Up hill steep the road ascended, And the forest of dark pine-trees Now received the long procession. Soon then through the dusky branches Silver like the mountain-lake shone, And already merry shouting Came from thence; for the young people Of the town had gained the lake-shore By a shorter steeper path. At the summit, where the main-road Took a different direction, Carriages and riders halted, And the vehicles and horses To the servants' care were left. Full of vigour, through the forest, Down the hill-slope walked the Baron, And the ladies followed bravely. Mosses like the softest velvet Thickly covered all the ground there, And descending was not dangerous. On a ridge, which wide and sunny, Far into the lake protruded, Numerous blocks of rock lay scattered. There the Baron rested, and the Ladies followed his example.

Deep green lake, dense shade of fir-trees, Many thousand times I greet you. I who now this song am singing Of the past, rejoice in you still. Oh, how oft ye have refreshed me, When escaping from the daily Narrowness of petty town life, Out to you I used to wander. Often on the rock I've rested, Which the roots of the old pine-trees Cling to, while beneath the lake lies With its gently rippled surface. In deep shade the shores lie buried, But the glittering rays of sunlight Gaily dance across the water. All around reigned holy silence, Only heard there was the hammering Of the pecker on the pine-trees. Through the fallen leaves and mosses Rustled softly emerald lizards, And with clever questioning glances Curiously they eyed the stranger.

Yes, I often lay there dreaming; And when often still at night-fall I sat there, I heard a rustling Through the reeds, the water-lilies Whispered softly to each other. Then arose from the deep water Mermaids, whose fair pallid faces Brightly shone in the soft moonlight. Heart overwhelming, mind bewildering, Were their gliding graceful motions; And they beckoned me to come there. But the fir-tree held and warned me: "Stay thou here on terra firma, Hast no business in the water."

Deep green lake, dense shade of fir-trees, Oft I think of you quite sadly. Since those days I've been a wanderer: I have climbed up many mountains, And through many lands have travelled, Looked upon the restless ocean, And have heard the Sirens singing; But yet often through my memory Steal the lake's sweet soothing murmurs, And soft whispers from the fir-trees, Home, and love, and youth recalling.

Now there was a noisy thronging, Running, shouting, laughing, joking, Down beneath there on the shore. Like a general, stood the cunning, Skilful landlord of the "Button," 'Mid the crowd of younger people, And on every side was giving His wise counsels, how they might now Have a good successful fishing. There behind the rocks a boat lay In the reeds with brushwood covered, And with chains securely fastened, That no poachers should disturb it, Who might come along at midnight, And employ it for their fishing. From its hiding-place they dragged it Onward to the lake-shore, and there Placed the heavy net within it. Closely netted were the meshes Of the coarsest twine, while many Leaden weights thereon were fastened. When they tried the boat for leakage, Although somewhat out of order, They pronounced it quite seaworthy. Now the landlord and five comrades, Gay and hopeful, took their places, And one end of the great net threw To some friends on shore remaining, With the charge to hold it tightly. From the shore they pushed away now, Rowing stoutly as the net sank Slowly down in a wide curve; Then returned with speed much lessened, Always dragging on the heavy Bulky net, so that the fishes Might therein become entangled. On the shore they sprang out quickly, And drew after them the netting, Till they nigh approached those friends who Still upon the shore were waiting. Stoutly pulling back the ends, they Raised the net out of the water, In great hopes of lots of booty. But within itself entangled It came slowly to the surface Empty: some unskilful rower Had prevented it from sinking, And the dwellers of the lake laughed To have just escaped such danger. Now the landlord cast sharp glances Over all the meshes. Nothing Met his anxious gaze but water; Not the smallest fish was caught there; Only an old boot half rotten, And a toad half crushed and flattened, Which with eyes protruding oddly Looked upon the sunlit forest, And the human faces round him, And he thought: "It is most truly Wonderful, how anybody Ever can enjoy existence, With this sky and this bright sunlight! Well, it seems to me no one here E'er can have the slightest notion Of the mud and all its splendour. Would I were in my own element!"

Those who stood upon the lake-shore Raised a long and roaring laughter At these first-fruits of the fishing. But in rage broke out the landlord, O'er their laughter rang his scolding: "Stupid fellows, bunglers, numskulls!" And with angry kicks he sent then All the booty flying swiftly, Boot and toad in peace together To the water where they came from. Loudly splashing they sank downward.

But the disappointed fishers Would again now try their fortune, Loosened all the tangled meshes, And with greatest care they lowered Then the net and raised it slowly. And to do so there were needed Many sturdy pulls and struggles. Ringing shouts and cries of triumph Greeted this successful fishing. From the rock came down the Baron To the fishers, and the ladies Eagerly made haste to follow. Over rocks and thorny brambles To the shore they found a pathway. Margaretta followed also, Notwithstanding her long habit. When young Werner saw her coming, Bashfully his arm he offered, And bewildered were his senses. So Sir Walter Raleigh's heart once Must have beaten, when his mantle He made use of as a carpet For his gracious royal mistress. Yet with thanks fair Margaretta Werner's arm and aid accepted. Out there in the verdant forest Many useless scruples vanish, Which oft elsewhere greatly trouble Masters of the ceremonies. The descent there was not easy, And no other arm was near her.

By the lake they gaily looked now At the fishing booty struggling. Flapping in the net's strong meshes Were the captives. Many snapping Sought a way still for escaping, But on the bare sand were landed; And thus fruitless was their trial. Those who felt toward each other In the depths such bitter hatred, Now as captives were quite peaceful: Snake-like eels, so smooth and slippery, Well-fed carps with huge broad noses, And the pirate-fish, the slender Pike with jaws large and voracious. As in war, the harmless peasants Often to stray shots fall victims, So the fate of being captured Many others overtook: Handsome barbels, spotted gudgeons; Tiny bleaks, the river-swallow; And through all this crowd of fishes Sluggishly the crab was creeping; Inwardly he sadly grumbled: "Caught together, hung together."

Well contented said the Baron: "After labour comes amusement. Seems to me, that our fresh booty Will taste better in the forest. Therefore let us now make ready For ourselves a rustic dinner." To these words they all assented, And the landlord of the "Button" Sent out two fleet-footed fellows To the city with the order: "Two large pans bring quickly hither; Bring me golden fresh-made butter, Also bread, and salt sufficient, And a keg of fine old wine. Bring me lemons too, and sugar; For I feel a premonition As if May-drink would be wanted." Off they started. Under shelter Of a rock with a tall pine-tree, Some the hearth were getting ready, Bringing there dry boughs and fagots, Loads of furze and moss together. Others now prepared the fishes For the feast, and all the ladies Gathered herbs of spicy fragrance, Such as thyme and leaves of strawberries; Also gathered for the May-wine The white-blooming fragrant woodroof. Which rejoiced at being broken By such tender hands, and thought thus: "Sweet it was in these dark pine-woods, To be blooming, 'mid the rocks here, But still sweeter in the May-time 'Tis to die, and with the last breath Highly then to spice the May-wine For the joy of human beings. Death in general is corruption, But the woodroof's death is like that Of the morning-dew on blossoms, Sweetly, without sighs, exhaling." From the town returning quickly Came the two fleet-footed fellows, Bringing stores, as had been ordered. And soon crackled on the stone-hearth Cheerfully a blazing fire. In the pans were frying briskly What had recently been swimming. First a mighty pike was served up To the ladies by the landlord, As a show of rustic cooking; And a solemn earnest silence Soon gave evidence that all were Very busy with the banquet. Only the confused low sounds of Gnawing fish-bones, munching crab-claws, Now disturbed the forest quiet.

Meanwhile, farther up, delicious Fragrant May-wine was preparing. In a bowl of size capacious Margaretta's taste artistic Well had brewed it; mild and spicy, As sweet May himself the drink was. Every glass she filled up, kindly Helping all with graceful bearing. Everybody got his share, and All were merry round the fire.

There the city-teacher also Stretched himself upon the grass-bank. From the school he had absconded, Also to enjoy the fishing. In his heart he bore a secret, Had to-day composed a song. May-wine, May-wine, drink of magic! Suddenly his cheeks were glowing, And his eyes were shining brightly. On the rock he sprang courageous, Saying: "I will sing you something." Smiling now, the others listened, And young Werner stepping forward, On his trumpet low and softly Blew a piece first as a prelude. Then upon the rock the teacher Raised his voice and sang with fervour. Werner joined him on the trumpet Clear and joyful, and the chorus Also fell in—clear and joyful Through the forest rang the

MAY SONG.

"A wondrous youth of lovely mien Rich gifts of joy is strewing; O'er hill and vale, where'er are seen His footsteps, light is glowing. The fresh young green decks hill and lea, The birds are singing merrily, While falls in gentle showers A rain of snow-white flowers. So in the woods we sing and shout, Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing.

"Young May in humming sounds delights, Is full of merry capers; So through the fir-trees swarm great flights Of golden buzzing chafers. And from the moss white lilies rise, Of spring the fairest sweetest prize; Their bells in tuneful measure Ring in the May with pleasure. So in the woods we sing and shout, Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing.

"Now everyone may think, who can, Of mirth, and love that burneth; To many an old and worthy man His youth again returneth. His shouts resound across the Rhine: 'O let me in, thou sweetheart mine!' And voices loud are crying; Love's darts in May are flying. So in the woods we sing and shout Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing."

Long the plaudits, loud the clapping, When it ended. And the ladies Also seemed delighted with it; As, indeed, in the loud chorus Many gentle female voices Readily could be distinguished. Margaret in playful humour, Out of hazel-leaves and holly, And of violets and crowfoot, Wound a garland, and said archly: "This wreath to the most deserving! But I'm puzzled who shall get it— Whether he who sang the May-song, Or else he who on the trumpet Played the fine accompaniment."

