The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume V Part 20

Is there none will be her champion Of all that mighty throng?"

Yet from that host there comes no sound; They stand unmoved as stone; The blind king seems to gaze around; Am I all, all alone?"

"Not all alone!" His youthful son Grasps his right hand so warm-- "Grant me to meet this vaunting foe!

Heaven's might inspires my arm."

"O son! it is a giant foe; There's none will take thy part; Yet by this hand's warm grasp, I know Thine is a manly heart.

Here, take the trusty battle-sword-- 'Twas the old minstrel's prize;-- If thou art slain, far down the flood Thy poor old father dies!"

And hark! a skiff glides swiftly o'er, With plas.h.i.+ng, spooming sound; The king stands listening on the sh.o.r.e; 'Tis silent all around-- Till soon across the bay is borne The sound of s.h.i.+eld and sword, And battle-cry, and clash, and clang, And cras.h.i.+ng blows, are heard.

With trembling joy then cried the king: "Warrior! what mark you? Tell!

'Twas my good sword; I heard it ring; I know its tone right well."

"The robber falls; a b.l.o.o.d.y meed His daring crime hath won; Hail to thee, first of heroes! hail!

Thou monarch's worthy son!"

Again 'tis silent all around; Listens the king once more; "I hear across the bay the sound As of a plas.h.i.+ng oar."

Yes, it is they!--They come!--They come-- Thy son, with spear and s.h.i.+eld, And thy daughter fair, with golden hair, The sunny-bright Gunild."

"Welcome!" exclaims the blind old man, From the rock high o'er the wave; "Now my old age is blest again; Honored shall be my grave.

Thou, son, shalt lay the sword I wore Beside the blind old king.

And thou, Gunilda, free once more, My funeral song shalt sing."

THE MINSTREL'S CURSE[32] (1814)

Once in olden times was standing A castle, high and grand, Broad glancing in the sunlight, Far over sea and land.

And round were fragrant gardens, A rich and blooming crown; And fountains, playing in them, In rainbow brilliance shone.

There a haughty king was seated, In lands and conquests great; Pale and awful was his countenance, As on his throne he sate; For what he thinks, is terror, And what he looks, is wrath, And what he speaks, is torture, And what he writes, is death.

And 'gainst a marble pillar He s.h.i.+ver'd it in twain; And thus his curse he shouted, Till the castle rang again:

"Woe, woe, thou haughty castle, With all thy gorgeous halls!

Sweet string or song be sounded No more within thy walls.

No, sighs alone, and wailing, And the coward steps of slaves!

Already round thy towers The avenging spirit raves!

"Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens, With all your fair May light!

Look on this ghastly countenance, And wither at the sight!

Let all your flowers peris.h.!.+

Be all your fountains dry!

Henceforth a horrid wilderness, Deserted, wasted, lie!

"Woe, woe, thou wretched murderer, Thou curse of minstrelsy!

Thy struggles for a b.l.o.o.d.y fame, All fruitless shall they be.

Thy name shall be forgotten, Lost in eternal death, Dissolving into empty air Like a dying man's last breath!"

The old man's curse is utter'd, And Heaven above hath heard.

Those walls have fallen prostrate At the minstrel's mighty word.

Of all that vanish'd splendor Stands but one column tall; And that, already shatter'd, Ere another night may fall.

Around, instead of gardens, In a desert heathen land, No tree its shade dispenses, No fountains cool the sand.

The king's name, it has vanish'd; His deeds no songs rehea.r.s.e; Departed and forgotten-- This is the minstrel's curse.

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL[33] (1834)

Of Edenhall the youthful lord Bids sound the festal trumpets' call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, 'mid the drunken revelers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"

The butler hears the words with pain-- The house's oldest seneschal-- Takes slow from its silken cloth again The drinking gla.s.s of crystal tall; They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the lord, "This gla.s.s to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!"

The graybeard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light s.h.i.+nes over all; It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the lord, and waves it light-- "This gla.s.s of flas.h.i.+ng crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it, 'If this gla.s.s doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!'"

"'Twas right a goblet the fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall!

We drink deep draughts right willingly; And willingly ring, with merry call, Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!"

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Like to the song of a nightingale; Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

"For its keeper, takes a race of might The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang!--with a harder blow than all We'll try the Luck of Edenhall!"

As the goblet, ringing, flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift the flames upstart; The guests in dust are scattered all With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe with fire and sword!

He in the night had scaled the wall; Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The graybeard, in the desert hall; He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton; He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside; Down must the stately columns fall; Gla.s.s is this earth's Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly hall, One day, like the Luck of Edenhall!"

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD[34] (1859)

You came, you went, as angels go, A fleeting guest within our land.

Whence and where to?--We only know: Forth from G.o.d's hand into G.o.d's hand.

_JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF_