Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 13

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him.

THE CHAPLET.

FROM UHLAND.

"Es pfluckte Blumlein mannigfalt."

A little girl through field and wood Went plucking flowerets here and there, When suddenly beside her stood A lady wondrous fair!

The lovely lady smiled, and laid A wreath upon the maiden's brow; "Wear it, 'twill blossom soon," she said, "Although 'tis leafless now."

The little maiden older grew And wandered forth of moonlight eves, And sighed and loved as maids will do; When, lo! her wreath bore leaves.

Then was our maid a wife, and hung Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom; When from the garland's leaves there sprung Fair store of blossom.

And presently a baby fair Upon her gentle breast she reared; When midst the wreath that bound her hair Rich golden fruit appeared.

But when her love lay cold in death, Sunk in the black and silent tomb, All sere and withered was the wreath That wont so bright to bloom.

Yet still the withered wreath she wore; She wore it at her dying hour; When, to the wondrous garland bore Both leaf, and fruit, and flower!

THE KING ON THE TOWER.

FROM UHLAND.

"Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Hohen."

The cold gray hills they bind me around, The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, But the winds as they pa.s.s o'er all this ground, Bring me never a sound of woe!

Oh! for all I have suffered and striven, Care has embittered my cup and my feast; But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, And my soul shall be at rest.

O golden legends writ in the skies!

I turn towards you with longing soul, And list to the awful harmonies Of the Spheres as on they roll.

My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone; My sword it rusteth upon the wall; Right have I spoken, and right have I done: When shall I rest me once for all?

O blessed rest! O royal night!

Wherefore seemeth the time so long Till I see you stars in their fullest light, And list to their loudest song?

ON A VERY OLD WOMAN.

LA MOTTE FOUQUe.

"Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare."

And thou wert once a maiden fair, A blus.h.i.+ng virgin warm and young: With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, And glossy brow that knew no care-- Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.

The golden locks are silvered now, The blus.h.i.+ng cheek is pale and wan; The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, All's one--in chimney corner thou Sitt'st s.h.i.+vering on.--

A moment--and thou sink'st to rest!

To wake perhaps an angel blest, In the bright presence of thy Lord.

Oh, weary is life's path to all!

Hard is the strife, and light the fall, But wondrous the reward!

A CREDO.

I.

For the sole edification Of this decent congregation, Goodly people, by your grant I will sing a holy chant-- I will sing a holy chant.

If the ditty sound but oddly, 'Twas a father, wise and G.o.dly, Sang it so long ago-- Then sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not wine, woman and song, He is a fool his whole life long!"

II.

He, by custom patriarchal, Loved to see the beaker sparkle; And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the lips he loved-- By the kindly lips he loved.

Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us, To combine love, song, wine, And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not wine, woman and song, He is a fool his whole life long!"

III.

Who refuses this our Credo, And who will not sing as we do, Were he holy as John Knox, I'd p.r.o.nounce him heterodox!

I'd p.r.o.nounce him heterodox, And from out this congregation, With a solemn commination, Banish quick the heretic, Who will not sing as Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not wine, woman and song, He is a fool his whole life long!"

FOUR IMITATIONS OF BeRANGER.

LE ROI D'YVETOT.