Said the Baron: "In this matter I will give a just decision. Ever the first prize is given To the poet; but a garland Or a laurel-crown, what are they? I agree with the old Grecians Who awarded to the singer Just the victim's fattest portion, As the saddle or the buttock. And I fancy that the teacher's Stores are not so well provided, That he'll offer an objection. Therefore I make him a present Of the largest pike and carp, which Still are left among our booty. But as my young friend, the trumpeter, Seems disposed less practically, So you may, in my opinion, Honour him with your fair garland; For, indeed, he played not badly."

Simpering now the happy singer Rubbed his hands and blessed the May-time, As he saw a glowing vision Of the pan with fishes frying. But young Werner to the maiden Bashfully approached, and lowly Bending on his knee, he hardly Dared to gaze at her blue eyes. But with grace placed Margaretta On his brow the blooming garland, While a weird and lurid fire-light Suddenly in fitful flashes Fell upon the group assembled. For the embers on the hearth-stone Had ignited the old pine-tree. Flaming fiery tongues now glided Through the branches full of resin; And the sparks flew crackling upward Wildly to the evening sky.

Margaretta, Margaretta! Were they fireworks which the pine woods Fondly burned to do thee honour? Or did Cupid with his flaming Love-torch wander through the forest? But the flames were soon extinguished. And the Baron now gave orders That the party should break up; and Fishers, riders, noble ladies, All went homeward in the twilight. Faintly glimmering fell the last bright Sparks from out the pine-tree branches, Sinking in the mountain-lake.



EIGHTH PART.

THE CONCERT IN THE GARDEN PAVILION.

In the garden of the castle Mighty chestnut trees are standing, And a pretty gay pavilion. In the Rhine are deeply sunken The foundations of the terrace. 'Tis a quiet cosy corner, Hidden by a mass of foliage. While below the waves are murmuring.

For the last two months, mysterious Business has been going on here. Pots of colours, painting brushes, Lime and mortar, masons' trowels And high scaffoldings are rising To the dome of the pavilion. Is't some evil spirit's workshop?— 'Tis no evil spirit's workshop. Frescoes here are being painted, And the legs which there are dangling From the lofty wooden scaffold, Are the legs of the illustrious Fresco-painter Fludribus, Who returning from Italia Had been living in the Rhine-land. He was pleased with the fair country, And the rosy happy faces, And the cellars full of wine. All the people wondered at him As they would at an enchanter; For he told them marvellous stories. In his youth he had been travelling, And by chance once in Bologna Came upon the school of artists. In the studio of Albini He became a colour-mixer; And from this most graceful master He found out with ready cunning How to paint both gods and heroes, And the airy little cupids. Yes, he even helped the master, Making easy light gradations, Or preparing the dead colouring.

On the Rhine, far round the country Fludribus was the sole artist. Painted many tavern sign-boards, Pictures also for the chapels, Portraits e'en of brides of peasants. Stable was his reputation; For if any criticisers Would find fault with his great paintings, That an arm or nose was crooked, Or a cheek looked too much swollen, Then he would overwhelm his critics With the big high-sounding phrases He had learnt when at Bologna. Hearing nothing but perspective, Colouring and soft gradation, Modelling and bold foreshortening, Soon they lost their wits entirely.

Margaretta, who with faithful Love had long the matter pondered, How she would surprise her father With a pleasure on his birthday, Spoke to Master Fludribus: "I have heard it oft related How in France in lordly castles They adorn the walls with frescoes. Therefore try to paint now something Like them here in my pavilion. From the world secluded, I know Naught about such compositions; Therefore to your taste I leave all, Only you must work in secret, As the Baron must know nothing."

Fludribus looked consequential: "Though but trifling is the order, Still I coincide with Caesar, And am rather here considered First than at great Rome the second. And besides, there all is finished. Even in the Pope's own palace All those thoughts high and aesthetic, Which I in my bosom cherished, Has a man by name of Raphael Painted on the walls already. But I shall great things achieve, And shall do like Buffamalco, Who with rich red wine imparted Glowing warmth to the cold colours. Therefore, furnish me with red wine First; of course, good eating with it. Rich reward I do not care for, Since the thought is my enjoyment, That I shall be made immortal Through the efforts of my genius. Thus I'll paint for almost nothing, Just the square foot seven shillings."

Since two months he had been painting On the walls beneath the arched roof; Imitated Buffamalco; But he drank himself the red wine. And his compositions truly Were artistic, highly proper, And of elegant conception.

To begin with: there paraded Perseus and Andromeda; At their feet lay deadly wounded The great Hydra, with a handsome Face, much like a human being, Who in dying still coquetted With the lovely rock-bound captive. Then the Judgment came of Paris; And in order that the dazzling Beauty of those heavenly ladies Should not quite eclipse the hero, They looked off toward the landscape, With their backs to the spectator. Similar were the other pictures: As Diana and Actaeon, Orpheus and Eurydice. For the man of genius chooses From mythology his subjects; And he thinks, in nudeness only, Is revealed the highest beauty. Now the work was all accomplished, And with feeling, said the master: "Happy can I go to Hades, As my works are my memorial. In the history of this Rhine-land A new epoch of the fine arts Will begin with Fludribus."

'Twas the wish of Margaretta To inaugurate with music This so beautified pavilion. Ha! how Werner's heart was beating, When he heard the maid's desire. He directly went to Basel To select the new productions Of the musical composers; And he brought the scores back with him Of the great Venetian master, Claudio di Monteverde, Whose sweet pastoral composition Carried off the prize in music. Then there was a noisy bustle 'Mongst the artists of the city; And a most increasing practice In the frequent long rehearsals, All unnoticed by the Baron.

Now, at last, the long-expected Day had come, the Baron's birthday. At the table he was chatting With his friend and pleasant neighbour, The good prelate of St. Blasien, Who had driven hither early, To express his heartfelt wishes. Meanwhile many hands were busy Decorating the pavilion With fresh garlands, and were placing Rows of music-desks in order.

By degrees there came now gliding Through the side-gate by the river All the musical performers. First, the youthful burgomaster Bending under the unwieldy Contra-bass, whose sounds sonorous Often from his thoughts did banish All the cares of his high office, And the council's stupid blunders. Next there came the bloated chaplain Who played finely on the violin, Drawing from it such shrill wailings, As if wishing to give utterance To his lonely bachelor's heart. With his horn beneath his arm came The receiver's clerk, who often, A great bore to his superior, With his playing did enliven All the dry accounts he summed up, And the dulness of subtraction. There came also stepping slowly, Dressed in black, but shabby looking, With a hat the worse for usage, He the lank assistant-teacher, Who by Art consoled himself for What was wanting in his income, And instead of wine and roast beef Lived upon his flute's sweet music. Then came—Who can count, however, All these instrumental players? All the talent of the city For this concert had united. From the ironworks of Albbruck Even came the superintendent; He alone played the viola.

Like a troop of mounted warriors Who the enemy expecting, Lurk in safe and hidden ambush, So they waited for the Baron To arrive. And like good marksmen Who with care before the battle Try their weapons, if their powder By the dew has not been damaged, If the flint is good for striking; So by blowing, scraping, tuning, They their instruments were trying.

Margaretta led the Baron And his guest now to the garden. Women never are in want of A good pretext, when some fun or Some surprise they are preparing. So she praised the shady coolness And the view from the pavilion, Till the two old friends were turning Toward that spot without suspicion. Like a volley then resounded At their entrance a loud flourish, Every instrument saluting; And like roaring torrents bursting Wildly through the gaping sluice-gate, So the overture let loose now Its loud storming floods of music On the much astonished hearers. With the greatest skill young Werner Led the orchestra, whose chorus Gladly yielded to his baton. Ha! that was a splendid bowing, Such a fiddling, such a pealing! Hopping lightly, like a locust, Through the din the clarinet flew, And the contra-bass kept groaning, As if wailing for its soul, While the player's brow was sweating From his arduous performance.

There behind in the orchestra Fludribus the drum was beating; As a many-sided genius, During pauses, he was also To the triangle attending. But his heart o'erflowed with sadness; And the drum's dull sound re-echoed His complaints, as dull and grumbling: "Dilettanti, happy people! Merrily they suck the honey From the flowers which with heavy Throes the Master's mind created; And they spice well their enjoyment With their mutual frequent blunders. Genuine Art is a titanic Heaven-storming strife and struggle For a Beauty still receding, While the soul is gnawed with longing For the unattained Ideal. But these bunglers are quite happy."

Now the din of sound subsided. As oft after heavy tempests, When the thunder ceases pealing, Mildly shineth forth the rainbow 'Gainst the canopy of heaven; So now the full band is followed By the trumpet's dulcet solo. Werner blew it: low and melting Rang the tunes forth from the trumpet. Full of wonder some were staring At the score, in wonder also The fat chaplain nudged the teacher On the arm, and whispered softly: "Hear'st thou what he's playing? Nothing Like it in the score is written. Has he read perhaps his music In the fair young lady's eyes?"

Splendidly the concert came thus To an end, and the musicians Sat exhausted and yet happy That they had so well succeeded. Now the prelate of St. Blasien Stepped forth bowing quite politely To the band, and as a clever Connoisseur and statesman spoke thus: "Heavy wounds have been inflicted On our land while war was raging, And throughout our German country Rudeness was predominating. Therefore it deserves great praise, thus With the Muses to take refuge. This refreshes and ennobles, Civilises human beings, So that war and strife are silenced. All these frescoes on the walls here Show no ordinary talent; And still more this feast of music Makes me think well of the players Who my ears have thus delighted, Brought my happy youth before me, Took me back to fair Italia, When in Rome I listened to the Tones of Cavalieri's Daphne, And idyllic pastoral longing Filled my heart to overflowing. Therefore, my dear friends, continue Thus to worship at Art's altar. Let the harmony of sound keep Far from you all strife and discord. Oh how pleasant it would be, if Such a spirit were but common!"

