 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
CHRIEMHILD.
You know the strange old Nibelungen story,
The fitful, billowy song of love and hate,
Of rare Chriemhild, and her rose-garden's glory
By wrath laid desolate?
The fitful, billowy song of love and hate,
Of rare Chriemhild, and her rose-garden's glory
By wrath laid desolate?
Glad shines that garden, with its leagues of roses,
Midway the old time and the new between;
Yet not a flower its silken bar encloses,
So sweet as the Rose-Queen.
Midway the old time and the new between;
Yet not a flower its silken bar encloses,
So sweet as the Rose-Queen.
She walks there in the young world's radiant morning,
Intwining hero-garlands, redly gay,
For twelve strong knights, who, armed, for battle-warning,
To watch the garden stay.
Intwining hero-garlands, redly gay,
For twelve strong knights, who, armed, for battle-warning,
To watch the garden stay.
She seeks, undaunted, its remotest edges,
Cut from the forest's still and murky gloom,
Where, close to haunted glens and caverned ledges,
The freshest roses bloom.
Cut from the forest's still and murky gloom,
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The freshest roses bloom.
Black shadows, in behind the beech-leaves hidden,
That lean to clutch the sunshine's falling gold,
And dim, deep thickets, by white glimmerings thridden,
Send her no thrill of cold.
That lean to clutch the sunshine's falling gold,
And dim, deep thickets, by white glimmerings thridden,
Send her no thrill of cold.
And she can hear, by woman's fears unshaken,
The warrior pine's long requiem on the air,
And winds astray, that from lone hollows waken
A wail, as of despair.
The warrior pine's long requiem on the air,
And winds astray, that from lone hollows waken
A wail, as of despair.
She can pluck roses, unaware of danger,
Since innocence keeps watch and ward within:
To evil dreads a careless, happy stranger,
Unvisited of sin.
Since innocence keeps watch and ward within:
To evil dreads a careless, happy stranger,
Unvisited of sin.
One night a dream alighted in her bower:
A mystic falcon perched upon her hand;
Daring and beautiful, he curbed his power,
As waiting her command.
A mystic falcon perched upon her hand;
Daring and beautiful, he curbed his power,
As waiting her command.
Then two fierce eagles through the azure swooping,
Plunged into that brave bird their cruel claws,
And snatched him from her sight, with sorrow drooping;
Ah! bitter was the cause!
Plunged into that brave bird their cruel claws,
And snatched him from her sight, with sorrow drooping;
Ah! bitter was the cause!
For Siegfried was that falcon, her heart's chosen,
Though yet in maiden thought forsworn, unseen;
An honored wife—a widow horror-frozen—
So reads thy fate, sweet queen.
Though yet in maiden thought forsworn, unseen;
An honored wife—a widow horror-frozen—
So reads thy fate, sweet queen.
Sweet queen! alas, alas! sweet queen no longer:
In fury and in anguish ends the dream;
The lurid lines of destiny burn stronger,
And hide her beauty's beam.
In fury and in anguish ends the dream;
The lurid lines of destiny burn stronger,
And hide her beauty's beam.
Gaze long upon the dear, sad face before you,
For never lovelier lady will you see
In dew, and balm, and freshness bending o'er you,—
The Rose of Burgundy.
For never lovelier lady will you see
In dew, and balm, and freshness bending o'er you,—
The Rose of Burgundy.
'T is on the wall of a Bavarian palace;
A fresco by a master-limner wrought;
You see Chriemhild herself, ere wasting malice
Had all to ruin brought.
A fresco by a master-limner wrought;
You see Chriemhild herself, ere wasting malice
Had all to ruin brought.
She clings to Siegfried, holding on her finger,
The falcon of her vision,—ominous bird!
While far off, where her chieftain's glances linger,
The rush of doom is heard.
The falcon of her vision,—ominous bird!
While far off, where her chieftain's glances linger,
The rush of doom is heard.
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Behold the nucleus of the old song's glory.
This is the picture of Chriemhild to keep;
For you can only finish the wild story,
To shudder and to weep.
This is the picture of Chriemhild to keep;
For you can only finish the wild story,
To shudder and to weep.
Link not her name with Etzel's barbarous splendor,
Nor the bold Nibelung race she snared to death:
Embalm her memory, womanly and tender,
In love's most sacred breath!
Nor the bold Nibelung race she snared to death:
Embalm her memory, womanly and tender,
In love's most sacred breath!
You happier women of these later ages,
With white hands by her hideous guilt unsoiled,—
Had she read forward her own history's pages,
Like you she had recoiled.
With white hands by her hideous guilt unsoiled,—
Had she read forward her own history's pages,
Like you she had recoiled.
Who hears, in that young, rapturous inspiration,
When every thought takes up its harp and sings,
The undertone of demon-visitation
Muttering beneath Love's wings?
When every thought takes up its harp and sings,
The undertone of demon-visitation
Muttering beneath Love's wings?
Mean jealousies her queenly bosom fluttered,
Wakening to war the monstrous brood of crime,
Dragon with fiend, until her tale is uttered,
A fear unto all time.
Wakening to war the monstrous brood of crime,
Dragon with fiend, until her tale is uttered,
A fear unto all time.
Nay; end it with this portrait of a woman,
To whom is possible yet a perfect lot.
When beauty once has blossomed in the human,
Its blight remember not!
To whom is possible yet a perfect lot.
When beauty once has blossomed in the human,
Its blight remember not!
Even blotted so, her story is immortal.
Transfigured by her love, Chriemhild shall stand,
Alway with Siegfried at the palace-portal,
The dream-bird on her hand.
Transfigured by her love, Chriemhild shall stand,
Alway with Siegfried at the palace-portal,
The dream-bird on her hand.
“Below, on each side of the door, are two beautiful groups. That to the right of the spectator represents Siegfried and Chriemhild. She is leaning on the shoulder of her warlike husband with an air of the most inimitable and graceful abandonment in her whole figure: a falcon sits upon her hand, on which her eyes are turned with the most profound expression of tenderness and melancholy; she is thinking upon her dream, in which was foreshadowed the early and terrible doom of her husband.”—
Mrs. Jameson.—Description of the New Palace at Munich. | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |