"'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing,"

Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off.

Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty.

Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming.

In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting.

Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger.

But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream.

Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels'

In the church of Fridolinus.

Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips.

Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming.

Margaretta listened docile.

And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her.

Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuira.s.siers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring.

Love is, there can be no question, Of all teachers the most skilful; And what years of earnest study Do not conquer, he is winning With the charm of an entreaty, With the magic of a look.

E'en a common Flemish blacksmith Once became through love's sweet pa.s.sion In advanced age a great painter.

Happy teacher, happy scholar, In the honeysuckle arbour!

'Twas as if the only safety Of the German empire rested On this trumpet-call's performance.

But within their souls was stirring Quite a different melody: That sweet song, old as creation, Of the bliss of youthful lovers; True, a song without the words yet, But they had divined its meaning, And beneath a playful manner Hid the blissful consciousness, Startled by this trumpet-blowing Came the Baron reconnoitring, Tried to frown, but soon his anger Was converted into pleasure, When he heard his child there blowing The old fanfar of his hors.e.m.e.n.

Friendly spoke he to young Werner: "You are truly in your office A most ardent zeal unfolding.

If you go on in this manner, We shall see most wondrous things yet.

The old stable-door which harshly Creaks and groans upon its hinges, Even in the pond the bull-frogs May perhaps change for the better, Through your trumpet's magic charm."

Werner held, however, henceforth His dear trumpet as a jewel, Which the richest Basel merchant, With the fullest bag of money, Could not ever purchase from him; For the lips of Margaretta Made it sacred by their touch.

TENTH PART.

YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE.

From the Feldberg tears a raging Foaming torrent through the forests To the Rhine--its name is Wehra.

In the narrow valley standeth 'Midst the rocks a single fir-tree; In the branches sat the haggard Wicked wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Who to-day behaved quite badly: Showing his sharp teeth and grinning, Tore a branch off from the fir-tree, And kept gnawing at a pine-cone; Clambered often quite indignant Up and down just like a squirrel; From the wings of a poor night-owl Roughly plucked out several feathers; And while mocking the old fir-tree Rocked himself upon its summit.

"High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!

I with thee would ne'er my lot change.

Firmly rooted must thou stand there, And take everything that happens; Never canst thou quit thy station.

And if ever Fate ordaineth.

Thou to far-off lands shalt wander, Men have first to come with axes; With hard strokes they hack and cut thee, Deep into thy flesh, till falling; And then strip unmercifully All thy skin from off thy body; Throw thee next into the Rhine, and Make thee swim as far as Holland.

And if e'er they pay the honour On a frigate to erect thee As a proud and stately mast, still Thou art but a smooth-skinned fir-tree, Without roots there lonely standing; And thou yearnest on the ocean For thy old home in the forest, Till at last a flash of lightning Mast and ship and all destroyeth.

High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!

I with thee would ne'er my lot change!"

Said the fir-tree: "Everybody Must accept the sphere he's born in, And fulfil his duties fully.

So we think here in the forest; And 'tis well so, at least better Than to hop will-o'-the-wisp like, Playing pranks and doing mischief, Men and cattle oft misleading, And the stupid wanderer's curses As reward home with thee taking.

Anyhow, no one cares for thee.

For, at best, a peasant sayeth, Devil take this Meysenhartus!

But they're others who write volumes Proving thou hast no existence; That to lose one's way at night-time Comes from fogs and drunken frolics.

Oh the spirit-shares stand badly!

On the highway I would rather As a paving-stone be lying, Than to be a third-cla.s.s spirit, Like the wood-sprite Meysenhartus."

Said the spirit: "Thou knowest nothing Of all this, my n.o.ble fir-tree.

Meysenhartus and his brothers O'er the globe rule powerfully; Everywhere throughout creation Are wrong tracks, and also people Who upon these same paths wander.

And whenever, gay or mournful, Someone goes upon a wrong track, He has been by us deluded.

Let them doubt if there are spirits; Still they are in our dominion.

And to-day you'll see me leading Someone far astray to show him That the spirits are in numbers."

From the hill came Master Werner.

Deeply musing o'er his love-dream He had wandered through the forest, And as far as man is happy Here below, he was; and buoyant Hope and joy his heart were filling.

Many burning thoughts were pa.s.sing Through his brain, as if they shortly Into love-songs might be growing, Just as caterpillars later Into b.u.t.terflies develop.

Homeward now he would be turning; But the wood-sprite Meysenhartus Hid with dust the right path from him, And young Werner, absent-minded, 'Stead of river-ward went inland.

Now again the wood-sprite grinning Clambered to the fir-tree's summit, Rocking gaily in the branches.

"He is caught!" so said he, mocking.

Werner paying no attention, Went up through the Hasel valley, Till he came to a steep mountain, To a corner cool and shady.

Holly, sloe, and climbing ivy Grew around the rocks luxuriant, While near by a clear spring rippled.

Through the bushes stepped young Werner To refresh himself by drinking.

Strongly tangled was the brushwood, And upon it he trod firmly.

Then upon his ear broke squeaking Wailing tones, as from a mole which At his subterranean labour Caught in traps and now detected, Roughly is jerked up to daylight.

From the gra.s.s rose something crackling; Lo, there stood a gray-clad pygmy, Hardly three feet high, and hunchbacked; But his face was clear and gentle, And his odd small eyes looked clever.

Gracefully he let the long ends Of his garment on the ground trail, And said, limping: "Sir, you have been Treading on my foot most rudely."

Said young Werner: "I am sorry."

Now the pygmy: "And what business Have you in our vale at all?"

Said young Werner: "I by no means Wish to seek for the acquaintance Of such injudicious pygmies, Who like gra.s.shoppers are skipping, And are asking silly questions."

Said the pygmy: "Thus ye all speak, All ye rude and clumsy mortals; Ever with your big feet tramping Till the ground beneath you trembles.

And yet you are only clinging To the surface like the chafers Which are nestling in the tree-bark; Thinking that you rule creation, But entirely ignoring All those spirits which, though silent, On the heights, in depths, are working.

Oh ye rude and clumsy mortals!

Shut up proudly in your houses, You are groaning with hard labour.

In the hot-house of your noddles Are some plants called art and science, And you even brag of such weeds.

By the lime-spar and rock-crystal!

You have much to learn, I tell you, Ere the truth you will see dawning!"

Said young Werner: "It is lucky That to-day I feel so peaceful, Else I should have taken pleasure By your long gray beard to hang you On the holly bushes yonder!

But my heart to-day is glowing With the sunshine of my love-dreams, Which you with your spars and crystals Never can be comprehending.

Oh, to-day I could embrace all, And be kind to everybody.

Say then who you are, and whether I can be of any service."