Deeply moved by these high praises From a man of such rich knowledge, The whole orchestra, delighted, Bowed to him when he had finished. Highly pleased, the Baron also Walked around, gave hearty greetings; And to testify his thanks—for Words alone don't suit a Baron— Ordered from his well-stocked cellars A huge cask of beer brought up there. "'Twas well done, my good musicians, Most efficient chapel-master! Where the devil have you picked up All these pretty compositions? And you, Fludribus, have also Painted well; suits me exactly. Other times, 'tis true, may come yet When our goddesses must wear more Draperies than you have painted; But a gray old soldier does not Blame you for a little nudeness. Therefore, let us ring our glasses To our noble guest's good health, and To the excellent musicians. Yes, for aught I care, we'll drink to The fair shivering painted deities, That the winter in the Rhine-land May not prove too rigorous for them."

Margaretta thought it wiser Now to leave the room, well knowing That the party might get noisy. On the threshold she gave Werner Her fair hand with grateful feeling. 'Tis most likely that the pressure Of the hand was full of meaning; But no chronicle doth tell us: Was it homage to the artist, Or a sign of deeper interest?

Glasses rang and foaming bumpers, And there was some heavy drinking; But my song must keep the secret Of the fate of late returners; Also hide the sudden drowning Which the hat of the lank teacher Suffered in the Rhine that night.

But at midnight, when the last guest For his home long since had started, Low the chestnut trees were whispering. Said the one: "Oh fresco paintings!" Said the other: "Oh thou ding dong!" Then the first: "I see the future— See there two remorseless workmen, See two monstrous painting-brushes, See two buckets full of whitewash. And they quietly daub over, With a heavy coating, heroes, Deities, and Fludribus. Other ages—other pictures!"

Said the other: "In the far-off Future I hear from the same place Glees resounding from male voices. Rising to our lofty summits, Simple touching German music. Other ages—other music!" Both together added: "True love Will endure throughout all ages!"



NINTH PART.

TEACHING AND LEARNING.

Winds and the swift river's current Hardly had swept off the dulcet Melodies of Monteverde, When the people in the city Held no other conversation Than of this great feast of music. Not, however, of the spirit Of the melodies they'd heard then, Neither of the deep emotion Which was in their souls awakened, Were they speaking; they disputed Who received the Baron's thanks first At the end of the performance; Whom the Abbot had distinguished Most that evening by his praises; And what finally was served up From the kitchen and the cellar. As the tail of a dead lizard Still, when life has long departed, With spasmodic jerks is writhing: So the memory of great actions Still lives on in daily gossip. But with thoughts above such nonsense Margaretta took an early Solitary walk next morning To the honeysuckle arbour, There to dream of last night's music, Specially of Werner's solo, Which still through her soul was thrilling Like a message of sweet love. But what saw she? In the arbour On the little rustic table She beheld the very trumpet. Like the magic horn of Huon, Wondrous mysteries containing; Dumb, but full of deep expression, Like a star it sparkled there.

Margaretta stood confounded At the arbour's shady entrance: "Came he here? And now, where is he? Wherefore has he left his trumpet Here so wholly unprotected? Easily a worm might crawl in, Or a thief might come and steal it. Shall I take it to the castle, Take it in my careful keeping? No, I'll go, do nothing with it, Should indeed have gone before."

But she tarried, for her eyes were Held in durance by the trumpet, Like a shad caught by the fish-hook. "Oh, I wonder," she was thinking, "Whether my breath would be able From its depths a tone to waken. Oh I much should like to know this! No one sees what I am doing, All around no living being. Only my old Hiddigeigei Licks the dew from off the box-tree; Only insects in the sand here Follow out their digging instinct, And the caterpillars gently Up and down the arbour crawl."

So the maiden shyly entered, Shyly she took up the trumpet, To her rosy lips she pressed it; But with fright she well-nigh trembled At her breath to sound transforming In the trumpet's golden calyx. Which the air was bearing farther, Farther—ah, who knoweth where? But she cannot stop the fun now, And with sounds discordant, horrid, Fit to rend the ears to pieces, So disturbed the morning stillness, That the poor cat Hiddigeigei's Long black hair stood up like bristles, Like the sharp quills of a hedgehog. Raising then his paw to cover His offended ear, he spoke thus: "Suffer on, my valiant cat-heart, Which so much has borne already, Also bear this maiden's music! We, we understand the laws well, Which do regulate and govern Sound, enigma of creation. And we know the charm mysterious Which invisibly through space floats, And, intangible a phantom, Penetrates our hearing organs, And in beasts' as well as men's hearts Wakes up love, delight and longing, Raving madness and wild frenzy. And yet, we must bear this insult, That when nightly in sweet mewing We our love-pangs are outpouring, Men will only laugh and mock us, And our finest compositions Rudely brand as caterwauling. And in spite of this we witness That these same fault-finding beings Can produce such horrid sounds as Those which I have just now heard. Are such tones not like a nosegay Made of straw, and thorns, and nettles, In the midst a prickly thistle? And in presence of this maiden Who the trumpet there is blowing, Can a man then without blushing E'er sneer at our caterwauling? But, thou valiant heart, be patient! Suffer now, the time will yet come When this self-sufficient monster, Man, will steal from us the true art Of expressing all his feelings; When the whole world in its struggle For the highest form of culture Will adopt our style of music. For in history, there is justice. She redresses every wrong."

But besides old Hiddigeigei, Standing far down by the river There was still another listener To these first attempts at blowing, Who felt anger more than pleasure.

It was Werner. He came early With his trumpet to the garden, Wanted to compose a song there In that quiet morning-hour. First, however, his dear trumpet He laid on the rustic table. Then stood musing by the stone-wall Gazing at the rapid river. "Yes, I see, your waves preserve still Their old course and disposition, Ever toward the ocean rushing, As my heart for my love striveth. Who now from the goal is farthest, Clear green river, thou or I?" All this train of thought was broken By the stork from the old tower, Who, full of a father's pride, had Taken his young brood to ramble On the Rhine-shore for the first time. 'Twas amusing to young Werner How just then the old stork gravely, On the sand with stealthy cunning, Closely a poor eel was watching, Who of various worms was making There a comfortable meal. He, however, who was wielding O'er the little worms the strand-law, Soon himself will serve as breakfast. For the greater eats the lesser, And the greatest eats the great ones. In this simple manner nature Solves the knotty social question. No more did his smoothness help him, No more his sleek body's wriggling, No more his spasmodic beating With his tail so strong and supple. Tightly held in the indented Beak of the determined parent, He was given to the hopeful Stork-brood, now to be divided; And they held with noisy clatter Solemnly their morning-feast. Nearer to observe this, Werner Had descended to the Rhine-bank, And he seemed in no great hurry To commence his composition. There he sat himself down gently On the insect-covered moss-bank. Shaded by a silvery willow, And it gave him much amusement Thus to be a silent witness Of this banquet of the storks.

Pleasures, yet, of all descriptions Are but fleeting on our planet. Even to the most contented Doth it happen that fate often Like a meteor bursts upon them. Only a short time had Werner Viewed this scene when he was startled By the tones of his own trumpet, Which like keen-edged Pandour daggers Deep into his soul were cutting.

"'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing," Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off. Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty.

Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming. In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting. Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger. But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream. Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels' In the church of Fridolinus. Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips. Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming. Margaretta listened docile. And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her. Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuirassiers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring.

Love is, there can be no question, Of all teachers the most skilful; And what years of earnest study Do not conquer, he is winning With the charm of an entreaty, With the magic of a look. E'en a common Flemish blacksmith Once became through love's sweet passion In advanced age a great painter. Happy teacher, happy scholar, In the honeysuckle arbour! 'Twas as if the only safety Of the German empire rested On this trumpet-call's performance. But within their souls was stirring Quite a different melody: That sweet song, old as creation, Of the bliss of youthful lovers; True, a song without the words yet, But they had divined its meaning, And beneath a playful manner Hid the blissful consciousness, Startled by this trumpet-blowing Came the Baron reconnoitring, Tried to frown, but soon his anger Was converted into pleasure, When he heard his child there blowing The old fanfar of his horsemen. Friendly spoke he to young Werner: "You are truly in your office A most ardent zeal unfolding. If you go on in this manner, We shall see most wondrous things yet. The old stable-door which harshly Creaks and groans upon its hinges, Even in the pond the bull-frogs May perhaps change for the better, Through your trumpet's magic charm."

Werner held, however, henceforth His dear trumpet as a jewel, Which the richest Basel merchant, With the fullest bag of money, Could not ever purchase from him; For the lips of Margaretta Made it sacred by their touch.



TENTH PART.

YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE.

From the Feldberg tears a raging Foaming torrent through the forests To the Rhine—its name is Wehra. In the narrow valley standeth 'Midst the rocks a single fir-tree; In the branches sat the haggard Wicked wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Who to-day behaved quite badly: Showing his sharp teeth and grinning, Tore a branch off from the fir-tree, And kept gnawing at a pine-cone; Clambered often quite indignant Up and down just like a squirrel; From the wings of a poor night-owl Roughly plucked out several feathers; And while mocking the old fir-tree Rocked himself upon its summit.

"High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree! I with thee would ne'er my lot change. Firmly rooted must thou stand there, And take everything that happens; Never canst thou quit thy station. And if ever Fate ordaineth. Thou to far-off lands shalt wander, Men have first to come with axes; With hard strokes they hack and cut thee, Deep into thy flesh, till falling; And then strip unmercifully All thy skin from off thy body; Throw thee next into the Rhine, and Make thee swim as far as Holland. And if e'er they pay the honour On a frigate to erect thee As a proud and stately mast, still Thou art but a smooth-skinned fir-tree, Without roots there lonely standing; And thou yearnest on the ocean For thy old home in the forest, Till at last a flash of lightning Mast and ship and all destroyeth. High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree! I with thee would ne'er my lot change!"

