I have had dreams of wild love wildly nursed,
Of myrtles, mignonette, and silken tresses,
Of lips, whose blames belie the kiss that blesses,
Of dirge-like songs to dirge-like airs rehearsed.
My dreams have paled and faded long ago,
Faded the very form they most adored,
Nothing is left me but what once I poured
Into pathetic verse with feverish glow.
Thou, orphaned song, art left. Do thou, too, fade!
Go, seek that visioned form long lost in night,
And say from me—if you upon it light—
With airy breath I greet that airy shade!
Oh, fair cradle of my sorrow,
Oh, fair tomb of peace for me,
Oh, fair town, my last good-morrow,
Last farewell I say to thee!
Fare thee well, thou threshold holy,
Where my lady's footsteps stir,
And that spot, still worshipped lowly,
Where mine eyes first looked on her!
Had I but beheld thee never,
Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen,
Wretched now, and wretched ever,
Oh, I should not thus have been!
Touch thy heart?—I would not dare that:
Ne'er did I thy love implore;
Might I only breathe the air that
Thou didst breathe, I asked no more.
Yet I could not brook thy spurning,
Nor thy cruel words of scorn;
Madness in my brain is burning,
And my heart is sick and torn.
So I go, downcast and dreary,
With my pilgrim staff to stray,
Till I lay my head aweary
In some cool grave far away.
Cliff and castle quiver grayly
From the mirror of the Rhine
Where my little boat swims gaily;
Round her prow the ripples shine.
Heart at ease I watch them thronging—
Waves of gold with crisping crest,
Till awakes a half-lulled longing
Cherished deep within my breast.
Temptingly the ripples greet me
Luring toward the gulf beneath,
Yet I know that should they meet me
They would drag me to my death.
Lovely visage, treacherous bosom,
Guile beneath and smile above,
Stream, thy dimpling wavelet's blossom
Laughs as falsely as my love.
I despaired at first—believing
I should never bear it. Now
I have borne it—I have borne it.
Only never ask me How.
'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the buds were blowing,
I felt—ah me, how sweet it was!—
Love in my heart a-growing.
'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the birds were quiring,
In burning words I told her all
My yearning, my aspiring.
Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall,
The fairest flowers arise;
And into choirs of nightingales
Are turned my bosom's sighs.
And wilt thou love me, thine shall be
The fairest flowers that spring,
And at thy window evermore
The nightingales shall sing.
The rose and the lily, the moon and the dove,
Once loved I them all with a perfect love.
I love them no longer, I love alone
The Lovely, the Graceful, the Pure, the One
Who twines in one wreath all their beauty and love,
And rose is, and lily, and moon and dove.
Dear, when I look into thine eyes,
My deepest sorrow straightway flies;
But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then
No thought remains of bygone pain!
And when I lean upon thy breast,
No dream of heaven could be more blest;
But, when thou say'st thou lovest me,
I fall to weeping bitterly.
Thy face, that fair, sweet face I know,
I dreamed of it awhile ago;
It is an angel's face, so mild—
And yet, so sadly pale, poor child!
Only the lips are rosy bright,
But soon cold Death will kiss them white,
And quench the light of Paradise
That shines from out those earnest eyes.
Lean close thy cheek against my cheek,
That our tears together may blend, love,
And press thy heart upon my heart,
That from both one flame may ascend, love!
And while in that flame so doubly bright
Our tears are falling and burning,
And while in my arms I clasp thee tight
I will die with love and yearning.
I'll breathe my soul and its secret
In the lily's chalice white;
The lily shall thrill and reëcho
A song of my heart's delight.
The song shall quiver and tremble,
Even as did the kiss
That her rosy lips once gave me
In a moment of wondrous bliss.
The stars have stood unmoving
Upon the heavenly plains
For ages, gazing each on each,
With all a lover's pains.
They speak a noble language,
Copious and rich and strong;
Yet none of your greatest schoolmen
Can understand that tongue.
But I have learnt it, and never
Can forget it for my part—
For I used as my only grammar
The face of the joy of my heart.
On the wings of song far sweeping,
Heart's dearest, with me thou'lt go
Away where the Ganges is creeping;
Its loveliest garden I know—
A garden where roses are burning
In the moonlight all silent there;
Where the lotus-flowers are yearning
For their sister belovèd and fair.
The violets titter, caressing,
Peeping up as the planets appear,
And the roses, their warm love confessing,
Whisper words, soft-perfumed, to each ear.
And, gracefully lurking or leaping,
The gentle gazelles come round:
While afar, deep rushing and sweeping,
The waves of the Ganges sound.
We'll lie there in slumber sinking
Neath the palm-trees by the stream,
Rapture and rest deep drinking,
Dreaming the happiest dream.
The lotos flower is troubled
By the sun's too garish gleam,
She droops, and with folded petals
Awaiteth the night in a dream.
