The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06. Коллектив авторов

        First one might see where, decked in bright array,

          A train of lewd Olympians proudly glided,

        Then Adam and Dame Eve, not far away,

          With fig-leaf aprons modestly provided.

        Next came the people of the Trojan war—

          Paris, Achilles, Helen, aged Nestor;

        Moses and Aaron, too, with many more—

          As Judith, Holofernes, Haman, Esther.

        Such forms as Cupid's one could likewise see,

          Phoebus Apollo, Vulcan, Lady Venus,

        Pluto and Proserpine and Mercury,

          God Bacchus and Priapus and Silenus.

        Among the rest of these stood Balaam's ass—

          A speaking likeness (if you will, a braying)—

        And Abraham's sacrifice, and there, alas!

          Lot's daughters, too, their drunken sire betraying.

        Near by them danced the wanton Salome,

          To whom John's head was carried in a charger;

        Then followed Satan, writhing horribly,

          And Peter with his keys—none e'er seemed larger

        Changing once more, the sculptor's cunning skill

          Showed lustful Jove misusing his high power,

        When as a swan he won fair Leda's will,

          And conquered Danaë in a golden shower.

        Here was Diana, leading to the chase

          Her kilted nymphs, her hounds with eyeballs burning;

        And here was Hercules in woman's dress,

          His warlike hand the peaceful distaff turning.

        Not far from them frowned Sinai, bleak and wild,

          Along whose slope lay Israel's nomad nation;

        Next, one might see our Savior as a child

          Amid the elders holding disputation.

        Thus were these opposites absurdly blent—

          The Grecian joy of living with the godly

        Judean cast of thought!—while round them bent

          The ivy's tendrils, intertwining oddly.

        But—wonderful to say!—while dreamily

          I gazed thereon with glance returning often,

        Sudden methought that I myself was he,

          The dead man in the splendid marble coffin.

        Above the coffin by my head there grew

          A flower for a symbol sweet and tragic,

        Violet and sulphur-yellow was its hue,

          It seemed to throb with love's mysterious magic.

        Tradition says, when Christ was crucified

          On Calvary, that in that very hour

        These petals with the Savior's blood were dyed,

          And therefore is it named the passion-flower.

        The hue of blood, they say, its blossom wears,

          And all the instruments of human malice

        Used at the crucifixion still it bears

          In miniature within its tiny chalice.

        Whatever to the Passion's rite belongs,

          Each tool of torture here is represented

        The crown of thorns, cup, nails and hammer, thongs,

          The cross on which our Master was tormented.

        'Twas such a flower at my tomb did stand,

          Above my lifeless form in sorrow bending,

        And, like a mourning woman, kissed my hand,

           My brow and eyes, with silent grief contending.

        And then—O witchery of dreams most strange!—

          By some occult and sudden transformation

        This flower to a woman's shape did change—

          'Twas she I loved with soul-deep adoration!

        'Twas thou in truth, my dearest, only thou;

          I knew thee by thy kisses warm and tender.

        No flower-lips thus softly touched my brow,

          Such burning tears no flower's cup might render!

        Mine eyes were shut, and yet my soul could see

          Thy steadfast countenance divinely beaming,

        As, calm with rapture, thou didst gaze on me,

          Thy features in the spectral moonlight gleaming.

        We did not speak, and yet my heart could tell

          The hidden thoughts that thrilled within thy bosom.

        No chaste reserve in spoken words may dwell—

          With silence Love puts forth its purest blossom.

        A voiceless dialogue! one scarce might deem,

          While mute we thus communed in tender fashion,

        How time slipped by like some seraphic dream

          Of night, all woven of joy and fear-sweet passion.

        Ah, never ask of us what then we said;

          Ask what the glow-worm glimmers to the grasses,

        Or what the wavelet murmurs in its bed,

          Or what the west wind whispers as it passes.

        Ask what rich lights from carbuncles outstream,

          What perfumed thoughts o'er rose and violet hover—

        But never ask what, in the moonlight's beam,

          The sacred flower breathed to her dead lover.

        I cannot tell how long a time I lay,

          Dreaming the ecstasy of joys Elysian,

        Within my marble shrine. It fled away—

          The rapture of that calm untroubled vision.

        Death, with thy grave-deep stillness, thou art best,

          Delight's full cup thy hand alone can proffer;

        The war of passions, pleasure without rest—

          Such boons are all that vulgar life can offer.

        Alas! a sudden clamor put to flight

          My bliss, and all my comfort rudely banished;

        'Twas such a screaming, ramping, raging fight

          That mid the uproar