Said the fir-tree: "Everybody Must accept the sphere he's born in, And fulfil his duties fully. So we think here in the forest; And 'tis well so, at least better Than to hop will-o'-the-wisp like, Playing pranks and doing mischief, Men and cattle oft misleading, And the stupid wanderer's curses As reward home with thee taking. Anyhow, no one cares for thee. For, at best, a peasant sayeth, Devil take this Meysenhartus! But they're others who write volumes Proving thou hast no existence; That to lose one's way at night-time Comes from fogs and drunken frolics. Oh the spirit-shares stand badly! On the highway I would rather As a paving-stone be lying, Than to be a third-class spirit, Like the wood-sprite Meysenhartus."

Said the spirit: "Thou knowest nothing Of all this, my noble fir-tree. Meysenhartus and his brothers O'er the globe rule powerfully; Everywhere throughout creation Are wrong tracks, and also people Who upon these same paths wander. And whenever, gay or mournful, Someone goes upon a wrong track, He has been by us deluded. Let them doubt if there are spirits; Still they are in our dominion. And to-day you'll see me leading Someone far astray to show him That the spirits are in numbers." From the hill came Master Werner. Deeply musing o'er his love-dream He had wandered through the forest, And as far as man is happy Here below, he was; and buoyant Hope and joy his heart were filling. Many burning thoughts were passing Through his brain, as if they shortly Into love-songs might be growing, Just as caterpillars later Into butterflies develop. Homeward now he would be turning; But the wood-sprite Meysenhartus Hid with dust the right path from him, And young Werner, absent-minded, 'Stead of river-ward went inland. Now again the wood-sprite grinning Clambered to the fir-tree's summit, Rocking gaily in the branches. "He is caught!" so said he, mocking. Werner paying no attention, Went up through the Hasel valley, Till he came to a steep mountain, To a corner cool and shady. Holly, sloe, and climbing ivy Grew around the rocks luxuriant, While near by a clear spring rippled.

Through the bushes stepped young Werner To refresh himself by drinking. Strongly tangled was the brushwood, And upon it he trod firmly. Then upon his ear broke squeaking Wailing tones, as from a mole which At his subterranean labour Caught in traps and now detected, Roughly is jerked up to daylight. From the grass rose something crackling; Lo, there stood a gray-clad pygmy, Hardly three feet high, and hunchbacked; But his face was clear and gentle, And his odd small eyes looked clever. Gracefully he let the long ends Of his garment on the ground trail, And said, limping: "Sir, you have been Treading on my foot most rudely." Said young Werner: "I am sorry." Now the pygmy: "And what business Have you in our vale at all?" Said young Werner: "I by no means Wish to seek for the acquaintance Of such injudicious pygmies, Who like grasshoppers are skipping, And are asking silly questions." Said the pygmy: "Thus ye all speak, All ye rude and clumsy mortals; Ever with your big feet tramping Till the ground beneath you trembles. And yet you are only clinging To the surface like the chafers Which are nestling in the tree-bark; Thinking that you rule creation, But entirely ignoring All those spirits which, though silent, On the heights, in depths, are working. Oh ye rude and clumsy mortals! Shut up proudly in your houses, You are groaning with hard labour. In the hot-house of your noddles Are some plants called art and science, And you even brag of such weeds. By the lime-spar and rock-crystal! You have much to learn, I tell you, Ere the truth you will see dawning!"

Said young Werner: "It is lucky That to-day I feel so peaceful, Else I should have taken pleasure By your long gray beard to hang you On the holly bushes yonder! But my heart to-day is glowing With the sunshine of my love-dreams, Which you with your spars and crystals Never can be comprehending. Oh, to-day I could embrace all, And be kind to everybody. Say then who you are, and whether I can be of any service."

Then the dwarf said: "This sounds better. To your questions I will answer. To the race of gnomes belong I, Who in crevices are living; Down in subterranean caverns, Watch there gold and silver treasures, Grind and polish bright the crystals, Carry coals to the eternal Fire in the earth's deep centre; And we heat there well. Without us You here would have long since frozen. From Vesuvius and Mount Etna You can see our furnace smoking. E'en for you ungrateful mortals, Though unseen, we're ever working; And sweet lullabies are singing In the mountains to your rivers, That no harm they may be doing; Keep the crumbling rocks from falling, Chain the ice up in the glaciers; Boil for you the pungent rock-salt, Also mix much healing matter With the springs from which you're drinking. Never ceasing, and enormous Is the gray gnomes' daily labour In the bowels of the earth. Formerly they used to know us; Wise and clever men and women, Grave old priests descended to us In the depths, where to our labour They oft listened, and they spoke thus: "In the caves the gods are dwelling." But you have become estranged since; Still, we willingly will open To your gaze our hidden treasures; And we hold in great affection All the travelling German scholars; For their hearts are kind and generous, And they see much more than others. You seem also one, so follow! Here my cave is, in this valley; If you can but stoop a little, I will show you where to enter."

Said young Werner: "I am ready." Thereupon the little pygmy From the rock pushed back some brushwood, When appeared a small low passage. "Light is needed here for mortals," Said the gnome, who now was rubbing Two hard flints, and soon had lighted By the sparks a piece of pine-wood. With this torch he went ahead then; Werner followed, often stooping, Often even well-nigh creeping, For the rocks were nearly meeting. Soon, however, widely opened At the passage end a cavern Of gigantic height and grandeur. Slender columns there supported Lofty arches of the ceiling; From the walls the gray stalactites Hung in various patterns twining, Marvellous, yet graceful textures; Some like tears which from the walls dropped, Others like the richly twisted Branches of gigantic corals. An unearthly bluish colour All throughout the space was glowing, Mingled with the glaring torch-light From the sharp-edged stones reflected. From the depths a rushing sound rose As from distant mountain-streams. Werner gazed at all this splendour, Felt as in a dream transported To some strange and lofty temple, And his heart was filled with awe.

"My young friend," now said the pygmy, "Tell me, pray, what are you thinking Of the gnome's secluded dwelling? This is but a place for work-days. Fairer ones far in the North lie, Also in the Alpine caverns; But Italia owns the fairest, On the rocky shore of Capri, In the Mediterranean Sea. O'er the sea's blue waters rise up The stalactites' lofty arches, And the waves in the dark cavern With blue magic light are gleaming, And the tide protects the entrance. The Italian gnomes there often Bathe and frolic with the daughters Of old Nereus, the sea-god, And the sailor shuns the grotto. But perhaps in later ages May a sunday-child look in there, Like thyself a travelling minstrel, Or a merry-hearted artist. But now, come, we must go farther!"

Downward stepped he with the torch-light Ever farther, Werner saw how Huge chaotic rocky masses Lay in heaps of wild confusion, Over which was rushing foaming, To the bottomless abyss, a river. Over steep and high rocks clambering, They now entered a new passage. It looked home-like, a large square-room, Of high rocky walls constructed, Fitted for a hermitage; Round about stood slender columns. Ever dropping from the ceiling And through centuries increasing Had stalactites slowly formed them; And some others stood half finished In the process of formation. Now the gnome knocked on the columns, And mysterious solemn tones rang Out in deep harmonious rhythm. "They are tuned," he said, "according To the harmony of the spheres."

In this room a rock was lying. Smooth and round, just like a table; And there motionless and silent Sat a man—looked as if sleeping, Leaned his head upon his right hand. Stony were his lordly features, And the flame of life no longer Played o'er them; and doubtless many Tears had his sad eyes been shedding. Petrified they now were hanging In his beard and from his robes. Werner gazed at him with terror And he asked: "Is this a statue, Or a man of flesh and blood?"

Said the gnome: "This is my guest here, 'Tis the silent man, whom many Years I've comfortably sheltered. Once he was a proud old mortal, And I found him in the valley, And I offered then to show him Where to find the nearest village. But he shook his head and broke out In a mocking scornful laughter. Marvellously grand his words were, Now like prayers devout and pious, Like a psalm, such as we gnomes sing Often in the earth's vast bowels; Then like curses unto heaven. Much I could not understand. But it woke the recollections Of the days of time primeval, When the wild ferocious Titans Rocks and mountains tore up o'er us From their firm and deep foundations, And we fled to greater depths. For the man I felt great pity, And I took him to my cavern; And he liked it, when I showed him All the gnomes' incessant labours; And directly felt at home here. Oft together have we listened To the growing of stalactites, Chatted also many evenings Of the things below us hidden; Only when my conversation Turned to men, he grew quite angry; Dark his frowns were, and he broke once Seven columns in his fury. When I wished to praise the sunlight And the skies, he stopped me, saying: 'Speak not of the sky or sunlight! In the sunlight there above us Snakes are creeping, and they sting one; Men are living and they hate one; Up there in the starry heavens We see questions which are waiting For an answer; who can give it?' So he stayed here in the cavern, And the grief which overwhelmed him Was dissolved in tender sadness. Oft I saw him gently weeping; Oft, when a melodious wailing Through the columns' hollow shafts rang, He sat there, his sweet songs singing. But he gradually grew silent. Did I ask him what he wanted, Then he smiling took my hand: 'Gnome, I many songs can sing thee, But the best I have not sung yet. Will you know its name? 'Tis silence. Silence—silence! oh how well one Learns it here in thy deep cavern; Depth creates true modesty. But the cold is o'er me creeping; Gnome! 'tis true, my poor heart freezes. Gnome! dost thou know what true love is? If for diamonds thou art digging, And dost find them, take them with thee, Guard them safely in thy cavern. Gnome, thy heart will never freeze then!'

"These the last words he has spoken. Now for years he has been silent In this spot. He has not died yet Nor is living, but his body Slowly into stone is changing; And I nurse him; heartfelt pity For my silent guest I cherish, Often try to cheer his spirit With the columns' solemn music, And I know it pleases him. Without taking any freedom, I think you too are a minstrel; And the service you can do me Is to play before my guest here."

