The body melteth in its weeping, Its bitter sighs the bosom burn; The world a grave becometh, keeping The heart, like ashes in an urn.

In deep thought a pilgrim was walking along a narrow foot-path which ran up the mountain side. Noon had pa.s.sed. A strong wind whistled through the blue air. Its dull and ever-changing sounds lost themselves as they came. Had it perhaps flown through the regions of childhood, or through other whispering lands? They were voices whose echo sounded in his heart; yet the pilgrim did not appear to recognise them. He had now reached the mountain where he hoped to find a limit to his journey.

Hoped? No longer did he cherish hope. Terrible anxiety, the sterile coldness of indifferent despair, urged him to seek the wild horrors of the mountains; the most toilsome path soothed the tumult of his soul.

He was weary and silent. He noticed not the gradual acc.u.mulation of nature around him, as he sat upon a stone and cast his eye backward. It seemed as if he were or had been dreaming. A splendor whose limit he could not define opened before him. His cheeks were soon wet with tears, as his feelings suddenly broke loose; he would have wept himself away in the distance, that no trace of his existence might remain. Amid his deep-drawn sighs he seemed to recover; the soft, serene air penetrated him. The world was again present to his senses, and thoughts of other times began to speak to him consolation.

In the distance lay Augsburg with its towers; far on the horizon glimmered the mirror of the fearful, mysterious stream. The mighty forest bowed with grave sympathy towards the wanderer; the notched mountain rested meaningly upon the plain, and both seemed to say, "Hasten on, O stream, thou dost not escape us. I will follow thee with winged ships. I will break thee, restrain thee, and swallow thee up in my bosom! O pilgrim, confide in us! Even he is our enemy whom we ourselves begat; let him make haste with his booty, he escapes us not."

The poor pilgrim thought of olden times and their unspeakable delights; but how heavily did those dear recollections pa.s.s through his mind. The broad hat concealed a youthful face; it was pale as a night-flower. The balmy sap of youthful life had changed to tears, his swelling breath to deep sighs; an ashy paleness had usurped all color.

On one side upon the declivity of the hill, he thought he saw a monk kneeling under an old oak tree. "Might not that possibly be the old chaplain?" he conjectured, without much surprise at the idea. The monk appeared larger and more unshapely the nearer he approached. He now discovered his mistake. It was an isolated rock, over which a tree was bending. With silent emotion he clasped the stone in his arms, and with loud sobbing pressed it to his breast. "O that yet your speech was preserved, and that the Holy Mother would give me some token! Am I then entirely miserable and abandoned? Dwells there then in this desert no holy one who would lend me his prayer? Dear father, at this time pray thou for me!"

As he so thought to himself, the tree began to wave; the rock emitted a hollow sounds and as from a great depth beneath the earth, clear, sweet voices were heard singing:--

Her heart was full of gladness, For gladness knew she best; She nothing knew of sadness, With darling at her breast.

She showered him with kisses, She kissed his cheek so warm,-- Encircled was with blisses Through darling's fairy form.

The soft voices seemed to sing with infinite pleasure. They repeated the verse several times. All was quiet again, when the astonished pilgrim heard some one speaking to him from the tree:--

"If thou wilt play a song in honor of me upon thy lute, a little maiden will come for it; take her with thee and leave her not. Think of me when thou comest to the emperor. I have chosen this abode, that I may remain with my little child; let a strong, warm dwelling be built for me here. My little one has conquered death; trouble not thyself, I am with thee. Yet a while thou wilt remain upon earth, but the little girl will console thee, until thou also diest and enterest into our joy."

"It is Matilda's voice!" exclaimed the pilgrim, and fell upon his knees in prayer. Then pierced through the branches a lengthened ray unto his eyes, and through it in the distance he beheld a small but wonderful splendor, not to be described, only to be depicted with a skilful pencil. It was composed of extremely delicate figures; and the most intense pleasure and joy, even a heavenly happiness, everywhere rayed forth from it, so that even the inanimate vessels, the chiselled capitals, the drapery, the ornaments, everything visible, seemed not so much like works of art, as to have grown and sprung up together like the full-juiced herb. Most beautiful human forms were pa.s.sing to and fro, and appeared kind and gracious to each other beyond measure.

