The Trumpeter of Sakkingen.

by Joseph Victor von Scheffel.

O Song, at home well known to fame, That German hearts hath deeply stirred And long hath made of Scheffel's name A dear and honoured household word,

Go forth in thy first foreign dress, Go forth to Albion's n.o.ble land!

Will she not greetings kind express, And warmly clasp the stranger's hand?

The Emerald Isle will surely give A welcome neither cold nor faint; For on thy pages still doth live The name of Erin's ancient Saint.

Across the sea my country's sh.o.r.es As Hope's bright star before me rise; Will she not open wide her doors To one who on her heart relies?

Farewell, oh work of vanished hours; When suffering rent my weary heart, Thy breath of fragrant woodland flowers Did life renew, fresh strength impart.

Oh Scheffel! may thy years be long!

And may'st thou live to see the time, When this thy genial Schwarzwald song Will find a home in every clime.

_Basel_, _June_, 1877.

DEDICATION.

"Who is yonder light-haired stranger Who there like a cat is roaming O'er the roof of Don Pagano?"-- Thus asked many honest burghers, Dwellers on the Isle of Capri, When they from the market turning Looked up at the palm-tree and the Low-arched roof of moorish fashion.

And the worthy Don Pagano Said: "That is a strange queer fellow, And most strange his occupation.

Came here with but little luggage, Lives here quite alone but happy, Clambers up the steepest mountains, Over cliffs, through surf is strolling, Loves to steal along the sea-sh.o.r.e.

Also lately 'mid the ruins Of the villa of Tiberius With the hermits there caroused.

What's his business?--He's a German, And who knows what they are doing?

But I saw upon his table Heaps of paper written over, Leaving very wasteful margins; I believe he is half crazy, I believe he's making verses."

Thus he spoke.--And I myself was This queer stranger. Solitary I had on this rocky island Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.

I went as a wand'ring scholar To far countries, to Italia; With much art became acquainted, Also with bad vetturinos, And with many burning flea-bites; But the sweet fruit of the lotus, Which doth banish love of country And the longing to return there, I have never found here growing.

'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city: Hard? for even Marcus Brutus Would have caught a bad catarrh then; And the rain seemed never-ending.

Like a dream then rose the vision Of the Schwarzwald, and the story Of the young musician Werner And the lovely Margaretta.

In my youth I have stood often By their graves close to the Rhine sh.o.r.e; Many things which lie there buried Are, however, long forgotten.

But like one to whom a sudden Ringing in his ears betokens That at home of him they're thinking, So I heard young Werner's trumpet Through the Roman Winter, through the Carnival's gay flower-show-- Heard it from afar, then nearer, Like the crystal which of vap'rous Fine materials is condensing And increases radiating; So the figures of this song grew-- Even followed me to Naples.

In the halls of the Museum Who should meet me but the Baron Shaking his big cane and smiling, And before Pompeii's gate sat The black tom-cat Hiddigeigei.

Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study; What is all this ancient rubbish, E'en that dog there in mosaic In the tragic Poet's dwelling, In comparison with me--the Epic type of all cat-nature?"

This I could no longer stand, so Now began this ghost to banish.

From the brother of the lovely Luisella, from the crooked Cunning druggist of Sorrento Quant.i.ties of ink I ordered, And sailed o'er the bay to Capri.

Here began my exorcisms.

Many pale-gold coloured sea-fish, Many lobsters, many oysters, I ate up without compa.s.sion; Drank the red wine like Tiberius, Without mercy poetising; On the roof went up and down till All resounded metrically, And the charm was then accomplished: Chained up in four-measured trochees Lay those figures which so long now From my couch sweet sleep had banished.

'Twas high time, too; Spring already Now gave signal of his coming-- Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees; Shots were cracking, for with guns and Nets they were the quails pursuing, Who towards home their flight were taking; And the minstrel was in peril Then of seeing feathered colleagues Set upon the table roasted.

This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand Flew against the wall together.

Ready now and newly soled were My strong boots which old Vesuvius Had much damaged with his sulphur.

Farther now I journey onward.

Up, my good old Marinaro!

Off from land! the waves with pleasure Bear light hearts and weightless freightage.

But the song, which with such happy Spring-born feelings from my heart welled, Bears my greetings to my country And to you, my honoured parents.

Many faults are in it, truly: Tragic pathos may be wanting, And a racy tendance; also, As in Amaranth, the fragrant Incense of a pious soul, its Sober but pretentious colouring.

Take him, as he is, this ruddy.

Rough, uncouth son of the mountains, With a pine branch on his straw hat.

What he's wanting in, pray, cover With the veil of kind indulgence.

Take him not as thanks, for always In your Book of Love I'm debtor, But as greeting and as witness, That a man whom worldly fortune Has not placed 'mid smiling verdure, Yet can, happy as a lark pour Out his song on leafless branches.

Capri, _May 1st_, 1853.

PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by Since thou didst venture thy first course to run, A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try, But no great laurels so far hast thou won.

In circles of prosaic breathing mortals No praise was given thee of any kind-- Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals, Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find.

And in the coteries of hoops and laces Few were the readers, fewer still the praises.

Not everything suits everyone: the hill Grows different flowers than the vale and lea: But here and there in German homes there will Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee; Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound; Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying, And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found, And e'en of pastors it has been reported To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted.

And many who have taken a young bride To spend the honeymoon 'midst rural scenes, Do like to read thee, sitting side by side; Of happy hours thou often art the means.

Then Sakkingen, the fair Black Forest's treasure, Which found at first in thee not much delight, Has by degrees derived from thee great pleasure, And to her heart with love has pressed thee tight.

Upon the whole, success outweighs detraction, And thou canst view thy fate with satisfaction.

Now that thou wilt a second course begin, I should for thee a better dress prepare, With finer threads the verses' measure spin, Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care, I know it well, right often have I faltered, Some of thy trochees sound a little lame; But the old humour now, alas! is altered, The mood which gave thee birth is not the same.

O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded, Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded!

Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest, And near me rush the healing waters out, On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest, And in the brook are sporting tiny trout.

From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending, With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace, And stately giant pines in rows unending, Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace.

A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow, And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow.