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FROM UHLAND
THE LOST CHURCH
THE DREAM
THE LOST CHURCH In the far forest, overhead, A bell is often heard obscurely; How long since first, no one can tell— Nor can report explain it surely: From the lost church, the rumour hath, Out on the winds the ringing goeth; Once full of pilgrims was the path— Now where to find it, no one knoweth. Deep in the wood I lately went Where no foot-trodden way is lying; From times corrupt, on evil bent, My heart to God went out in sighing: There, in the wild wood’s deep repose, I heard the ringing somewhat nearer; The higher that my longing rose Its peal grew fuller and came clearer. My thoughts upon themselves did brood; My sense was with the sound so busy That I have never understood How I did climb that steep so dizzy. It seemed more than a hundred years Had passed me over, dreaming, sighing— When far above the clouds appears An open space in sunlight lying. Dark-blue the heavens above it bowed; The sun was radiant, large, and glowing; And, see, a minister’s structure proud Stood in the rich light, golden showing. The clouds around it, sunny-clear, Seemed bearing it aloft like pinions; Its spire-point seemed to disappear, Slow vanishing in heaven’s dominions. The bell’s clear tones, of rapture full, Boomed in the tower and made it quiver; No mortal hand that rope did pull— A dumb storm made it swing and shiver. It seemed to heave my throbbing breast, That heavenly storm with torrent blended: With wavering step, yet hopeful quest, Into the church my way I wended. What met me there as in I trode With syllables cannot be painted; Darksome yet clear, the windows glowed With forms of all the martyrs sainted. Then saw I, radiantly unfurled, Form swell to life and break its barriers; I looked abroad into a world Of holy women and God’s warriors. Down at the alter I kneeled soft, With love and prayer my heart allegiant: Upon the ceiling, far aloft, Was painted Heaven’s resplendent pageant; But when again I lift mine eyes, Lo, the high vault has flown asunder! The upward gate wide open lies, And every veil unveils a wonder. What gloriousness I then beheld With silent worship, speechless wonder; What blessed sounds upon me swelled, Like organs’ and like trumpets’ thunder— No human words could ever tell!— But who for such is sighing sorest, Let him give heed unto the bell That dimly soundeth in the forest.THE DREAM In a garden sweet went walking Two lovers hand in hand; Two pallid figures, low talking, They sat in the flowery land. They kissed on the cheek one another, And they kissed upon the mouth; They held in their arms each the other, And back came their health and youth. Two little bells rang shrilly— And the lovely dream was dead! She lay in the cloister chilly; He afar on his dungeon-bed.FROM HEINE
LIEDER, IV.
LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO, XXXVIII.
“ “ XLI.
“ “ XLV.
“ “ LXIV.
DIE HEIMKEHR, LX.
“ LXII.
DIE NORDSEE, FIRST CYCLE, XII.
LIEDER IV Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear: What a knocking in that little chamber!—dost hear? There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he Is hard at work on a coffin for me. He hammers and knocks by night and by day; ‘Tis long since he drove all my sleep away: Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep, That I the sooner may go to sleep! LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO XXXVIII The phantoms of times forgotten Arise from out their grave, And show me how once in thy presence I lived the life it gave. In the day I wandered dreaming, Through the streets with unsteady foot; The people looked at me in wonder, I was so mournful and mute. At night, then it was better, For empty was the town; I and my shadow together Walked speechless up and down. My way, with echoing footstep, Over the bridge I took; The moon broke out of the waters, And gave me a meaning look. I stopped before thy dwelling, And gazed, and gazed again— Stood staring up at thy window, My heart was in such pain. I know that thou from thy window Didst often look downward—and Sawest me, there in the moonlight, A motionless pillar stand. LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO XLI I dreamt of the daughter of a king, With white cheeks tear-bewetted; We sat ‘neath the lime tree’s leavy ring, In love’s embraces netted. “I would not have thy father’s throne, His crown or his golden sceptre; I want my lovely princess alone— From Fate that so long hath