'Tis the moon has won her favor,
His light her spirit doth wake,
Her virgin bloom she unveileth
All gladly for his dear sake.
Unfolding and glowing and shining
She yearns toward his cloudy height;
She trembles to tears and to perfume
With pain of her love's delight.
The Rhine's bright wave serenely
Reflects as it passes by
Cologne that lifts her queenly
Cathedral towers on high.
A picture hangs in the dome there,
On leather with gold bedight,
Whose beauty oft when I roam there
Sheds hope on my troubled night.
For cherubs and flowers are wreathing
Our Lady with tender grace;
Her eyes, cheeks, and lips half-breathing
Resemble my loved one's face.
I am not wroth, my own lost love, although
My heart is breaking—wroth I am not, no!
For all thou dost in diamonds blaze, no ray
Of light into thy heart's night finds its way.
I saw thee in a dream. Oh, piteous sight!
I saw thy heart all empty, all in night;
I saw the serpent gnawing at thy heart;
I saw how wretched, O my love, thou art!
When thou shalt lie, my darling, low
In the dark grave, where they hide thee,
Then down to thee I will surely go,
And nestle in beside thee.
Wildly I'll kiss and clasp thee there,
Pale, cold, and silent lying;
Shout, shudder, weep in dumb despair,
Beside my dead love dying.
The midnight calls, up rise the dead,
And dance in airy swarms there;
We twain quit not our earthly bed,
I lie wrapt in your arms there.
Up rise the dead; the Judgment-day
To bliss or anguish calls them;
We twain lie on as before we lay,
And heed not what befalls them.
A young man loved a maiden,
But she for another has sigh'd;
That other, he loves another,
And makes her at length his bride.
The maiden marries, in anger,
The first adventurous wight
That chance may fling before her;
The youth is in piteous plight.
The story is old as ages,
Yet happens again and again;
The last to whom it happen'd,
His heart is rent in twain.
A lonely pine is standing
On the crest of a northern height;
He sleeps, and a snow-wrought mantle
Enshrouds him through the night.
He's dreaming of a palm-tree
Afar in a tropic land,
That grieves alone in silence
'Mid quivering leagues of sand.
My love, we were sitting together
In a skiff, thou and I alone;
'Twas night, very still was the weather,
Still the great sea we floated on.
Fair isles in the moonlight were lying,
Like spirits, asleep in a trance;
Their strains of sweet music were sighing,
And the mists heaved in an eery dance.
And ever, more sweet, the strains rose there,
The mists flitted lightly and free;
But we floated on with our woes there,
Forlorn on that wide, wide sea.
I see thee nightly in dreams, my sweet,
Thine eyes the old welcome making,
And I fling me down at thy dear feet
With the cry of a heart that is breaking.
Thou lookest at me in woful wise
With a smile so sad and holy,
And pearly tear-drops from thine eyes
Steal silently and slowly.
Whispering a word, thou lay'st on my hair
A wreath with sad cypress shotten;
awake, the wreath is no longer there,
And the word I have forgotten.
I have been wont to bear my head on high,
Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;
Yea, though a king should gaze on me, I ween,
I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.
But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:
When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,
At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,
I feel the shudder of humility.
Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,
Thy lofty soul that pierces all things through
And speeds on lightning wings to heaven's blue?
Or am I racked by what my memories tell
Of frequent deeds which caused thy heart to swell—
That beauteous heart which loved me, ah! too well.
With foolish fancy I deserted thee;
I fain would search the whole world through to learn
If in it I perchance could love discern,
That I might love embrace right lovingly.
I sought for love as far as eye could see,
My hands extending at each door in turn,
Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—
Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.
And ever search'd I after love; yes, ever
Search'd after love, but love discover'd never,
And so I homeward went with troubled thought;
But thou wert there to welcome me again,
And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then
That was the sweet love I so long had sought.
Grete and Hans come dancing by,
They shout for very glee;
Poor Peter stands all silently,
And white as chalk is he.
Grete and Hans were wed this morn,
And shine in bright array;
But ah, poor Peter stands forlorn,
Dressed for a working-day.
He mutters, as with wistful eyes
He gazes at them still:
"'Twere easy—were I not too wise—
To do myself some ill…."
"An aching sorrow fills my breast,
My heart is like to break;
It leaves me neither peace nor rest,
And all for Grete's sake.
"It drives me to her side, as though
She still could comfort me;
But in her eyes there's something now
That makes me turn and flee.
"I climb the highest hilltop where
I am at least alone;
And standing in the stillness there
I weep and make my moan."
Poor Peter wanders slowly by;
So pale is he, so dull and shy,
The very neighbors in the street
Turn round to gaze, when him they meet.
The maids speak low: "He looks, I ween,
As though the grave his bed had been."
