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 sh.o.r.e-- Peopled, for many a century h.o.a.r, 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.