Rampolli

FROM GOETHE

     POEMS

     LEGEND

     THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

         POEMS

 
     Poems are painted window-panes:
     Look from the square into the church—
     Gloom and dusk are all your gains!
     Sir Philistine is left in the lurch:
     Outside he stands—spies nothing or use of it,
     And nought is left him save the abuse of it.
 
 
     But you, I pray you, just step in;
     Make in the chapel your obeisance:
     All at once ‘tis a radiant pleasaunce:
     Device and story flash to presence;
     A gracious splendour works to win.
     This to God’s children is full measure:
     It edifies and gives them pleasure.
 

LEGEND

     AFTER THE MANNER OF HANS SACHS

 
     While yet unknown, and very low,
     Our Lord on earth went to and fro;
     And some of his scholars his word so good
     Very strangely misunderstood—
     He much preferred to hold his court
     In streets and places of resort,
     Because under the heaven’s face
     Words better and freer flow apace;
     There he gave them the highest lore
     Out of his holy mouth in store;
     Wondrously, by parable and example,
     Made every market-place a temple.
 
 
     So faring, in his heart content,
     Once with them to a town he went—
     Saw something blinking on the way,
     And there a broken horse-shoe lay!
     He said thereon St. Peter to,
     “Prithee now, pick up that shoe.”
      St. Peter was not in fitting mood:
     He had been dreaming all the road
     Some stuff about ruling of the world,
     Round which so many brains are twirled—
     For in the head it seems so easy!
     And with it his thoughts were often busy;
     Therefore the finding was much too mean;
     Crown and sceptre it should have been!
     He was not one his back to bow
     After half an iron-shoe!
     Therefore aside his head he bended,
     And that he had not heard pretended.
 
 
     In his forbearance the Lord did stoop
     And lift himself the horse-shoe up;
     Then for the present he did wait.
     But when they reach the city-gate,
     He goes up to a blacksmith’s door,
     Receives three pence the horse-shoe for;
     And as they through the market fare,
     Seeing for sale fine cherries there,
     He buys of them so few or so many
     As they will give for a three-penny;
     Which he, thereon, after his way,
     Up in his sleeve did quietly lay.
 
 
     Now, from the other gate, they trod
     Through fields and meads a housless road;
     The path of trees was desolate,
     The sun shone out, the heat was great;
     So that one in a region such
     For a drink of water had given much.
     The Lord goes ever before them all,
     And as by chance lets a cherry fall:
     In a trice St. Peter was after it there
     As if a golden apple it were!
     Sweet to his palate was the berry.
     Then by and by, another cherry
     Down on the ground the Master sends,
     For which St. Peter as quickly bends.
     So, many a time, the Lord doth let
     Him bend his back a cherry to get.
     A long time thus He let him glean;
     Then said the Lord, with look serene:
     “If at the right time thou hadst bent,
     Thou hadst found it more convenient!
     Of little things who little doth make
     For lesser things must trouble take.”
 

THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

 
     Up there, upon yonder mountain,
       Stands a castle old, in the gorse,
     Where once, behind doors and portals,
       Lurking lay knight and horse.
 
 
     Burnt are the doors and the portals;
       All round it is very still;
     Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,
       I scramble about at my will.
 
 
     Close hereby lay a cellar
       Full of wine that was old and rare;
     But the cheery maid with the pitchers
       No more comes down the stair;
 
 
     No more in the hall, sedately
       Sets the beaker before the guest;
     No more at the festival stately,
       The flagon fills for the priest;
 
 
     No more to the page so thirsty
       Gives a draught in the corridor;
     And receives for the hurried favour
       The hurried thanks no more.
 
 
     For every rafter and ceiling
       Long ago were to ashes burned,
     And stair and passage and chapel
       To rubbish and ruin turned.
 
 
     Yet when, with flask and cittern,
       On a day in the summer’s prime,
     Up to the rocky summit
       I watched my darling climb—
 
 
     Out came the old joy reviving
       On the face of the ancient rest,
     And on went the old life driving,
       In its lordliness and zest;
 
 
     It seemed as for strangers distinguished
       Their state-rooms they did prepare,
     And out of that brave time, shadowy
       Came stepping a youthful pair.
 
 
     And the worthy priest in his chapel
       Stood already in priestly dress,
     And asked—Will you two take one another?
       And smiling we answered—Yes;
 
 
     And the hymns with deep pulsation
       Stirred every heart at once;
     And instead of the congregation
       The echo yelled response.
 