Before all was standing the pilgrim's beloved one, and it seemed as if she would have spoken to him; yet nothing could be heard, and the pilgrim only regarded with ardent longing her pleasant features, as she beckoned to him so kindly and smilingly, and laid her hand upon her heart. The sight was infinitely consoling and refreshing, and the pilgrim remained along while steeped in holy rapture, until the vision disappeared. The sacred beam had drawn up all pain and trouble from his heart, so that his mind was again clear and cheerful, his spirit free and buoyant as before. Nought remained but a silent, inward longing, and a sound of sadness in the spirit's depths; but the wild torments of solitude, the sharp anguish of unspeakable loss, the terrible sense of a mournful void, had pa.s.sed away with all earthly faintness, and the pilgrim again looked forth upon a world teeming with expression. Voice and language renewed their life within him, all things seemed more known and prophetic than before, so that death appeared to him a high revelation of life, and he viewed his own fleeting existence with child-like and serene emotion. The future and the past had met within him, and formed an eternal union. He stood far from the present, and the world was now for the first time dear to him, when he had lost it, and was there only as a stranger, who would yet wander but a while through its diversified and s.p.a.cious halls. It was now evening, and the earth lay before him like an old beloved dwelling, which he had found again after long absence. A thousand recollections recurred to him; every stone, every tree, every hillock, made itself recognised. Each was the memorial of a former history.

The pilgrim s.n.a.t.c.hed his lute, and sang:--

Love's tears, love's glowing, Together flowing, Hallow every place for me, Where Elysium quenched my longing, And in countless prayers are thronging, Like the bees around this tree.

Gladly is it o'er them bending, Thither wending, Them protecting from the storm; Gratefully its leaves bedewing, And its tender life renewing, Wonders will the prayers perform.

E'en the rugged rock is sunken, Joy-drunken, At the Holy Mother's feet.

Are the stones devotion keeping, Should not man for her be weeping Tears and blood in homage meet?

The afflicted hither stealing Should be kneeling; Here will all obtain relief.

Sorrow will no more be preying, Joyfully will all be saying: Long ago we were in grief.

On the mountain, walls commanding Will be standing; In the vales will voices cry, When the bitter times are waking: Let the heart of none be aching, Thither to those places fly!

Oh, thou Holy Virgin Mother!

With another Heart the sorrowing wanders hence.

Thou, Matilda, art revealing Love eternal to my feeling, Thou, the goal of every sense.

Thou, without my questions daring, Art declaring When I shall attain to thee.

Gaily in a thousand measures Will I praise creation's treasures, Till thou dost encircle me.

Things unwonted, wonders olden!

To you beholden, Ever in my heart remain.

Memory her spell is flinging, Where light's holy fountain springing Washed away the dream of pain.

During this song he had noticed nothing, but as he looked up, there appeared a young girl standing upon the rock, who kindly greeted him like an old acquaintance, and invited him to go to her dwelling, where she had already prepared an evening meal for him. Her whole behavior and carriage towards him were friendly. She asked him to tarry a few moments, while she stepped under the tree, and looking up with an indescribable smile, shook many roses from her ap.r.o.n upon the gra.s.s.

She knelt silently by his side, but soon arose and led the pilgrim on.

"Who has told thee about me?" asked the pilgrim.

"Our mother."

"Who is thy mother?"

"The Mother of G.o.d."

"How long hast thou been here?"

"Since I came from the tomb."

"Hast thou already been dead?"

"How could I else be living?"

"Livest thou entirely alone here?"

"An old man is at home, yet I know many more who have lived."

"Wouldst thou like to remain with me?"

"Indeed I love thee."

"How long hast thou known me?"

"O! from olden times; my former mother, too, told me about thee."

"Hast thou yet a mother?"

"Yes; but really the same."

"What is her name?"

"Maria."

"Who was thy father?"

"The Count of Hohenzollern."

"Him I also know."

"Thou shouldst know him well, for he is also thy father."

"My father is in Eisenach."

"Thou hast more parents."