauty,

Thought: "Upon our guard we must be,

For these maidens are as dangerous

As a Swedish regiment."

In the front they bore a statue

Of Our Lady, dress'd most richly,

In a purple velvet garment,

Which they had presented to her,

As a grateful holy offering,

When the weary war was ended.

In that lovely file the fourth one

Was a slender, light-haired maiden;

On her curls, a wreath of violets,

Over which the white veil floated,

And it covered half her features,

Like the hoar-frost in the Spring-time

Glistening on the early rosebud.

With her eyes cast down she passed by

Where young Werner now was standing.

He beheld her. Had the sun then

Blinded suddenly his eyesight,

Or the fair young maiden's beauty?

Although others still came past him,

Rooted to the spot he stood there,

Looking only at the fourth one,

Gazed, and gazed; when the procession

Turned the corner of a side street

Still he gazed, as if the fourth one

In the file he must discover.

"He is caught!" so goes the saying

In that country, when one's soul is

By the wand of love enchanted;

Love can never be our captive,

We are wholly conquered by him.

So beware, my young friend Werner!

Joy and sorrow hides the saying:

"He is caught!" I need not say more.

Mirth now reigned within the city.

Those who early had united

In the honoured Saint's procession,

Now sat, equally united,

Drinking the good wine before them,

Or the golden foaming beer.

Corks were popping, glasses ringing;

Many huge and mighty goblets

By the guests were emptied quickly,

In St Fridolinus' honour.

Simpering with delight, the landlord

Counted all the empty barrels,

And, with a devout expression,

Chalked them all upon the blackboard.

From the inn outside the gate, which

By the peasants was frequented,

Came gay music; for, with legs crossed,

There sat, playing on his fiddle,

Schwefelhans, the violinist;

And in wild and boisterous dances

Were the Hauenstein young peasants

Twirling round their buxom partners.

Groaning was the floor, and shaking

'Neath their feet and heavy stamping,

From the walls the plaster falling,

So uproarious was their shouting.

From afar, with turned-up noses,

Many dandies looked on sneering;

Yet, within themselves were thinking:

"Better, after all, than nothing."

The sedate and older people

Sat together in the tap-room.

As their ancestors delighted

To get drunk in Woden's honour,

So, in true historic spirit.

They for Fridolin got tipsy.

Many troubled faithful consorts

Pulled their husbands by the coat-tail,

When the second and the third piece

Of hard money here was squandered;

But the husband said quite coolly:

"Dearest wife, control thy humour,

For to-day all must be spent here!"

And he left not till the watchman

With the halberd came and ordered

That 'twas time to close the tavern.

With uncertain steps, ill-humoured,

To his mountain-home he totters:

And the silent night is witness

Of some sudden headlong tumbles.

But she covers them with darkness--

Kindly--as she does the beating

Which, as finish to the feasting,

He bestows on his poor consort.

Lonely, far-off from the bustle,

Walked young Werner toward the Rhine-strand,

Without thinking where he wandered.

Still before his eyes there hovered

Those sweet features of the maiden

Which he had beheld that morning,

But now seemed a dream's fair vision.

Burning was his brow; his eyes now

Restlessly strayed up to heaven,

Then he cast them meekly downward,

As if asking where to find her;

And he did not mind the north wind,

Which his locks dishevelled sadly.

Through his heart hot glowing thoughts ran

Wildly chasing one another,

Like the mist, which in the autumn

Moves around the tops of mountains

In most oddly-changing shapes;

And it rang and surged within him,

Like the first germ of a poem

Growing in the mind's recesses.

Also, thus, in bygone ages,

By the Arno strolled another

Child of man, plunged in deep musing;

And he also blew the trumpet,

Which, like that of the last judgment,

Rang aloud, in piercing notes, through

His benighted rotten age.

But when he, upon that feast-day,

First beheld the wondrous maiden

Who his leading star through life was,

And to Paradise did lead him;

He then wandered by the river,

Under shady oaks and myrtles;

And, for all the joyful feelings

Which within his heart were ringing,

He could only find the utterance:

"Beatricè! Beatricè!"

And thus, after many thousand

And still thousand years have rolled by,

Others, who with love are stricken,

Dreamily will walk the same way.

And whenever the last scion

Of the Germans on the Rhine-shore

Has been gathered to his fathers,

Then will others walk and muse there,

And in gentle foreign language

Murmur the sweet words: "I love thee!"

Do you know them? They have noses

Somewhat flattened out and ugly;

By the Aral and the Irtish,

Now their ancestors drink whisky,

But to them belongs the future.

