The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06. Коллектив авторов
the morning it has fled.
"From our milk the little people
Steal the cream and all the best;
Then they leave the dish uncovered,
And our cat drinks up the rest.
"And the cat's a witch, I'm certain,
For by night, when storms arise,
Oft she seeks the haunted hill-top
Where the fallen tower lies.
"There was once a splendid castle.
Home of joy and weapons bright,
Where there swept in stately pageant
Lady, page, and armèd knight.
"But a sorceress charmed the castle,
With its lords and ladies fair;
Now it is a lonely ruin,
And the owls are nesting there.
"But my aunt hath often told me,
Could I speak the proper word,
In the proper place up yonder,
When the proper hour occurred,
"I should see the ruins changing
Swiftly to a castle bright,
And again in stately dances
Dame and page and gallant knight.
"He who speaks the word of power
Wins the castle for his own,
And the knight with drum and trumpet
Loud will hail him lord alone."
So the simple fairy pictures
From the little rose-mouth bloom,
And the gentle eyes are shedding
Star-blue lustre through the gloom.
Round my hand the little maiden
Winds her gold locks as she will,
Gives a name to every finger,
Kisses, smiles, and then is still.
All things in the silent chamber,
Seem at once familiar grown,
As if e'en the chairs and clothes-press,
Well of old to me were known.
Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,
And the cithern, as 'twould seem,
Of itself is faintly chiming,
And I sit as in a dream.
Now the proper hour is striking,
Here the charm should now be heard;
Child, how would'st thou be astonished,
Should I speak the magic word!
If I spoke that word, then fading
Night would thrill in fearful strife;
Trees and streams would roar together
As the mountains woke to life.
Ringing lutes and goblin ditties
From the clefted rock would sound,
Like a mad and merry spring-tide
Flowers grow forest-high around.
Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,
Leaves of vast and fabled form,
Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,
As if thrilled with passion's storm.
In a crimson conflagration
Roses o'er the tumult rise;
Giant lilies, white as crystal,
Shoot like columns to the skies.
Great as suns, the stars above us
Gaze adown with burning glow;
Fill the lilies' cups gigantic
With their lights' abundant flow.
We ourselves, my little maiden,
Would be changed more than all;
Torchlight gleams o'er gold and satin
Round us merrily would fall.
Thou thyself would'st be the princess,
And this hut thy castle high;
Ladies, lords, and graceful pages
Would be dancing, singing by.
I, however, I have conquered
Thee, and all things, with the word!
Serfs and castle—lo! with trumpet
Loud they hail me as their Lord!
The sun rose. The mists flitted away like phantoms at the third crow of the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a "poetical character" has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning he let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one. But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley. The morning dew of love wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted and waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful and mysterious chimes, like the sound of bells belonging to some hidden forest church. People say that these sounds are caused by the cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable clearness and purity.
It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow, told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old, world-renowned Brocken. For many leagues around there is no house, and I was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat down to a déjeûner dînatoire, consisting of bread and cheese. The sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around, ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes. We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his praises right royally:
Kingly is the herd-boy's calling,
On the knoll his throne is set,
O'er his hair the sunlight falling
Gilds a living coronet.
Red-marked sheep that bleat so loudly
Are his courtiers cross-bedight,
Calves that strut before him proudly
Seem each one a stalwart knight.
Goats are actors nimbly springing,
And the cows and warblers gay
With their bell and flute-notes ringing
Form the royal orchestra.
And