Then young Werner took his trumpet And began to play; his mournful Strains were ringing through the cavern As if breathing forth deep pity. Then in thinking of his own love, Through the sadness now there mingled Strains of joy—first faint and distant, Then came nearer—fresher, fuller, And the last notes sounded like a Glorious hymn on Easter morning. And the silent man then listened, Nodded gently with his head. Fare-thee-well, dream on in peace, thou Silent man, in thy still cavern, Till the fulness comes of knowledge And of love, to wake the sleeper.

Through the winding cave young Werner With the gnome was now returning. As the spacious dome they entered A great rock the gnome uplifted. Underneath a shrine was hidden, And within were sparkling jewels, Also writings and old parchments. One pale amethyst, and papers Which by age had turned quite yellow, Gave the gnome now to young Werner, Saying: "Take these as mementoes! If the world above doth vex thee, Here thou e'er wilt find a refuge. But when wicked men are saying That gnomes' feet are webbed like geese-feet, Then, by lime-spar and rock-crystal! Say that they are dreadful liars. True, our soles are somewhat flattened; But 'tis only a rude peasant Who so cruelly maligns us. Now good-bye, there is the outlet; Take the pine-torch, light thyself now, I have other things to do."— Spoke and crept into a crevice.

Musing through the narrow passage Went young Werner, and his head struck Oft against the rocky ceiling Ere he reached again the daylight. Peacefully the evening-bell rang Through the vale as he went homeward.



ELEVENTH PART.

THE HAUENSTEIN RIOT.

Through the Schwarzwald spreads a buzzing. Buzzing as of bees when swarming, As of the approaching storm-wind. In the tavern savage fellows Meet: their heavy fists are striking On the table: "Bring me wine here! Better times are now approaching For this land of Hauenstein." From the corn-loft brings the peasant His old-fashioned rusty musket, Which below the floor was hidden; Fetches also the long halberd. On the walnut-tree the raven Harshly croaks: "Long have I fasted; Soon I'll have meat for my dinner, I shall relish thee, poor peasant!"

Now the people from the mountains. Throng at Herrischried the market; There the seat is of their union, There they hold their union-meeting. But to-day the Hauenstein peasants Came not in black velvet doublets, With red stomachers and white frills, As was usually their custom. Some had buckled on cuirasses, Others wore their leather doublets; In the breeze the flag was waving, And the morning sun was shining On their spears and thick spiked clubs. Near the old church in the market Stood the village elders, with the Union-leader and mace-bearer. "Silence, men!" the beadle shouted. Silence reigned, and on the church-steps Mounted then the peasants' speaker, Holding an official paper, Stroked his long gray beard, and said:

"Inasmuch as the hard war-time Has much injured town and country, And the debt is much augmented; So to meet increased expenses Our most gracious rulers hereby Do exact new contributions; Seven florins from each household, And from all the bachelors two. And next week the tax-collector Comes to gather these new taxes. So 'tis written in this paper." —"Death upon the tax-collector! May God damn him!" cried the people.— "Now as we ourselves have suffered Quite enough by this sad war, and Many lost their goods and chattels; And because 'tis pledged in writing As one of our privileges, That there shall be no new taxes E'er imposed upon this country, Many this demand consider As a most unjust extortion, Think we should stand up most firmly For our ancient rights by charter, And should never pay a farthing." —"Not a farthing!" cried the people.— "So we summoned you together For your final resolution."

Like the distant surf their voices Loudly roared in wild confusion: "Come! stand up! speak out! We must now Hear the Bergalingen Fridli. He knows best—and all we others Always are of his opinion." Then stepped out the man thus called for, And upon a big log mounting, Spoke thus with a shrewd expression:

"Do you see at last, dull peasants, What the end will be? Your fathers Once gave up their little finger; Now they want to seize the whole hand. Only give it, and you'll soon see, How they'll flay your very skin off! Who can really thus compel us? In his woods free lives the peasant, Nothing but the sun above him. So it stands in our old records, In the statutes of our union: Nothing there of rent and socage, Nothing of a bondman's service! But there's danger we shall have them. Do you know what will protect us? Yonder there the Swiss can tell you, And the valiant Appenzellers. This here!"—and he brandished fiercely O'er his head his thick spiked club.— "On the fir-tree I heard piping Lately a white bird at midnight: Good old time, that bygone time, Peasants, freemen in their forests; If with spears and guns you seek it, You will see it soon returning. Now, Amen! my speech is ended."

Then wild cries rose from the people— "He is right" were many saying; "To the devil with our rulers! Burn these damned taxation-papers! All these scribblers may look out soon If this flame can be extinguished With the fluid in their inkstands." Said another: "Thou, oh governor, Didst consign me to a dungeon; Poor my fare, with only water! Thou hast wine within thy cellar, And I hope we now shall try it. Yes, with thee I'll square accounts soon!" Said a third one: "Thee my musket, Which has brought down many woodcocks, I shall use for nobler sport soon. Then hit well! For we'll be shooting At the great black double eagle." Thus a murmur through the crowd went. Just as when the plague is raging, Everywhere infection spreadeth, So were all the peasants' hearts now Filled with passion and blind wrath. And in vain spoke the experienced Villaringen elder, Balthes:

"If a horse's tail is bridled, Not his mouth, no one can drive him. If the peasant seeks for justice By revolt, all will go badly; In the end he gets a thrashing. Hence of old we were commanded To obey the ruling powers, And—" but now in voluntary Was he stopped in his sage counsels: "Turn him out, this old fool Balthes! May God damn him! He is faithless; He's a traitor to his country!" Thus they howled out, stones were flying, Spears were threatening, and his friends could Hardly get him off in safety.

"To be short, what use of speaking?" Fridli said, of Bergalingen. "Who are faithful to our old rights And will go for them to battle, Raise their hands high!" And they raised them All, while loud hurrahs they shouted. Arms are clanking, flags are waving, Battle-cries—the drums are beating. And that day large bands were marching From the hills toward the river To attack the forest-cities.

In the forest from the fir-tree Looked the wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Mocking at the peasants' army, Said: "A lucky journey to you! No need I should now mislead you, As you choose yourselves the wrong track!"

Scouts are riding, watchmen blowing, Women wailing, children crying; Through the vale rings the alarm-bell. Burghers through the streets are running: "Close the gates! Defend the town-walls! Bring the guns up to the tower!" From the terrace saw the Baron This commotion in the forest, How the mountain-paths were darkened By the peasant-bands descending. "Am I dreaming," said he, "or have All these men indeed forgotten, How a hundred and fifty years since Such mad peasants' jokes were punished? Yes, indeed, the forest glitters With their helmets and their halberds. Well devised, you cunning peasants! While below there on the Danube The proud eagle of the emperor Lets the Turks feel his sharp talons, You think that it will be easy, On the Rhine to pluck his feathers! Look out well that this your reckoning Won't deceive you; and I swear here, The old Baron will not fail to Greet you with a warm reception."

Turned and went into the castle, And he donned his leathern doublet, Buckled on the heavy broadsword, And gave orders to the household: "Quickly get your weapons ready, Keep good watch upon the towers, Raise the drawbridge, and let no one, While I am away, here enter! Master Werner, you may order All the rest. Protect my castle, And my daughter, my chief treasure! Have no fear, dear Margaretta; Brave must be a soldier's child. Only some few coal-black ravens Come there flying from the forest, Want to get their skulls well battered 'Gainst the walls of this good city. God preserve you! I myself go To my post, up to the town-hall."

Margaretta threw herself now In the Baron's arms, who kindly Pressed upon her brow fond kisses. Shaking Werner's hand then warmly He walked off unto the square.

There the ladies of the convent Wailing went up to the minster: "Show us mercy, Fridolinus!" By his door the "Button" landlord Asked the Baron: "Is it time now, That we put our gold and silver In the cellar's deepest places?" Said the Baron: "Shame upon you! It is time to take your weapons And to help defend the city. Show the same zeal as when fishing!"

In the town-hall were assembled Councillors and burgomaster. Many of the city-fathers Made wry faces, as though fearing The last judgment-day was coming. On their hearts their sins were pressing Like a hundredweight; they cried out: "Save us, God, from this great evil, And we'll promise all our lifetime Ne'er to take unlawful interest, Never to defraud the orphan, Ne'er to mix sand with our spices." Even one proposed this motion: "Let us send out to these peasants Meat and wine in great abundance, Also of doubloons some dozens, That from hence they may depart; They in Waldshut may look out then, How they drive away these fellows."

Now the Baron came among them: "My good sirs! I do believe you Hang your heads. To work now bravely! When the Swedes the town beleagured, Then 'twas grave, but this is only Child's play. Surely you have always Liked to hear and make good music; So the booming guns will please you. Let the orchestra strike up now! And these fellows, when they hear you, Homeward soon will all go dancing, E'er the emperor's own detachment Plays for them the grand finale."

Thus he spoke. In times of terror Oft a brave word at the right time Can work wonders; many cowards From example drink in courage; And one single iron will leads Oft along the wavering masses. Thus the council looked up strengthened To the Baron's gray moustaches. "Yes, this is just our opinion, We'll defend our city bravely, And the Baron shall command us; For he knows well how to do it. Death to all these cursed peasants!" Through the streets th' alarm is sounded To the town-gate, where a narrow Dam leads on to terra firma, Ran well armed the younger people. On the bastion stood commanding Fludribus, the fresco-painter, Who had there assembled round him Some young lads who with great effort An old gun were hauling up there. Smiling looked at them the Baron, But great Fludribus said gravely: "Devotees of art can boast of Stores of universal knowledge. Let them have a chance, and they will Rule the state as well as armies. My keen eye sees well there's danger In this spot; and as Cellini From the Castle of St Angelo Shot the constable of France once. So—alas at foes inferior— Cannonades here Fludribus."

"Only do not kill them all off!" Said the Baron; "and be sure first To get balls enough and powder; For, the gun you there are dragging Will not be of use without them!"