Youthful love, thou pearl so precious,

To the wounded heart a balsam,

To life's tossing ship an anchor,

Oasis in sandy deserts;

Never would I venture singing

Any new song to thy honour.

I'm one of the Epigoni;

And great hosts of valiant people

Lived before King Agamemnon.

I know also wise King Solomon,

And the petty German poets.

Bashful only, and most grateful,

I recall thy gentle magic.

As a golden light it shineth

Through the mists of youth, and clearly

To our view unveils life's outlines;

Shows us where to plant our footsteps,

And gives courage to the wanderer.

Lofty hopes and timid longing,

Dauntless thoughts and stubborn courage,

All these do we owe to Love;

And the cheerful heart that helps us,

Like a mountain-staff, to spring o'er

Rocks which lie upon our pathway.

Happy, therefore, is the heart which

Love triumphantly has entered!

But young Werner seemed unconscious

Why he thus to-day was strolling

Idly here along the river.

Dreamily he walked close by it,

Heedless of the waves which often

Gave his boots a thorough wetting.

From the river's depths gazed at him

Then the Rhine, who just the battle

Of two aged crabs was watching,

And with noisy, ringing laughter,

Nodded praises, when in rage they

Crossed their horny claws together.

Yes, the Rhine--he is a handsome

Youthful man, and not alone a

Geographical conception--

For young Werner he felt pity.

Rustling rose he from the water,

In his locks a wreath of rushes,

And a reed-staff in his right hand.

Werner, like all Sunday children,

Saw much more than other mortals;

So he quickly recognised him,

And made him a low obeisance.

Smiling then to him the Rhine said:

"Have no fear, my dear young dreamer,

For I know where thy shoe pinches.

Ye are strange and odd, ye mortals;

Ye believe ye bear a secret

Through the world in lonely musing,

And each chafer understands it;

E'en the gnats and the mosquitoes

See it on your heated foreheads,

See it in your tearful glances,

That Love holds you in his meshes.

Have no fear, I know what love is;

I have heard upon my journeys

Many false and many true vows

Whispered in Romansh and German,

Also in the Low Dutch language

(In the last oft most insipid).

Nightly likewise have I listened

Near the shores to much flirtation

And much kissing, yet kept silent.

Many a poor devil also,

In whose heart deep grief was gnawing,

In my waves found peace and comfort.

When the water-nymphs had gently

Lulled him there to sleep, I bore him

Off with care to shores far distant.

Under willows, under rushes,

Far from tongues of deadly malice,

Rest is sweet to false Love's victims.

Many thus have I so buried;

I have also harboured many

On the river's deep cool bottom

In my crystal water-palace;

Lodged them well so that they never

Longed for man, nor for returning.

"Have no fear, I know what love is.

I myself feel something tightening

Round my heart, when I the Schwarzwald's

Mountains greet, and jump rejoicing

O'er Schaffhausen's precipices,

Force my way with courage, rushing

Through the straits of Laufenburg.

For I know that soon my lovely

Schwarzwald child, the youthful Wiese,

Comes to meet me, bashful, timid;

And she prattles, in the rough speech

Of the Almains, of the Feldberg,

Of the ghosts beheld at midnight,

Of sweet mountain flowers, and huge

Caps and thirsty throats at Schopfheim.

Yes, I love her, I have never

Gazed enough at her blue eyes yet.

Yes, I love her, I have never

Kissed enough her rosy cheeks yet.

Oft I rush, like thee, a dreamer,

Wildly past old sober Basel,

Get quite tired of the tedious

Old town-councillors, and ruin

Now and then a wall in passing.

And they think, it was in anger,

What was only done in frolic.

Yes, I love her. Many other

Charming women much pursue me;

None, however,--e'en the stately,

Richly vine-clad, blue-eyed Mosel--

Ever from my heart can banish

Thee, the Feldberg's lovely daughter.

When I through the sands of Holland

Weary drag my sluggish waters,

And I hear the wind-mills clapper,

Tender longings oft steal o'er me

For my early lovely sweetheart.

Then with deep dull sound my waves roll

Onward through the tedious meadows,

Roll out far into the North Sea,

But not one there understands me.

"Have no fear; I know what love is.

Ye I know, ye German dreamers

Who on my fair shores are dwelling.

I, indeed, am your true likeness,

Am the history of your nation;

Storm and passion, bitter ending,

All are pictured in my course.