kept her.” “That cannot be,” she said to me: “I lie in the grave uncheerly; And only at night I come to thee, Because I love thee so dearly.” LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO XLV In the sunny summer morning Into the garden I come; The flowers are whispering and talking, But for me, I wander dumb. The flowers are whispering and talking; They pity my look so wan: “Thou must not be cross with our sister, Thou sorrowful, pale-faced man!” LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO LXIV Night lay upon mine eyelids; Upon my mouth lay lead; With rigid brain and bosom, I lay among the dead. How long it was I know not That sleep oblivion gave; I wakened up, and, listening, Heard a knocking at my grave. “Tis time to rise up, Henry! The eternal day draws on; The dead are all arisen— The eternal joy’s begun.” “My love, I cannot raise me; For I have lost my sight; My eyes with bitter weeping They are extinguished quite.” “From thy dear eyelids, Henry, I’ll kiss the night away; Thou shalt behold the angels, And Heaven’s superb display.” “My love, I cannot raise me; Still bleeds my bosom gored, Where thou heart-deep didst stab me With a keen-pointed word.” “Soft I will lay it, Henry, My hand soft on thy heart; And that will stop its bleeding And soothe at once the smart.” “My love, I cannot raise me— My head is bleeding too; When thou wast stolen from me I shot it through and through!” “I with my tresses, Henry, Will stop the fountain red; Press back again the blood-stream, And heal thy wounded head.” She begged so sweetly, dearly, I could no more say no; I tried, I strove to raise me, And to my darling go. Then the wounds again burst open; With torrent force outbrake From head and breast the blood-stream, And, lo, I came awake!DIE HEIMKEHR LX They have company this evening, And the house is full of light; Up there at the shining window Moves a shadowy form in white. Thou seest me not—in the darkness I stand here below, apart; Yet less, ah less thou seest Into my gloomy heart! My gloomy heart it loves thee, Loves thee in every spot: It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders—But into it thou seest not! LXII Diamonds hast thou, and pearls, And all by which men lay store; And of eyes thou hast the fairest— Darling, what wouldst thou more? Upon thine eyes so lovely Have I a whole army-corps Of undying songs composed— Dearest, what wouldst thou more? And with thine eyes so lovely Thou hast tortured me very sore, And hast ruined me altogether— Darling, what wouldst thou more?DIE NORDSEE FIRST CYCLE XIIPEACE[Footnote: I have here used rimes although the original has none. With notions of translating severer now than when, many years ago, I attempted this poem, I should not now take such a liberty. In a few other points also the translation is not quite close enough to please me; but it must stand.]
High in heaven the sun was glowing, White cloud-waves were round him flowing; The sea was still and grey. Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay: Half waking, half in slumber, then Saw I Christ, the Saviour of men. In undulating garments white He walked in giant shape and height Over land and sea. High in the heaven up towered his head; His hands in blessing forth he spread Over land and sea. And for a heart, in his breast He bore the sun; there did it rest. The red, flaming heart of the Lord Out its gracious radiance poured, Its fair and love-caressing light With illuminating and warming might Over land and sea. Sounds of solemn bells that go Through the air to and fro, Drew, like swans in rosy traces, With soft, solemn, stately graces, The gliding ship to the green shore— Peopled, for many a century hoar, By men who dwell at rest in a mighty Far-spreading and high-towered city. Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town! The hollow tumult had all gone down Of the babbling and stifling trades; And through each clean and echoing street Walked men and women, and youths and maids, White clothes wearing, Palm branches bearing; And ever and always when two did meet, They gazed with eyes that plain did tell They understood each other well; And trembling, in self-renouncement and love, Each a kiss on the other’s forehead laid, And looked up to the Saviour’s sunheart above, Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayed Down upon all; and the people said, From hearts with threefold gladness blest, Lauded be Jesus Christ!FROM VON SALIS-SEEWIS
THE GRAVE.
PSYCHE’S MOURNING.