Ah no, good maids, ye should have said
"The grave will soon become his bed."
He lost his sweetheart—so, may be,
The grave is best for such as he;
There he may sleep the years away,
And rest until the Judgment-day.
To France were traveling two grenadiers,
From prison in Russia returning,
And when they came to the German frontiers,
They hung down their heads in mourning.
There came the heart-breaking news to their ears
That France was by fortune forsaken;
Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers,
And Napoleon, Napoleon was taken.
Then wept together those two grenadiers
O'er their country's departed glory;
"Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears,
"My old wound—how it burns at the story!"
The other said: "The end has come,
What avails any longer living
Yet have I a wife and child at home,
For an absent father grieving.
"Who cares for wife? Who cares for child?
Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken;
Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild,
For Napoleon, Napoleon is taken!
"Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer,
When death my eyes is closing:
Take me to France, and bury me there;
In France be my ashes reposing.
"This cross of the Legion of Honor bright,
Let it lie near my heart, upon me;
Give me my musket in my hand,
And gird my sabre on me.
"So will I lie, and arise no more,
My watch like a sentinel keeping,
Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar,
And the squadrons above me sweeping.
"Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave,
With their eagles o'er him bending,
And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave,
Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"
To midnight now the night drew on;
In slumber deep lay Babylon.
The King's house only was all aflare,
For the King's wild crew were at revel there.
Up there in the King's own banquet hall,
Belshazzar held royal festival.
The satraps were marshaled in glittering line
And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.
The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras
in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.
The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed,
The wine made swell his heart with pride.
Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred,
And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,
And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd
Of servile courtiers applauding loud.
The King commanded with haughty stare;
The slave was gone, and again was there.
Much wealth of gold on his head bare he;
'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.
And the King took hold of a sacred cup
With his impious hand, and they filled it up;
And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught,
And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:
"Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon;
I am the King of Babylon!"
But scarce had the awful words been said
When the King's heart withered with secret dread.
The boisterous laughter was stifled all,
And corpselike still did wax the hall;
Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came
The likeness of a man's hand in flame,
And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,
And wrote and vanished, and no more came.
The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,
With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,
The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred;
They sat like statues, without a word.
The Magians came; but none of them all
Could read those letters of flame on the wall.
But in that same night of his vaunting vain
By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.
The mother stood at the window;
Her son lay in bed, alas!
"Will you not get up, dear William,
To see the procession pass?"
"O mother, I am so ailing,
I neither can hear nor see;
I think of my poor dead Gretchen,
And my heart grows faint in me."
"Get up, we will go to Kevlaar;
Your book and your rosary take;
The Mother of God will heal you,
And cure your heart of its ache."
The Church's banners are waving,
They are chanting a hymn divine;
'Tis at Köln is that procession,
At Köln upon the Rhine.
With the throng the mother follows;
Her son she leads with her; and now
They both of them sing in the chorus,
"Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"
The Mother of God at Kevlaar
Is drest in her richest array;
She has many a cure on hand there,
Many sick folk come to her today.
And her, for their votive offerings,
The suffering sick folk greet
With limbs that in wax are molded,
Many waxen hands and feet.
And whoso a wax hand offers,
His hand is healed of its sore;
And whoso a wax foot offers,
His foot it will pain him no more.
To Kevlaar went many on crutches
Who now on the tight-rope bound,
And many play now on the fiddle
Had there not one finger sound.
The mother she took a wax taper,
And of it a heart she makes
"Give that to the Mother of Jesus,
She will cure thee of all thy aches."
With a sigh her son took the wax heart,
He went to the shrine with a sigh;
His words from his heart trickle sadly,
As trickle the tears from his eye.
"Thou blest above all that are blest,
Thou virgin unspotted divine,
Thou Queen of the Heavens, before thee
I lay all my anguish and pine.
"I lived with my mother at Köln,
At Köln in the town that is there,
The town that has hundreds many
Of chapels and churches fair.
"And Gretchen she lived there near us,
But now she is dead, well-a-day!
O Mary! a wax heart I bring thee,
Heal thou my heart's wound, I pray!
"Heal thou my heart of its anguish,
And early and late, I vow,
With its whole strength to pray and to sing, too,
'Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!'"
The suffering son and his mother
In their little bed-chamber slept;
Then the Mother of God came softly,
And close to the sleepers crept.
She bent down over the sick one,
And softly her hand did lay
On his heart, with a smile so tender,
And presently vanished away.
The mother sees all in her dreaming,
And other things too she marked;
Then up from her slumber she wakened,
So loudly the town dogs barked.
There lay her son, to his full length
Stretched out, and he was dead;
And the light on his pale cheek flitted
Of the morning's dawning red.
She folded her hands together,
She felt as she knew not how,
And softly she sang and devoutly,
"Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"
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