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 ill.u.s.trious 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 G.o.ds 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-ba.s.s, 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 a.s.sistant-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, sc.r.a.ping, 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-ba.s.s 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 t.i.tanic 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 enn.o.bles, 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!"