 
     And when, in the gathered evening,
       Profound the stillness grew,
     And the red-glowing sun at the broken
       Gable came peering through,
 
 
     Then damsel and page, in his rays, are
       Grandees of the olden prime;
     She tastes of his cup at her leisure,
       And he to thank her takes time.
 

FROM UHLAND

     THE LOST CHURCH

     THE DREAM

         THE LOST CHURCH

 
     In the far forest, overhead,
       A bell is often heard obscurely;
     How long since first, no one can tell—
       Nor can report explain it surely:
     From the lost church, the rumour hath,
       Out on the winds the ringing goeth;
     Once full of pilgrims was the path—
       Now where to find it, no one knoweth.
 
 
     Deep in the wood I lately went
       Where no foot-trodden way is lying;
     From times corrupt, on evil bent,
       My heart to God went out in sighing:
     There, in the wild wood’s deep repose,
       I heard the ringing somewhat nearer;
     The higher that my longing rose
       Its peal grew fuller and came clearer.
 
 
     My thoughts upon themselves did brood;
       My sense was with the sound so busy
     That I have never understood
       How I did climb that steep so dizzy.
     It seemed more than a hundred years
       Had passed me over, dreaming, sighing—
     When far above the clouds appears
       An open space in sunlight lying.
 
 
     Dark-blue the heavens above it bowed;
       The sun was radiant, large, and glowing;
     And, see, a minister’s structure proud
       Stood in the rich light, golden showing.
     The clouds around it, sunny-clear,
       Seemed bearing it aloft like pinions;
     Its spire-point seemed to disappear,
       Slow vanishing in heaven’s dominions.
 
 
     The bell’s clear tones, of rapture full,
       Boomed in the tower and made it quiver;
     No mortal hand that rope did pull—
       A dumb storm made it swing and shiver.
     It seemed to heave my throbbing breast,
       That heavenly storm with torrent blended:
     With wavering step, yet hopeful quest,
       Into the church my way I wended.
 
 
     What met me there as in I trode
       With syllables cannot be painted;
     Darksome yet clear, the windows glowed
       With forms of all the martyrs sainted.
     Then saw I, radiantly unfurled,
       Form swell to life and break its barriers;
     I looked abroad into a world
       Of holy women and God’s warriors.
 
 
     Down at the alter I kneeled soft,
       With love and prayer my heart allegiant:
     Upon the ceiling, far aloft,
       Was painted Heaven’s resplendent pageant;
     But when again I lift mine eyes,
       Lo, the high vault has flown asunder!
     The upward gate wide open lies,
       And every veil unveils a wonder.
 
 
     What gloriousness I then beheld
       With silent worship, speechless wonder;
     What blessed sounds upon me swelled,
       Like organs’ and like trumpets’ thunder—
     No human words could ever tell!—
       But who for such is sighing sorest,
     Let him give heed unto the bell
       That dimly soundeth in the forest.
 

THE DREAM

 
     In a garden sweet went walking
       Two lovers hand in hand;
     Two pallid figures, low talking,
       They sat in the flowery land.
 
 
     They kissed on the cheek one another,
       And they kissed upon the mouth;
     They held in their arms each the other,
       And back came their health and youth.
 
 
     Two little bells rang shrilly—
       And the lovely dream was dead!
     She lay in the cloister chilly;
       He afar on his dungeon-bed.
 

FROM HEINE

     LIEDER, IV.

 

     LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO, XXXVIII.

         “           “     XLI.

         “           “     XLV.

         “           “     LXIV.

     DIE HEIMKEHR, LX.

           “       LXII.

     DIE NORDSEE, FIRST CYCLE, XII.

         LIEDER

     IV

 
     Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:
     What a knocking in that little chamber!—dost hear?
     There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he
     Is hard at work on a coffin for me.
 
 
     He hammers and knocks by night and by day;
     ‘Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:
     Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,
     That I the sooner may go to sleep!
 

         LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO

     XXXVIII

 
     The phantoms of times forgotten
       Arise from out their grave,
     And show me how once in thy presence
       I lived the life it gave.
 
 
     In the day I wandered dreaming,
       Through the streets with unsteady foot;
     The people looked at me in wonder,
       I was so mournful and mute.
 
 
     At night, then it was better,
       For empty was the town;
     I and my shadow together
       Walked speechless up and down.
 
 
     My way, with echoing footstep,
       Over the bridge I took;
     The moon broke out of the waters,
       And gave me a meaning look.
 
 
     I stopped before thy dwelling,
       And gazed, and gazed again—
     Stood staring up at thy window,
       My heart was in such pain.
 
 
     I know that thou from thy window
       Didst often look downward—and
     Sawest me, there in the moonlight,
       A motionless pillar stand.
 

         LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO

     XLI

 
     I dreamt of the daughter of a king,
       With white cheeks tear-bewetted;
     We sat ‘neath the lime tree’s leavy ring,
       In love’s embraces netted.
 
 
     “I would not have thy father’s throne,
       His crown or his golden sceptre;
     I want my lovely princess alone—
       From Fate that so long hath kept her.”
 
 
     “That cannot be,” she said to me:
       “I lie in the grave uncheerly;
     And only at night I come to thee,
       Because I love thee so dearly.”
 

         LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO

     XLV

 
     In the sunny summer morning
       Into the garden I come;
     The flowers are whispering and talking,
       But for me, I wander dumb.
 
 
     The flowers are whispering and talking;
       They pity my look so wan:
     “Thou must not be cross with our sister,
       Thou sorrowful, pale-faced man!”
 

         LYRISCHES INTERMEZZO

     LXIV

 
     Night lay upon mine eyelids;
       Upon my mouth lay lead;
     With rigid brain and bosom,
       I lay among the dead.
 
 
     How long it was I know not
       That sleep oblivion gave;
     I wakened up, and, listening,
       Heard a knocking at my grave.
 
 
     “Tis time to rise up, Henry!
       The eternal day draws on;
     The dead are all arisen—
       The eternal joy’s begun.”
 
 
     “My love, I cannot raise me;
       For I have lost my sight;
     My eyes with bitter weeping
       They are extinguished quite.”
 
 
     “From thy dear eyelids, Henry,
       I’ll kiss the night away;
     Thou shalt behold the angels,
       And Heaven’s superb display.”
 
 
     “My love, I cannot raise me;
       Still bleeds my bosom gored,
     Where thou heart-deep didst stab me
       With a keen-pointed word.”
 
 
     “Soft I will lay it, Henry,
       My hand soft on thy heart;
     And that will stop its bleeding
       And soothe at once the smart.”
 
 
     “My love, I cannot raise me—
       My head is bleeding too;
     When thou wast stolen from me
       I shot it through and through!”
 
 
     “I with my tresses, Henry,
       Will stop the fountain red;
     Press back again the blood-stream,
       And heal thy wounded head.”
 
 
     She begged so sweetly, dearly,
       I could no more say no;
     I tried, I strove to raise me,
       And to my darling go.
 
 
     Then the wounds again burst open;
       With torrent force outbrake
     From head and breast the blood-stream,
       And, lo, I came awake!
 

DIE HEIMKEHR

     LX

 
     They have company this evening,
       And the house is full of light;
     Up there at the shining window
       Moves a shadowy form in white.
 
 
     Thou seest me not—in the darkness
       I stand here below, apart;
     Yet less, ah less thou seest
       Into my gloomy heart!
 
 
     My gloomy heart it loves thee,
       Loves thee in every spot:
     It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders—But
       into it thou seest not!
 

     LXII

 
     Diamonds hast thou, and pearls,
       And all by which men lay store;
     And of eyes thou hast the fairest—
       Darling, what wouldst thou more?
     Upon thine eyes so lovely
       Have I a whole army-corps
     Of undying songs composed—
       Dearest, what wouldst thou more?
     And with thine eyes so lovely
       Thou hast tortured me very sore,
     And hast ruined me altogether—
       Darling, what wouldst thou more?
DIE NORDSEE
 

     FIRST CYCLE

     XII

PEACE

[Footnote: I have here used rimes although the original has none. With notions of translating severer now than when, many years ago, I attempted this poem, I should not now take such a liberty. In a few other points also the translation is not quite close enough to please me; but it must stand.]

 
     High in heaven the sun was glowing,
     White cloud-waves were round him flowing;
     The sea was still and grey.
     Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay:
     Half waking, half in slumber, then
     Saw I Christ, the Saviour of men.
     In undulating garments white
     He walked in giant shape and height
     Over land and sea.
     High in the heaven up towered his head;
     His hands in blessing forth he spread
     Over land and sea.
     And for a heart, in his breast
     He bore the sun; there did it rest.
     The red, flaming heart of the Lord
     Out its gracious radiance poured,
     Its fair and love-caressing light
     With illuminating and warming might
     Over land and sea.
 
 
     Sounds of solemn bells that go
     Through the air to and fro,
     Drew, like swans in rosy traces,
     With soft, solemn, stately graces,
     The gliding ship to the green shore—
     Peopled, for many a century hoar,
     By men who dwell at rest in a mighty
     Far-spreading and high-towered city.
 