To the Rhine-bank came the peasants In great crowds, and looked up growling At the high walls of the city And the well-closed city-gate. "In his den the fox is hiding, He has barred his hole most firmly, But the peasants will unearth him," Fridli said, of Bergalingen. "Forward! I will be your leader!" Drums were beating the assault now, Heavy muskets cracking loudly; Through the powder-smoke ran shouting All these hordes against the town-gate. On the walls to best advantage Had the Baron placed his forces; And was tranquilly then looking At the crowd of wild assaulters. "'Tis to be regretted," thought he, "That such strength is idly wasted. Out of these strong country lubbers One might form a splendid regiment." His command is heard: "Now fire!" The assaulters then were welcomed With a well-aimed thundering volley, And they fled in all directions; Like a swarm of crows dispersing, When the hail-shot flies among them.

And not few of them had fallen. 'Neath an apple-tree was lying By the shore one who spoke feebly To a comrade passing by him: "Greet from me my poor old mother, Also my Verena Frommherz. Say, she can with a good conscience Marry the tall Uickerhans now. For, poor Seppli here is staining The white sand with his true heart's blood!"

Whilst this happened by the town-gate, Some were trying if the city Could be entered by a back-way. On the Rhine below were lying Fishing-boats beside a cabin, Where in traps they caught the salmon. There another crowd streamed onward. An audacious lad from Karsau Led them; for, he knew each byway Near the river, and had often Many fish at night-time stolen From the nets of other people. In three fishing-boats, well manned, thence Were they rowing up the river. Willow-trees and heavy brushwood, And a bend there in the river Saved them from discovery. Where the garden of the castle On arched walls is far projecting O'er the Rhine, they stopped their barges, And quite easy was the landing.

On the roof of the pavilion Which once Fludribus had painted Sat the black cat Hiddigeigei. With surprise the worthy cat saw Spear-heads far below him glistening; Saw a man, too, upward climbing On the stone wall, tightly holding With his teeth a shining sabre; And how others followed after. Growling said then Hiddigeigei: "Best for a wise cat it would be Ever to remain quite neutral To man's foolish acts of daring; But I hate these boorish peasants, Hate the smell of cows and stables. If they triumph, woe to Europe; For, it would destroy completely The fine atmosphere of culture. Now look out below, you fellows! Since the geese by cries of warning Saved the Capitol of Rome once, Animals are taking interest In the history of the world."

Up he sprang in furious anger, Curved his back, his hair all bristling, And commenced a caterwauling Fit to take away one's hearing.

On the jutting turret standing. Faithful Anton heard this wauling, And involuntarily looking Toward that way: "Good heaven!" said he, "In the garden is the enemy." Quick his signal-shot brought other Men-at-arms, along with Werner, Who placed quickly his few fighters: "Stand thou here—thou there—don't hurry With your fire!" His heart beat wildly: "Ha, my sword, maintain thy valour!" Shallow was the castle's moat then, Well-nigh dry, and 'mid the rushes Glisten many swords and spear-heads. Daring men are climbing upward O'er the tower's crumbling stone-work. Muskets cracking, arrows flying. Axe-strokes 'gainst the gate are ringing, Everywhere attack, and shouting: "Castle thou wilt soon be taken!" And between, the fall of bodies In the moat is heard—much blood flows. By the gate cries out young Werner: "Well done, Anton! Now take aim at That dark fellow on thy left hand; I'll attend unto the other. Steady now! They are retreating!"

Thus the first attack proved fruitless, And with bloody heads drew back now The assaulters, seeking shelter, 'Midst the chestnut-trees' dense thicket. Scornful words now reach the castle: "Coward knights, faint-hearted servants, Keep behind the walls, protected. Just come out to honest combat If you've courage." "Death and Devil!" Werner shouted. "Let the bridge down! Spears at rest! Now onward!—Mock us? In the Rhine with these damned scoundrels!"

Down the bridge fell rattling loudly; Far ahead went Werner rushing, Right into the crowd; ran over Just the fellow who did guide them. "When the sword gets dull, thou rascal, With my fist alone I'll kill thee." In the crowd he sees a sturdy Soldier, with a weather-beaten Face, bold and defiant-looking. He had served with Wallenstein once, And now fought for these mean peasants From mere love of strife and bloodshed. "Taste my steel now, gray old warrior," Cried young Werner, as his sword swung Whizzing through the air to strike him. But the soldier's halberd parried Werner's stroke: "Not badly done, lad! Here my answer!" Blood was dripping From young Werner's locks; his forehead Showed a deep wound from the halberd. But the one who swung it, never Gave a second stroke; his own throat, Where by armour not protected, Being cut by Werner's weapon. Three steps backward then he staggered Sinking: "Devil, stir thy fire! Hast me now!" Dead lay the soldier.

Werner, thy young life guard well now! Raging were the peasants, thronging In great crowds around this handful. 'Gainst a chestnut-tree now leaning Weak, but still his life defending, Stood young Werner; round him rallied, Brave and faithful, all the servants. Save him, God! The wound is bleeding, From his hand the sword falls slowly, Dimmed his eyes are, and the enemy At his gory breast is aiming. Then—all may go well yet— From the castle rings distinctly, As if for a charge, the trumpet; Then a shot—one falls; a volley Follows. "Onward!" so the Baron Now commands, and wildly flying Tear the peasants to the Rhine. Cheer up, Werner, friends are coming, And with them comes Margaretta! When the fight below was raging, To the terrace she ascended, And she blew—herself not knowing Why she did it—in the anguish Of her soul, the battle signal Used in the Imperial army. Which she'd learned in happy moments In the honeysuckle-arbour. It was heard by those returning With the Baron from the town-gate; And the maiden's war-cry made them Hurry quickly to the rescue Of those fighting in the garden. Woman's heart, so gentle, timid, What gave thee such courage then?

"God, he lives!" she bent now softly Over him who 'neath the chestnuts There on the green sward was lying, Stroked the fair locks, lank and bloody, From his brow: "Hast fought right bravely!" Half unconscious gazed young Werner; Did he then behold a vision? Closed his eyes, and on two muskets To the castle he was borne.



TWELFTH PART.

YOUNG WERNER AND MARGARETTA.

In the castle's chapel dimly Was a flickering lamp-light burning, Shining on the altar-picture, Whence the Queen of Heaven looked down With a gracious pitying smile, 'Neath the picture hung fresh gathered Roses and geranium-garlands. Kneeling there prayed Margaretta: "Sorely tried one, full of mercy! Thou who givest us protection, Care for him who badly wounded Lies now on a bed of anguish; And bestow on me forgiveness If thou thinkst it very sinful That he fills my thoughts alone."

Hope and trust their light were shedding In her heart as thus she prayed. And more cheerful Margaretta Now ascended up the staircase. On the threshold of the sick-room Was the gray old doctor standing, And he beckoned her to come there. Judging what most likely would be The first question she would ask him, He then said with voice half muffled: "Fear no more, my gracious lady; Fresh young blood and youthful vigour From such wounds not long can suffer, And already gentle slumber, Messenger of health, doth soothe him. He to-day can take an airing." Spoke and left; for, his attention Many wounded men were craving, And he hated useless gossip.

Softly entered Margaretta Now the sick-room of young Werner, Bashful and yet curious whether All was true the doctor told her. Gently slumbering lay young Werner, Pale in youthful beauty, looking Like a statue. As if dreaming, He lay holding, o'er his forehead And his healing wound, his right hand, As one who from glaring sunlight Wishes to protect his eyes; Round his lips a smile was playing.

Long on him gazed Margaretta— Long and longer. Thus in old times In the forest of Mount Ida Gazed the goddess, fair Diana, On Endymion the sleeper. Pity held her eye a captive; Ah, and pity is a fruitful Soil for love's sweet plant to grow in. From a tiny seed 'tis spreading In this ground so rich and fertile, Which it permeates completely With its thousand fibrous rootlets.

Thrice already Margaretta To the door her way had wended, But as many times returning She at last approached the bedside. On the table stood a cooling Potion, medicines in bottles; But she neither touched the cooling Potion nor the other bottles. Timidly she bent there o'er him, Timidly and hardly breathing, Lest her breath might wake the sleeper. Long she gazed at his closed eyelids And involuntarily stooping, With her lips—But who interprets All the strange mysterious actions Of a first sweet loving passion? Well-nigh can my song conjecture That she really wished to kiss him; But she did not; startled sighing, Turned abruptly—like a timid Fawn she hurried from the chamber.

Like a man who, long accustomed To the gloom and damp of dungeons, Seems bewildered when beholding, For the first time free fair Nature: "Hast thou not, O sun, grown brighter? Has the sky not deeper colours?" And his eyes are nearly dazzled By the light so long denied him: Thus returns the convalescent Once again to life and vigour. Fresher, warmer, rosier visions Rise before his raptured glances, Which he greets with fond rejoicing. "World, how fair thou art!" was also Dropping from the lips of Werner, As on the broad steps he slowly Now descended to the garden. Leaning on his staff, he stood long Quiet, basking in the sunbeams Playing o'er the fragrant flowers, Drew a long breath, and then slowly Stepped upon the garden-terrace. On the stone-seat in the sunshine He sat down now. Bees were humming, Butterflies were lightly flying 'Mid the verdant chestnut-branches, Out and in, like tavern-goers. Green, pellucid, gently rushing, Bore the Rhine its waters onward; And a pine-raft filled with people, Snake-like, swiftly sped toward Basel. Near the shore, up to his knees stood In the river there a fisher, Singing gently to himself thus:

"Peasant comes with spears and muskets, Peasant storms the forest-city, Peasant will now fight with Austria: Peasant! you will find that will Make much heavier the bill; Take your purse and pay the joke! Seven florins seemed too much then, One-and-twenty must thou pay now. Soldiers quartered are dear guests too; Then the plaisters from the surgeons: Peasant! you will find that will Make much heavier the bill; Take your purse and pay the joke!"

