(Do they dream of throes of labour Which their mother-earth of old felt, When they from her womb were bursting?)

From the horse got off our rider, To a pine-tree stump he bound it, Gazed in wonder at the landscape, Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up In the air his pointed c.o.c.ked hat, And began to blow a cheering Joyous tune upon his trumpet.

To the Rhine it bore a greeting, Over toward the Alps it floated, Merry now, then full of feeling, Like a prayer devout and solemn, Then again quite roguish, joyful.

Now trari-trara resounded, Echo's voice her plaudits sending From the bosom of the forest.

Fair it was o'er hill and valley, But fair also to behold him, As he in the deep snow standing Lightly on his horse was leaning; Now and then a golden sunbeam Glory shed on man and trumpet, In the background gloomy fir-trees, Farther down among the meadows Rang his tunes out not unheeded!

There was walking then the worthy Pastor of the neighbouring village, Who the snow-drifts was examining, Which, fast melting with the surging Waters rising o'er the meadows, Threatened to destroy the gra.s.s there.

Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered How to ward off this great danger.

Round him bounded, loudly barking, His two white and s.h.a.ggy dogs.

You who live in smoky cities, And are separated wholly From the simple life of nature, Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will Joyfully now sing the praises Of a pastor in the country.

Simple is his life, and narrow: Where the village ends, end also All his labours and endeavours.

While men slaughtered one another, In the b.l.o.o.d.y Thirty Years' War, For G.o.d's honour, the calm grandeur Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods Breathed its peace into his soul.

Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves; And, 'mid all the theologians'

Squabbles, he most likely never Had read one polemic treatise.

With dogmatics altogether, Science in her heavy armour, He possessed but slight acquaintance.

But, whenever 'mongst his people Could some discord be adjusted-- When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled; When the demon of dissension Marriage marred and children's duty; When the daily load of sorrow Heavily weighed down some poor man, And the needy longing soul looked Eagerly for consolation-- Then, as messenger from Heaven, To his flock the old man hastened; From the depths of his heart's treasure Gave to each advice and comfort.

And if, in a distant village, Someone lay upon a sick-bed, With grim Death hard battle waging, Then--at midnight--at each hour, When a knock came at his hall-door-- E'en if snow the pathway covered-- Undismayed he went to comfort And bestow the sacred blessing.

Solitary was his own life, For his nearest friends were only His two n.o.ble dogs (St. Bernards).

His reward: a little child oft Bashfully approached him, kissing His old hand with timid reverence; Also oft a grateful smile played O'er the features of the dying, Which was meant for the old priest.

Unperceived the old man came now By the border of the forest, To the Trumpeter whose last notes Rang resounding in the distance, Tapped him friendly on the shoulder: "My young master, may G.o.d bless you, 'Twas a fine tune you were playing!

Since the hors.e.m.e.n of the emperor Buried here their serjeant-major, Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld, And they blew as a farewell then The Reveille for their dead comrade-- Though 'tis long since it has happened, I have never heard such sounds here.

Only on the organ plays my Organist, and that quite poorly; Therefore I am struck with wonder To encounter such an Orpheus.

Will you treat to such fine music The wild beasts here of our forest, Stag and doe, and fox and badger?

Or, perhaps, was it a signal, Like the call of the lost huntsman?

I can see that you are strange here, By your long sword and your doublet; It is far still to the town there, And the road impracticable.

Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already High up towards these upland forests, And it seems to me but prudent That with me you take your lodging; In the vale there stands my glebe-house, Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider Find sufficient shelter there."

Then the horseman quickly answered: "Yes, I'm strange in a strange country, And I have not much reflected Where to-night shall be my lodging.

To be sure, in these free forests A free heart can sleep if need be; But your courteous invitation I most gratefully accept."

Then unfastened he his horse and Led it gently by the bridle, And the Pastor and the rider Like old friends walked to the village In the twilight of the evening.

By the window of the glebe-house The old cook stood, looking serious; Mournfully her hands she lifted, Took a pinch of snuff and cried out: "Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes!

Stand by me in this my trouble!

Thoughtlessly my kind old master Brings again a guest to stay here; What a thorough devastation Will he make in my good larder!

Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout, Which I had reserved for Sunday, When the Dean of Wehr will dine here.

Now farewell, thou hough of bacon!

The old clucking hen, I fear much, Also now must fall a victim, And the stranger's hungry horse will Revel in our store of oats."

SECOND PART.

YOUNG WERNER WITH THE SCHWARZWALD PASTOR.

Snugly in the well-warmed chamber, Now before the supper table, Sat the Trumpeter and Pastor, On the dish, right hot and steaming Had a roasted fowl paraded, But it had completely vanished; Only now a spicy fragrance Floated gently through the chamber, Like the songs by which the minstrel Still lives on through after ages; And the empty plates bore witness That a great and healthy hunger Lately here had been appeased.

Now the Pastor raised a br.i.m.m.i.n.g Jug of wine, then filled the gla.s.ses And began, his guest accosting: "After supper 'tis the duty Of the host, his guest to question: Who he is, from whence he cometh?

Where his country and his parents?

In old Homer I have read oft That the King of the Phaeacians Thus the n.o.ble hero questioned; And I hope you can relate me Just as many strange adventures As Ulysses. Take your comfort, Seat yourself in that warm corner, Yonder by the stove, which is a Hatching nest of solid thinking; 'Tis according to our custom The narrator's seat of honour.

And I'll listen with attention.

Still the old man hears with pleasure Of the storms of youth's wild pa.s.sions."

Then the young man: "I am sorry Not to be a proven hero, Neither have I conquered Ilium, Nor have blinded Polyphemus, Neither have I ever thus far Met with any Royal Princess, Who when spreading out the linen Felt for me a soft compa.s.sion.

But with pleasure I obey you."

On the bench he took his seat now By the stove all covered over With glazed tiles much ornamented.

From the stove streamed out warm comfort, And the Pastor kindly told him To stretch out his weary legs there.

He, however, would not do so; Took a swallow of the red wine, And began to tell his story:

"Know, my name is Werner Kirchhof; I was born and grew to manhood, In the Pfalz, at Heidelberg."

Old Heidelberg, thou beauty.

With many honours crowned; Along the Rhine and Neckar, No town like thee is found.

Thou town of merry fellows, Of wisdom full and wine, Clear flows thy placid river, Blue eyes therein do shine.

When from the south is spreading Spring's smile o'er hill and lea, He out of blossoms weaveth A bridal robe for thee.

Thee as a bride I fondly Enshrine within my heart; Like early love's sweet echoes, Thy name doth joy impart.

Become life's cares too burning, And all abroad looks bare, I'll spur my good horse homeward To the Neckar vale so fair.

"On the borders of the Neckar I have dreamt sweet dreams of childhood, Also have a school attended, Greek and Latin there have studied; And a thirsty old musician Taught me how to blow the trumpet.

When I reached my eighteenth birthday, Said my guardian: 'You, young Werner, With a clever head are gifted, And are somewhat of a genius, And cut out of right material; You must now become a lawyer.

That brings office and great honours, Gathers also golden ducats.

And already I do see you As the well-appointed bailiff Of His Grace the Grand Elector; And I then must pay you homage.

I will venture the prediction, If you act quite circ.u.mspectly, Then a seat may yet await you In th' Imperial Court at Wetzlar.'

Thus I then became a lawyer; Bought myself a great big inkstand, Also bought a huge portfolio, And a heavy Corpus Juris, And the lecture-room frequented, Where, with yellow mummy visage, Samuel Brunnquell, the professor, Roman law to us expounded.

Roman law, when I recall it, On my heart it lies like nightmare, Like a millstone on my stomach, And my head feels dull and stupid.

To much nonsense did I listen, How they in the Roman Forum Snarling, quarrelled with each other; How Sir Gaius stuck to his point, And to his Sir Ulpia.n.u.s; How then later comers dabbled.

Till the Emperor Justinia.n.u.s, He of all the greatest dabbler, Sent them home about their business.

And I often asked the question: 'Must it really be our fate then These dry bones to gnaw forever, Which were flung to us as remnants From their banquets by the Romans?

Why should not, from soil Germanic, Spring the flower of her own law, Simple, full of forest fragrance-- No luxuriant southern climber?