Most romantic is my birthplace,

And weird Alpine spirits watched well

By my glittering icy cradle,

And conducted me to daylight.

Strong and wild was I in childhood;

Never can the rocks be counted,

Which I roaring dashed to pieces,

And hurled up like balls at tennis.

Fresh and gay I then float onward,

Through the Swabian sea, and carry,

Unimpaired, my youthful powers

Farther to the German country.

And once more come up before me

All the fragrant recollections

Of romance; my youthful dreaming

Sweetly then returns transfigured:

Foam and surging, strong-walled cities,

Rocks and castles, quiet cloisters,

Smiling vineyards on the hillside;

From the tower calls the watchman,

And the pennon gaily flutters,

And from yonder cliff is ringing

Wondrously the Lurley's song.

But, alas! the good time passes;

Nought but grief is then my portion;

I devote myself to drinking,

Pray at Cöln in the Cathedral,

And become a beast of burden.

Shabby tradesmen must I serve then,

On my ill-used back must carry

All the Dutchman's clumsy tow-boats.

In the sand, to me so hateful,

Wearily my way I drag on,

And I've long been dead already,

Ere my grave, the sea, receives me.

So beware of such stagnation!

"Yes, I can much more relate thee;

I to-day am in good humour,

And I love all jovial fellows,

Who like thee and like myself face,

Gaily with light hearts, the Future.

But I'll end this long discourse now,

And will give thee my best counsel.

I know well that thou art love-struck,

Know, thou lovest Margaretta,

The old Baron's lovely daughter,

Whose old castle standing yonder

Is in my green waves reflected.

Oft I see with joy the maiden

Standing there upon the terrace,

And I'll gladly take thee near her.

There's the boat and there's the rudder;

All the rest may well be trusted

To thy own instinctive wisdom."

Saying this, he shook his locks, and

Dived beneath the water's surface;

And the foaming surging waves then

Closed the whirlpool where he vanished.

And afar rang out his laughter,

For, the battle of the crab had

Ended now, one lay there bleeding,

Of the tail bereft the other.

Werner did as he was counselled.

An old tower was there standing

By the shore, half in the river;

And where through a secret wicket

To the strand came down the fisher,

Was a quiet hidden inlet,

Where lay boat and rudder ready.

As the boatman kept the feast-day,

So without permission Werner

Took possession of the boat there.

In the meantime evening crept on:

Here and there rang from the mountains

Clear and sharp, a shouting from some

Tipsy peasant going homeward.

O'er those distant pine-tree forests

Streamed the moonlight through the valley;

Bashfully some stars already

From the clear blue sky were peeping.

From the shore shoved off young Werner.

As a horse, when in his stable

Long imprisoned, gaily prances,

Neighs with joy, when he can carry

Through the fields again his master:

So shot boldly swiftly downward,

On the water gaily bounding,

The light boat, and speeding onward

Passed the walls of the old city.

Soon it gained the ancient Rhine bridge,

Which with timber-covered arches

Boldly spans from shore to shore.

And courageously young Werner

Steered right through below the third pier,

Laughing, when, as if to vex him,

Three times up and three times downward

Danced his boat, seized by the whirlpool

Soon he now beheld the castle

With its gable-roofs and turrets,

Shining through the lofty chestnuts,

All illumined by the moonlight.

Yonder rose up from the river

By the shore a bank of gravel,

Bare and barren; it was often

Flooded over by the river.

Out of fun the country people

Called it field of Fridolinus.

Thither now the frail boat drifted;

There it halted on the shelving

Pebbly ground. Out jumped young Werner,

And he looked with eager glances

Whether he could not descry her.

He could only see a distant

Twinkling light up in the turret;

But this wholly satisfied him.

Often doth a distant vision

More delight bestow upon us

Than the fulness of possession;

Hence our Song dwells on his pleasure,

As he stands there on the sand-bank

At that light in rapture gazing.

Spread before his dreamy eyes lay

Rosy visions of the future;

Neither sun nor stars shone in them,

Nothing but that light's faint glimmer.

From the turret, where it flickered,

Love flew forth, on rapid pinions,

Noiselessly to him descended,

And unseen stood there beside him

On the field of Fridolinus;

And he handed him the trumpet

Which from Werner's neck was hanging,

Saying: Blow your trumpet, blow it!

And he blew until his blowing

Filled with melody the night air.

In the depths the Rhine was listening,

Salmon, trout, and pike were listening,

Water-nymphs were listening also,

And the wind the ringing tones bore

To the castle tenderly.