Gaily gazed young Werner o'er the Lovely landscape and the river; But he stopped his contemplations. On the wall with sunlight flooded He beheld a shadow gliding, As of curls and flowing garments— Well did Werner know this shadow. Through the shrubbery came smiling Margaretta; she was watching Hiddigeigei's graceful gambols, Who then in the garden-arbour With a wee white mouse was playing. With his velvet paws he held it Tight, and like a gracious sovereign Looked down on his trembling captive.

From his seat rose up young Werner Bowing lowly and with reverence. Over Margaretta's cheeks spread Ever-changing rosy blushes. "Master Werner, may God bless you, And how are you? You were silent Such a long time, so with pleasure Shall I hear your voice once more."

"Since my forehead made acquaintance Lately with the enemy's halberd, Hardly knew I," answered Werner, "Where my life and thoughts had flown to. O'er me lay thick clouds of darkness; But to-day in dreams an angel To my side descended, saying: Thou art well, arise, be happy That thou hast thy health recovered And it was so. With a firm step Thus far have I come already." Now again fair Margaretta's Cheeks were like the blush of morning. When the dream young Werner mentioned, Bashfully she turned her head; then Playfully she interrupted: "I suppose you are now looking At the battle-field; indeed it Proved a hot day, and I fancy Still I hear the roar of battle: Do you still recall, you stood there By yon tree, and there a dead man Lay beneath those blooming elders? Where the gossamer so lightly Through the air in threads is flying, Spears and halberds then were glittering. There, where still you see the traces Of fresh plaster on the stone-wall, Broke those peasants through when flying. And, my good sir, over yonder Then my father loudly scolded, That a certain person headlong Had into such danger plunged."

"Death and—but forgive, my lady. That well-nigh I swore," said Werner. "They were mocking us; and others, If they please, may keep their temper. When I hear such stinging speeches, Then my heart burns, my fist clenches: Fight! no other means I know of; Fight I must, e'en should the whole world Go to atoms with a crash. Through my veins there flows no fish-blood; And to-day, though somewhat feeble, In the same case, I should stand there By the chestnut-tree again."

"Wicked man," said Margaretta, "That a fresh stroke from a halberd Should be crossing your old scar, and That—but do you know who suffered Keenly for your daring conduct? Do you know whose tears were flowing? Would you once more give the order: Lower drawbridge! if I begged you: Werner stay and do remember The poor suffering Margaretta? If I—," but she was not able Further to spin out her sentence. What the mouth spoke not, the eyes said; What the eyes said not, the heart did. Dreamily young Werner lifted Unto her his raptured gaze: "Am I dying, or is doubly My young life to me now given?" In each other's arms they flew then, Sought each other's lips with ardour, And transported, pressed upon them Love's first kiss, so sweet and blissful. Golden-purple streamed the sunlight Through the shady trees' high summits, Down upon two happy beings— On young Werner's pallid features, On the lovely blushing maiden.

Love's first kiss so sweet and blissful! Thinking of thee, joy and sorrow Both steal o'er me; joy, that also I have once thy nectar tasted, Sorrow, that but once we taste it! For thy sake I wished to cull from Language, all the fairest flowers, For a wreath unto thine honour; But, instead of words rose visions Clear before me, and they led me Far to float o'er time and space. First I soared to Eden's garden, When the new-born world was lying In its pristine youthful freshness, When its age by days was reckoned. Evening came, a rosy light spread O'er the sky, while in the river's Waves the sun to rest sank slowly; On the shore, in merry frolic, Graceful animals were playing. Through the shady paths 'neath palm-trees The first human couple walked. Wide through space they gazed in silence, 'Mid the holy peace of evening; In each other's eyes they looked then, And their lips did meet. Then I saw before me rising. Visions of quite different aspect; Dark the sky, rain-storm and lightning, Mountains bursting, from the dark depths Foaming waters rushing upward. Flooded over is the ancient Mother Earth, and she is dying. To the cliffs the waves are rolling, To the old man and his consort, To the two last living mortals. Now a flash—I saw them smiling, Then embracing, without speaking, Ever kissing. Night then—roaring, Did the flood engulf these beings. This I saw, and well I know now, That a kiss outweighs all language, Is, though mute, love's song of songs. And when words fail, then the singer Should be silent; therefore silent He returns now to the garden. On the stone steps of the terrace Lay the worthy Hiddigeigei; And with great amazement saw he, How his mistress and young Werner Were each other fondly kissing. Grumbling said he to himself then: "Often have I meditated On great problems hard to settle, Which my cat-heart fully fathomed; But there's one which yet remaineth Quite unsolved, uncomprehended: Why do people kiss each other? Not from hatred, not from hunger, Else they'd bite and eat each other; Neither can it be an aimless Nonsense, for they are in general Wise, and know well what they're doing. Why then is it, I ask vainly, Why do people kiss each other? Why do mostly so the youthful? And why mostly so in Spring-time? Over all these knotty questions, I intend to ponder further, On the gable-roof to-morrow."

Margaretta plucked some roses, Took then Werner's hat, and gaily With the fairest ones adorned it. "Poor pale man, till there are blooming On your own cheeks just such roses, On your hat you'll have to wear them. But now tell me, wherefore is it That I do so dearly love you? Not a word you ere have spoken, That could show me that you loved me. Sometimes only shy and bashful Did you raise at me your glances, And sometimes you played before me. Is it, then, your country's custom, That a woman's love is won there, Without words by trumpet-blowing?"

"Margaretta, sweetest darling," Said young Werner, "could I venture? You appeared to me so saint-like, In your flowing, snow-white garments. At the feast of Fridolinus. 'Twas your glance which made me enter In your noble father's service; And your favour was the sunshine Which my daily life illumined. Ah! there by the mountain-lake once, On my head was placed a garland. 'Twas love's crown of thorns you gave me, And in silence I have worn it. Could I speak, O could the homeless Trumpeter his yearnings utter Boldly to fair Margaretta? Unto you as to an angel, Who is guarding us poor mortals Did I look in silent worship, And I wished in your dear service Here to die beneath the chestnuts. From that fate you have preserved me, Unto life and health restored me, Made my life now doubly precious, As I know your love adorns it. Take me then! Since you did give me That first burning kiss, I only Live through you, belong to you now, Margaretta—ever thine!"

"Thine, yes, thine," said Margaretta; "What stiff barriers are erected By our words! Belong to you now— What a solemn cold expression. Ever thine! 'tis thus love speaketh. No more you; thou, heart to heart pressed, Lips to lips, that is his language; Therefore, Werner, let another Kiss now seal it"—and their lips met. In the sky the moon first shineth, Then by countless stars is followed; So the first kiss, when once given, Is by hosts of others followed. But how many were by stealth robbed And paid duly back with interest, All this doth my song keep secret. Poetry and dry statistics Are, alas, not on good terms. Also Anton came now hurrying Through the garden with a message: "The three ladies from the convent, Who the first of May went with us To the fishing, send their greeting To your gracious ladyship, and Also make most kind inquiries For the health of Master Werner, Who, they trust, will soon amend."



THIRTEENTH PART.

WERNER SUES FOR MARGARETTA.

Night, how long and full of terror! When thou bring'st not to the weary With thy shades refreshing slumber, And sweet dreams to comfort him. Restlessly his thoughts are delving In the past's great heaps of rubbish, Where they rake up many fragments Of his former life, and nowhere Can his eyes abide with pleasure; Only gloomy spectres rise up, Which the sunlight soon would banish. Unrefreshed, next to the future Roves the mind from which sweet sleep flies; Forges plans, takes resolutions, Builds up proud and airy castles; But like owls and bats are flying All around them hosts of doubts which Drive away all hope and courage.

From the tower-clock struck midnight. On his couch was lying sleepless Werner in the turret-chamber; Through the window beaming faintly Fell a narrow ray of moonlight, While beneath the Rhine did rush. And the sleepless brain of Werner Is by dream-like visions haunted. Once it seemed to him like Sunday; Bells are pealing, horses neighing, Toward the Schwarzwald goes a wedding, He walks at the head as bridegroom, By his side is Margaretta; And she wears a wreath of myrtle. In the village loud rejoicings, And the roads and village street are All with flowers overstrewn. In his priestly robes is standing By the church-door the old Pastor Blessing, beckoning him to enter— But the vision's thread broke off here For a new one: He imagined At the door there was a knocking; And now enters the odd figure Of his dear old friend Perkeo, With his red nose shining brightly In the dimly-lighted chamber; And he speaks with husky voice thus: "Oh, my lad, with love don't meddle! Love's a fire which consumeth Him who kindles it, completely; And thou art no charcoal-burner! Come then home to the clear Neckar, Come with me to my old wine-tun, Which contains good stuff sufficient All thy love-flames to put out."

Next he seems to be transported To an Eastern field of battle. Cries of Allah, sabres whirring; And he soon strikes down a Pashaw From his horse, and brings the crescent To the general, Prince Eugene, Who then claps him on the shoulder: "Well done, my Imperial captain!" From the battle-field his dreaming Flies back to the days of childhood, And his nurse sings in the garden: "Squirrel climbs up on the blackthorn, Squirrel goes up to the tree-top, Squirrel falls into his grave. Had he not so high ascended, Then his fall had been less heavy, Had not broken then his leg."

Thus disturbed by all this dreaming, Werner sprang up of a sudden, With long strides walked through his chamber; And his mind was troubled always By the same portentous question: "Shall I ask the Baron for her?" Love well-nigh appeared to him now Just like stolen fruit; he felt that, Like a thief, before the day broke, He had better leave the castle. But just then the sun was rising, With the beauty of a bridegroom In the blush of early morning. "Be ashamed, my heart, great coward! Yes, I'll ask him," cried young Werner.