THE GRAVE The grave is deep and soundless, Its brink is ghastly lone; With veil all dark and boundless It hides a land unknown. The nightingale’s sweet closes Down there come not at all; And friendship’s withered roses On the mossy hillock fall. Their hands young brides forsaken Wring bleeding there in vain; The cries of orphans waken No answer to their pain. Yet nowhere else for mortals Dwells their implored repose; Through none but those dark portals Home to his rest man goes. The poor heart, here for ever By storm on storm beat sore, Its true peace gaineth never But where it beats no more. PSYCHES MOURNING Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison, For redemption; ah! for light she aches; Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen— Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks. Bound are Psyche’s pinions—airy, soaring; Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low; Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouring Sprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow; Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth; Golden flowers spring from the desert grave She her garland through denial gaineth, And her strength is steeled by winds that rave. ‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth; Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long; Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth, Round her tree of life the shadows throng. Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadness Heard from willows the moon silvereth; Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness, And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath! Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation; Much she loves for great has been her dole; Love leads through the paths of separation, Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal. She endures; bravely bears every burden, Dumb before the will of Fate bends low; Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in; Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow! Preconviction—ah! the call, the token, Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave! ‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken! Truth’s but what she truly doth believe! Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission; For the eyes that tears so often gall Reach not to the summit of completion Where illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!FROM CLAUDIUS
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
CONTENTMENT
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure; Thy father’s very miniature! That art thou, though thy father goes And says that thou hast not his nose. This very moment here was he, His face o’er thine did pose And said—Much has he sure of me, But no, ‘tis not my nose. I think myself, it is too small, But it is his nose after all; For if thy nose his nose be not, Whence came the nose that thou hast got? Sleep, boy! thy father only chose To tease me—that’s his part! Never you mind about his nose, But see you have his heart.CONTENTMENT I am content. In triumph’s tone My song, let people know! And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I. The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show, The hero’s bliss, who, vext To find no other world below, Up to the moon looked next— I’d none of them; for things like that Are only fit for laughing at. My motto is—Content with this. Gold—rank—I prize not such. That which I have, my measure is; Wise men desire not much. Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again, as hungry still. And gold or honour, though it rings, Is but a brittle glass; Experience of changing things Might teach a very ass! Right often Many turns to None, And honour has but a short run. To do right, to be good and clear, Is more than rank and gold; Then art thou always of good cheer, And blisses hast untold; Then art thou with thyself at one, And hatest no man, fearest none. I am content. In triumph’s tone, My song, let people know! And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I.FROM GENESTET
THREE PAIRS AND ONE You have two ears—and but one mouth: Let this, friend, be a token— Much should be heard, and not so much Be spoken. You have two eyes—and but one mouth: That is an indication— Much must you see, but little serves Relation. You have two hands—and but one mouth: Receive the hint you meet with— For labour two, but only one To eat with.FROM THE GERMAN
SONG OF THE LONELY Son, first-born, at home abiding! All without is cold and bare: Hide me from the tempest’s chiding Warm beside the Father’s chair. I am homesick, Lord of splendour! Twilight fills my soul with fright: Let thy countenance befriend her, Shining from the halls of light. I am homesick, loving Father! Long years hath the pain increased: Soon, oh soon! thy children gather To the endless marriage-feast.FROM PETRARCH
PART I. SONNET LIX I am so weary with the burden old Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, That much I fear to perish from the ways, And fall into my enemy’s grim fold. True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold, Came, of ineffable and utmost grace— Then straightway vanished from before my face, So that in vain I strive him to behold. But his voice yet comes echoing below: O ye that labour, the way open lies! Come unto me lest some one shut the gate! —What heavenly grace—what love will—or what fate— The pinions of a dove on me bestow That I may rest, and from the earth arise? PART II. SONNET LXXV The elect angels and the souls in bliss, The citizens of heaven, when, that first day, My lady passed from me and went their way, Of marvel and pity full, did round her press. “What light is this, and what new loveliness?” They said among them; “for such sweet display Did never mount, that from the earth did stray To this high dwelling, all this age, we guess!”2 She, well content her lodging chang’d to find, Shows perfect, by her peers most perfect placed; And now and then half turning looks behind To see if I walk in the way she traced: Hence I lift heavenward all my heart and mind Because I hear her pray me to make haste.MILTON’S ITALIAN POEMS
The Italian scholar will understand that the retention of the feminine rimes in translation from this language is an impossibility.