 
     Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town!
     The hollow tumult had all gone down
     Of the babbling and stifling trades;
     And through each clean and echoing street
     Walked men and women, and youths and maids,
     White clothes wearing,
     Palm branches bearing;
     And ever and always when two did meet,
     They gazed with eyes that plain did tell
     They understood each other well;
     And trembling, in self-renouncement and love,
     Each a kiss on the other’s forehead laid,
     And looked up to the Saviour’s sunheart above,
     Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayed
     Down upon all; and the people said,
     From hearts with threefold gladness blest,
       Lauded be Jesus Christ!
 

FROM VON SALIS-SEEWIS

     THE GRAVE.

     PSYCHE’S MOURNING.

         THE GRAVE

 
     The grave is deep and soundless,
       Its brink is ghastly lone;
     With veil all dark and boundless
       It hides a land unknown.
 
 
     The nightingale’s sweet closes
       Down there come not at all;
     And friendship’s withered roses
       On the mossy hillock fall.
 
 
     Their hands young brides forsaken
       Wring bleeding there in vain;
     The cries of orphans waken
       No answer to their pain.
 
 
     Yet nowhere else for mortals
       Dwells their implored repose;
     Through none but those dark portals
       Home to his rest man goes.
 
 
     The poor heart, here for ever
       By storm on storm beat sore,
     Its true peace gaineth never
       But where it beats no more.
 

         PSYCHES MOURNING

 
     Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison,
     For redemption; ah! for light she aches;
     Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen—
     Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks.
 
 
     Bound are Psyche’s pinions—airy, soaring;
     Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low;
     Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouring
     Sprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow;
 
 
     Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth;
     Golden flowers spring from the desert grave
     She her garland through denial gaineth,
     And her strength is steeled by winds that rave.
 
 
     ‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth;
     Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long;
     Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth,
     Round her tree of life the shadows throng.
 
 
     Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadness
     Heard from willows the moon silvereth;
     Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness,
     And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath!
 
 
     Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation;
     Much she loves for great has been her dole;
     Love leads through the paths of separation,
     Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal.
 
 
     She endures; bravely bears every burden,
     Dumb before the will of Fate bends low;
     Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in;
     Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow!
 
 
     Preconviction—ah! the call, the token,
     Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave!
     ‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken!
     Truth’s but what she truly doth believe!
 
 
     Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission;
     For the eyes that tears so often gall
     Reach not to the summit of completion
     Where illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!
 

FROM CLAUDIUS

     THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE

     CONTENTMENT

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE

 
     Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
       Thy father’s very miniature!
     That art thou, though thy father goes
     And says that thou hast not his nose.
 
 
     This very moment here was he,
       His face o’er thine did pose
     And said—Much has he sure of me,
       But no, ‘tis not my nose.
 
 
     I think myself, it is too small,
     But it is his nose after all;
     For if thy nose his nose be not,
     Whence came the nose that thou hast got?
 
 
     Sleep, boy! thy father only chose
       To tease me—that’s his part!
     Never you mind about his nose,
       But see you have his heart.
 

CONTENTMENT

 
     I am content. In triumph’s tone
       My song, let people know!
     And many a mighty man, with throne
       And sceptre, is not so.
 
 
     And if he is, why then, I cry,
     The man is just the same as I.
     The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show,
       The hero’s bliss, who, vext
 
 
     To find no other world below,
       Up to the moon looked next—
     I’d none of them; for things like that
     Are only fit for laughing at.
 
 
     My motto is—Content with this.
       Gold—rank—I prize not such.
     That which I have, my measure is;
       Wise men desire not much.
 
 
     Men wish and wish, and have their will,
     And wish again, as hungry still.
     And gold or honour, though it rings,
       Is but a brittle glass;
 
 
     Experience of changing things
       Might teach a very ass!
     Right often Many turns to None,
     And honour has but a short run.
 
 
     To do right, to be good and clear,
       Is more than rank and gold;
     Then art thou always of good cheer,
       And blisses hast untold;
 
 
     Then art thou with thyself at one,
     And hatest no man, fearest none.
     I am content. In triumph’s tone,
       My song, let people know!
 
 
     And many a mighty man, with throne
       And sceptre, is not so.
     And if he is, why then, I cry,
     The man is just the same as I.
 

FROM GENESTET

     THREE PAIRS AND ONE

 
     You have two ears—and but one mouth:
       Let this, friend, be a token—
     Much should be heard, and not so much
               Be spoken.
 
 
     You have two eyes—and but one mouth:
       That is an indication—
     Much must you see, but little serves
               Relation.
 
 
     You have two hands—and but one mouth:
       Receive the hint you meet with—
     For labour two, but only one
               To eat with.