At his breakfast sat the Baron Poring deeply o'er a letter Which the day before was brought him By a messenger from Suabia, From the Danube; where through narrow Valleys the young stream is flowing, And steep limestone rocks are rising From the water which reflects them With their verdant crowns of beech-trees; Thence the man had come on horseback. And the letter read as follows:

"Does my comrade still remember His old Hans von Wildenstein? Down the Rhine and Danube many Drops of water have been flowing, Since we in that war together Lay before the bivouac-fire; And I see it by my son's growth, Who is now a strapping fellow— Four-and-twenty years he reckons. First a page unto his highness The Grand Duke of Wuertemberg; Then to Tuebingen I sent him. If I by his debts can judge well, Which I had to pay for him there, He must have vast stores of knowledge. Now he stays with me at home, at Wildenstein; is hunting stags here, Hunting foxes, hares and rabbits; But sometimes the rascal even Hunts the peasants' pretty daughters. So 'tis time to think of taming Him beneath the yoke of marriage. If I err not, you, my friend, have Just a daughter suited for him. With old comrades 'tis the custom Not to beat around the bush, but Go straight forward to the business. So I ask you, shall my Damian Start upon a tour of courtship To your castle on the Rhine? Answer soon. Receive the greetings Of thy Hans von Wildenstein! "Postscript: Do you still remember That great brawl we had at Augsburg, And the rage of wealthy Fugger, The ill-humour of his ladies, Two-and-thirty years ago?"

With great effort tried the Baron His friend's writing to decipher. Spent a good half-hour upon it Ere he came to its conclusion. Smiling said he then: "A Suabian Is a devil of a fellow. One and all they are unpolished. And coarse-grained is their whole nature; But within their square-built noddles Lie rich stores of clever cunning. Many stupid brainless fellows Might from them obtain supplies. Truly my old Hans now even In old age is calculating Like the best diplomatist. For, his much encumbered, rotten Owl's-nest out there on the Danube, Would be well propped up and rescued By a good rich marriage-portion. Still his plan is worth considering; For, the name of Wildenstein is Well known all throughout the Empire, Since they followed as crusaders In the train of Barbarossa. Let the younker try his chance then!"

Werner with most solemn aspect, Dressed in black, the room now entered; Sadness lay on his pale features. In good humour spoke the Baron: "I was wishing just to see you, For I want you to be ready With your pen, and as my faithful Secretary write a letter, And a letter of importance. There's a knight who lives in Suabia Questioning me about my daughter; Asks her hand from me in marriage For his son, the younker Damian. Write him then, how Margaretta Daily grows in grace and beauty; How she—but I need not tell you. Think you are an artist—sketch then With your pen a life-like, faithful Portrait, not a jot forgetting. Also write, to his proposal I do offer no objection, And the younker, if he pleases, May come here and try his fortune."

"May come here and try his fortune," Said young Werner, as if dreaming, Mumbling to himself—when grimly Said the Baron: "What's the matter? You have now as long a visage As a protestant old preacher On Good Friday. Is the fever Coming once again to plague you?" Gravely answered him young Werner: "I, my lord, can't write that letter, You must find another penman; For, I come myself as suitor, Come to ask you for your daughter."

"Come—to ask you—for your daughter!" In his turn now said the Baron To himself—he made a wry mouth As one playing on the Jew's-harp, And he felt a sudden twitching In his foot from his old enemy Podagra, and gravely said: "My young friend, your brain is truly Still affected with the fever. Hurry quickly to the garden; There stands in the shade a fountain, There is flowing clear cool water; If you dip your head thrice in it Then your fever soon will cool."

"Noble lord," now answered Werner, "Spare your jokes, for you may better Use them, when the noble younker Comes here from the land of Suabia. Calm and free from any fever Have I on this step decided, And to Margaretta's father I repeat the same petition."

Darkly frowning said the Baron: "Do you want to hear from me then What your own good sense should tell you? Most unwillingly I hurt you With harsh words; I've not forgotten That the wound upon your forehead, Hardly healed yet, you received here By your ardour in my service. He who ventures as a suitor For my daughter first must show me That he comes of noble lineage. Nature has set up strict barriers Round us all with prescient wisdom, To us all our sphere assigning, Wherein we the best may prosper. In the Holy Roman Empire Is each rank defined most clearly— Nobles, commoners, and peasants. If they keep within their circle, From themselves their race renewing, They'll remain then strong and healthy. Each is then just like a column, Which supports the whole; but never Should these classes mix together. Do you know the consequences? Our descendants would have something Of each class, and yet be nothing— Shallow, good-for-nothing mongrels, Tossed about, because uprooted From the soil of old tradition. Firm, exclusive must a man be; And his course of life already Must be inborn, an inheritance Coming down through generations. Hence our custom does require Equal rank when people marry; And I hold as law this custom; I shall not allow a stranger To o'erleap this solid barrier, And no trumpeter shall therefore Ever woo a noble lady."

Thus the Baron. With great labour Had he put the words together Of this solemn and unusual Theoretical discourse. Meanwhile Hiddigeigei lying There, behind the stove, was listening. At the end assent he nodded, But in thoughtful meditation Raised his paw up to his forehead, Reasoning to himself as follows: "Why do people kiss each other? Never shall I solve this question! I did think at last I'd solved it, Thought that kisses might be useful As a means to stop one's talking, And prevent one from declaiming Bitter stinging words of truth. But, alas, now this solution Seems, I must confess, erroneous; Else young Werner long before this Would have kissed my good old master."

To the Baron said young Werner, And his voice was growing hollow: "Much I thank you for this lesson. 'Midst the fir-trees of the mountains, By the green waves of the river, In the sunlight of the May-time, Has my eye been overlooking All these barriers of custom. Thanks, that you have thus recalled them. Also, thanks for all your kindness, Shown to me while on the Rhine. Now my time is up, the meaning Of your words I thus interpret: 'Right about face!' I go gladly. As a suitor fully equal I shall here return, or never. Be not angry then—farewell!" Spoke, and from the room departed, And he knew what must be done now. At the door with troubled glances Still a long while gazed the Baron: "I am really sad," he muttered, "Wherefore is this brave youth's name not Damian von Wildenstein?"

Parting, parting, dismal moment! Who first ever did invent it? Surely 'twas a wicked man, far In the Polar Sea, and freezing Round his nose the polar wind blew; And his shaggy, jealous consort, Plagued him, so he no more relished The sweet comfort of the train-oil. O'er his head he drew a yellow, Furry sealskin, and then waving With his fur-protected right hand, To his Ylaleyka spoke he First this harsh and mournful sentence: "Fare-thee-well, from thee I'm parting!"

Parting, parting, dismal moment! In his turret-chamber Werner, Was now tying bag and baggage. Fastening up his travelling knapsack: Greets the walls of his snug chamber For the last time, for they seemed then Just like good old friends and comrades.

Only these he took farewell of; Margaretta's eyes he could not For the world then have encountered. To the court-yard he descended, Quickly his good horse he saddled. Hoofs then clatter; a sad rider Rode forth from the castle's precincts.

In the low ground by the river Stood a walnut-tree; once more there Now he halted with his horse, And once more took up his trumpet; From his overburdened soul then His farewell rang to the castle— Rang out; don't you know the swan's song, When with death's foreboding o'er him Out into the lake he's swimming? Through the rushes, through the snow-white Water-lilies, rings his death-song: "Lovely world, I now must leave thee; Lovely world I die reluctant!"

Thus he blew there. Were those tears which Glistened brightly on his trumpet, Or some rain-drops which had fallen? Onward now; the sharp spurs quickly In the horse's flanks he presses, And is flying at full gallop Round the forest's farthest edge.



FOURTEENTH PART.

THE BOOK OF SONGS.

Werner went to distant countries, Margaretta's heart was blighted; Some few years will now pass over Ere the two are reunited.

But, meanwhile, abrupt transitions Are not to my taste, I own; So with songs, like wreaths of flowers, Shall this gap be overstrewn.



YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS.

I.

The moment when I saw thee first, Struck dumb, I stood there dreaming, My thoughts ran into harmonies, Which through my heart were streaming.

So here I stand, poor trumpeter, And on the sward am blowing; In words I cannot tell my love, In music it is flowing.

II.

The moment when I saw thee first, The sixth of March, like lightning, Came quickly from the azure sky A flash, my heart igniting.

It burn'd up all that dwelt therein, A dire destruction bringing, But from the ruins, ivy-like, My loved one's name was springing.

III.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace, while I play, And to my music listen.

In vain your efforts to escape, I still continue blowing; With magic speed my tunes take shape Into a ladder growing.

On these sweet tones' melodious rounds Love gently is ascending; Through bolt and lock still pierce the sounds Which I to thee am sending.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace while I play, And to my music listen.

IV.

A merry piece I blew on the shore, How clear my trumpet was pealing! Above the storm the tones did soar Up to the castle stealing.

The water-nymph on her crystal couch Hears music through the wild roaring; She rises up to listen well To a human heart's outpouring.

And when she dives to her home below, With laughter the fishes she's telling, "O River-children, one doth see Strange things where mortals are dwelling.

"There stands someone on shore, in the storm: What do you think he's doing? Blows evermore the same old tune— The tune of Love's soft wooing."

V.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

Though language is a noble thing, There are limits to what it expresses; No speech has uttered yet what lives In the soul's most hidden recesses.

It matters not that there are times, When words to us are wanting; For then, within, mysterious sounds Our spell-bound hearts are haunting.

It murmurs, hums, it swells and rings, Our hearts seem well-nigh breaking, Till music's glorious hosts burst forth, To forms of life awaking.

Oft I should stand before my love A stupid bashful fellow, Were not my trumpet there at hand, And love-songs sweet and mellow.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

VI.

The skylark and the raven Are of a different tribe; I feel as if in heaven! That I am not a scribe.

The world is not so prosy, The woods with mirth o'erflow, To me life seems all rosy, My trumpet rings hallo.

And merry tunes 'tis sending Forth in a constant flow; Who finds these sounds offending May to the cloister go.

When ink it shall be raining, Sand fall instead of snow, Then, from my sin abstaining, I nevermore will blow.

VII.

Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam, Dame Trout was swimming downward, And met her cousin Salmon there: "How are you, river-comrade?"