I O Lady fair, whose honoured name doth grace Green vale and noble ford of Rheno’s stream— Of all worth void the man I surely deem Whom thy fair soul enamoureth not apace, When softly self-revealed to time and space By actions sweet with which thy will doth teem, And fair gifts that Love’s bow and arrows seem— But are the flowers that crown thy perfect race. When thou dost lightsome talk or gladsome sing,— A power to draw the hill-trees, rooted hard— The doors of eyes and ears let that man keep Who knows himself unworthy thy regard! Grace from above alone him help can bring That Passion in his heart strike not too deep. II As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare, Useth to go the little shepherd maid, Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed, Ill thriving in unwonted soil and air Far from its native springtime’s genial care; So on my ready tongue hath Love assayed In a strange speech to wake new flower and blade, While I of thee, proud yet so debonair, Sing songs whose sense is to my people lost— Yield the fair Thames, and the fair Arno gain. Love willed it so, and I, at others’ cost, Already knew Love never willed in vain: Would my heart slow and bosom hard were found To him who plants from heaven so fair a ground! III CANZONE Ladies, and youths that in their favour bask, With mocking smiles come round me: Prithee, why, Why dost thou with an unknown language cope, Love-riming? Whence thy courage for the task? Tell us—so never frustrate be thy hope, And the best thought still to thy thinking fly! Thus me they mock: Thee other streams, they cry, Thee other shores, another sea demands Upon whose verdant strands Are budding, even this moment, for thy hair Immortal guerdon, bays that will not die: An over-burden on thy back why bear?— Song, I will tell thee; thou for me reply: My lady saith—and her word is my heart— This is Love’s mother-tongue, and fits his part. IV Diodati—and I muse to tell the tale— This stubborn I, that Love was wont despise And make a laughter of his snares, unwise, Am fallen—where honest feet will sometimes fail. Not golden tresses, not a cheek vermeil, Dazzle me thus; but, in a new-world guise, A foreign Fair my heart beatifies— With mien where high-souled modesty I hail; Eyes softly splendent with a darkness dear; A speech that more than one tongue vassal hath; A voice that in the middle hemisphere Might make the tired moon wander from her path; While from her eyes such gracious flashes shoot That stopping hard my ears were little boot. V Certes, my lady sweet, your blessed eyes— It cannot be but that they are my sun; As strong they smite me as he smites upon The man whose way o’er Libyan desert lies, The while a vapour hot doth me surprise From that side springing where my pain doth won: Perchance accustomed lovers—I am none And know not—in their speech call such things sighs: A part shut in, sore vexed, itself conceals, And shakes my bosom; part, undisciplined, Breaks forth, and all around to ice congeals; But that which to mine eyes the way doth find, Makes all my nights in silent showers abound, Until my dawn.3 returns, with roses crowned. VI A modest youth, in love a simpleton, When to escape myself I seek and shift, Lady, I of my heart the humble gift Vow unto thee. In trials many a one, True, brave, I’ve found it, firm to things begun; By gracious, prudent, worthy thoughts uplift. When roars the great world, in the thunder-rift, Its own self, armour adamant, it will don, From chance and envy as securely barred, From fears and hopes that still the crowd abuse, As inward gifts and high worth coveting, And the resounding lyre, and every Muse: There only wilt thou find it not so hard Where Love hath fixed his ever cureless sting.LUTHER’S SONG-BOOK
LUTHER’S SONG-BOOK.
I. ADVENT
II. CHRISTMAS
III. EPIPHANY
IV. EASTER
V. PENTECOST
VI. THE TRINITY
VII. THE CHURCH AND WORD OF GOD
VIII. GRACE
IX. THE COMMANDMENTS
X. THE CREED
XI. PRAYER
XII. BAPTISM
XIII. REPENTANCE
XIV. THE LORD’S SUPPER
XV. DEATH
XVI. THE PRAISE OF GOD
OF LIFE AT COURT
I. ADVENT
Come, saviour of nations wild, Of the maiden owned the child That may wonder all the earth God should grant it such a birth. Not of man’s flesh or man’s blood Only of the Spirit of God Is God’s Word a man become, And blooms the fruit of woman’s womb. Maiden, she was found with child, Nor was chastity defiled; Many a virtue from her shone: God was there upon his throne. From that chamber of content, Royal palace pure, he went; God by kind, in human grace Forth he comes to run his race. From the Father came his road, And returns again to God; Unto hell it did go down, Up then to the Father’s throne. Thou, the Father’s form express, Get thee victory in the flesh, That thy godlike power in us Make sick flesh victorious. Shines thy manger bright and fair; Sets the night a new star there: Darkness thence must keep away; Faith dwells ever in the day. Honour unto God be done; Honour to his only son; Honour to the Holy Ghost, Now, and ever, ending not. Amen.II. CHRISTMAS
I Jesus we now must laud and sing, The maiden Mary’s son and king, Far as the blessed sun doth shine, And reaches to earth’s utmost line.4 The blessed maker of all we view On him a servant’s body drew, The flesh to save at flesh’s cost, Else his creation had been lost. From heaven high the Godlike grace In the chaste mother found a place; A secret pledge a maiden bore— A thing to earth unknown before. The tender heart, house modest, low, Straightway a temple of God did grow: Whom never man hath touched or known By God’s word she with child is grown. The noble mother hath brought forth Whom Gabriel promised to the earth; Him John did greet in joyous way While in his mother’s womb he lay. Right poorly lies in hay the boy; Th’ hard manger him did not annoy; A little milk made him content Away who no bird hungry sent. Therefore the heavenly choir is loud; The angels sing their praise to God, And tell poor men their flocks who keep He’s come who made and keeps their sheep. Praise, honour, thanks, to thee be said, Christ Jesus, born of holy maid! With God the Father and Holy Ghost, Now and for ever, ending not. Amen! II A Song of Praise for the Birth of our Lord Jesus Christ Praised be thou, O Jesus Christ, That a man on earth thou liest! Born of a maiden—it is true— In this exults the heavenly crew. Kyrioleis.5 The Father’s only son begot In the manger has his cot, In our poor dying flesh and blood Doth mask itself the eternal Good. Kyrioleis. Whom all the world could not enwrap Lieth he in Mary’s lap; A little child he now is grown Who everything upholds alone. Kyrioleis. In him the eternal light breaks through, Gives the world a glory new; A great light shines amid the night, And makes us children of the light. Kyrioleis. The Father’s son, so God his name, A guest into this world he came; And leads us from the vale of tears: He in his palace make us heirs. Kyrioleis. Poor to the earth he cometh thus, Pity so to take on us; And makes us rich in heaven above, And like the angels of his love. Kyrioleis. Therefore the heavenly choir is loud; The angels sing their praise to God, And tell poor men their flocks who keep He’s come who made and keeps their sheep. Therefore the heavenly choir is loud; The angels sing their praise to God, And tell poor men their flocks who keep He’s come who made and keeps their sheep. All this for us hath Jesus done, And his great love to us hath shown: Let Christendom rejoice therefore, And give him thanks for evermore! Kyrioleis. III A SONG OF THE LITTLE CHILD JESUS, FOR CHILDREN AT CHRISTMAS TAKEN OUT OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE GOSPEL OF ST. LUKE From heaven high I come to you, I bring a story good and new: Of goodly news so much I bring, Of it I must both speak and sing. To you a child is come this morn, A child of chosen maiden born, A little babe so sweet and mild Your joy and bliss shall be that child. ‘Tis the Lord Christ, our very God. He will you ease of all your load; He’ll be himself your Saviour sure And from all sinning make you pure. He brings you all the news so glad Which God the Father ready had— That you shall in his heavenly house Live now and evermore with us. Take heed then to the token sure— The crib, the swaddling clothes so poor: The infant you shall find laid there Who all the world doth hold and bear. Hence let us all be gladsome then, And with the shepherd-folk go in To see what God to us hath given With his dear honoured Son from heaven. Take note, my heart; see there! look low: What lies then in the manger so? Whose is the lovely little child? It is the darling Jesus-child. Hail, noble guest in humble guise, Poor sinners who didst not despise, And com’st to me in misery! My thoughts must all be thanks to thee! Ah Lord! the maker of us all! How hast thou grown so poor and small That there thou liest on withered grass, The supper of the ox and ass! Were the world wider many fold, And decked with gems and cloth of gold, ‘T were far too mean and narrow all To be for thee a cradle small! The silk and velvet that are thine Are rough hay, linen not too fine; Thereon thou, king so rich and great, Liest as if in heavenly state. And this hath therefore pleased thee, To make this truth right plain to me, That all the world’s power, honour, wealth Are nothing to thy heart or health. Ah, little Christ! my heart’s poor shed Would make thee a soft, little bed: Rest there as in a lowly shrine, And make that heart for ever thine, That so I always gladsome be, Ready to dance, and sing to thee The lullaby thou lovest best, With sweetest hymn for dearest guest. Glory to God on highest throne Who gave to us his only Own! For this the angel troop sings in A New Year with gladsome din. Right poorly lies in hay the boy; Th’ hard manger him did not annoy; A little milk made him content Away who no bird hungry sent. Right poorly lies in hay the boy; Th’ hard manger him did not annoy; A little milk made him content Away who no bird hungry sent. IV ANOTHER CHRIST-SONG From heaven the angel-troop come near And to the shepherds plain appear: A tender little child, they cry, In a rough manger lies hard by, In Bethlehem, David’s town of old, As Prophet Micah has foretold; ‘Tis the Lord Jesus Christ, I wis, Who of you all the saviour is. And ye may well break out in mirth That God is one with you henceforth; For he is born your flesh and blood— Your brother is the eternal Good. He will nor can from you go hence; Put you in him your confidence. However many you assail, Defy them—He can never fail! What can death do to you, or sin? The true God is to you come in. Let hell and Satan raging go— The Son of God’s your comrade now! At last you must approval win, For you are now become God’s kin: For this go thanking God alway, Happy and patient every day. Amen. The noble mother hath brought forth Whom Gabriel promised to the earth; Him John did greet in joyous way While in his mother’s womb he lay. The noble mother hath brought forth Whom Gabriel promised to the earth; Him John did greet in joyous way While in his mother’s womb he lay.