 | Rhymes of travel, ballads and poems |  |
I.
Rhymes of Travel.
Wohl auf, noch getrunken den funkelnden Wein!
Adè nun, ihr Lieben, geschieden muss sein;
Adè nun, ihr Berge, du väterlich Haus,
Es treibt nach der Ferne mich mächtig hinaus.
Justinus Kerner.
Adè nun, ihr Lieben, geschieden muss sein;
Adè nun, ihr Berge, du väterlich Haus,
Es treibt nach der Ferne mich mächtig hinaus.
Justinus Kerner.
15
THE POET'S AMBITION
A THOUGHT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
No thirst for power, whose fierce and stern desire
Leads on to guilt and wrong,
Moves the pale monarch of the deathless Lyre—
The laureled lord of Song!
Leads on to guilt and wrong,
Moves the pale monarch of the deathless Lyre—
The laureled lord of Song!
Not his the joy, when the trump's braying tells
Of armies overthrown;
When pæans thunder from cathedral bells,
Drowning the captive's groan.
Of armies overthrown;
When pæans thunder from cathedral bells,
Drowning the captive's groan.
No plaudits from the crowding myriads rise
Along his glorious march;—
For him no blazoned banners flaunt the skies—
Stands no triumphal arch!
Along his glorious march;—
For him no blazoned banners flaunt the skies—
Stands no triumphal arch!
But purer, holier, loftier is the aim
Born of his gift divine;
His spirit longs to grasp that crown of fame,
Whose stars forever shine.
Born of his gift divine;
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Whose stars forever shine.
The love of man—the blessing of the heart
To which his bright words stole,
And breathed the solace of his godlike art,
As to a brother-soul!
To which his bright words stole,
And breathed the solace of his godlike art,
As to a brother-soul!
The prayers of spirits, to whose silent wo
He gives a voice sublime—
And prophet-thoughts, whose lightning pinions go
Beyond the shores of Time!
He gives a voice sublime—
And prophet-thoughts, whose lightning pinions go
Beyond the shores of Time!
In the broad realm of human hearts alone,
He holds eternal sway;
What king sate ever on a prouder throne,
With vassals such as they?
He holds eternal sway;
What king sate ever on a prouder throne,
With vassals such as they?
London, 1844.
20
TO ONE AFAR.
I.
The glorious landscape lay below,No more in Fancy's dreaming seen—
But, basking in the Autumn glow
Stood town and tower and forest green;
Beneath, the sounding Neckar rolled
Through hills which bore him purple wine,
And glimmered like a chain of gold,
Through the dim haze, the winding Rhine!
In breezeless rest, the fisher's sail
Gleamed idly downward with the tide,
And songs of peasants in the vale
Came faintly up the mountain side:
In the blue dimness of the air,
A vague, sweet sense of lingering sound,
Like echoes of the chimes of prayer,
Hallowed the beauty-haunted ground—
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Lulled by that faint, ethereal strain,
I lay amid the heather flowers
Listening its echoes in my brain;
While, as the slow vibrations died,
My soul went back the Past on Memory's lapsing tide.
II.
Again my timid childhood came,And boyhood's struggling, doubt and tears,
Where one dear hope illumed thy name,
Belovèd of my early years!
And trembled o'er the soul's deep chords
Sweet memories of their earliest tone—
The music of thy gentle words,
The deep devotion of my own!
I heard thy tender, low replies,
Beside the rose's breathing bower,
When o'er us hung the moonlit skies
And angels blest our trysting hour!
I felt the dewy winds, whose kiss
Cooled the quick pulses of my brow,
When thrilling with the voiceless bliss
Of being loved by such as thou—
When o'er the cloudy doubts above
Stood broad and bright the glorious rainbow—Love!
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III.
The hope which yearned for thee afar,The boyish worship, treasured long,
Dawned on my heart—a morning star
Before the rising orb of Song!
And the lone stream and solemn grove
That knew my spirit's gloom and glee,
Learned the dear secret of my love,
Till all their music spoke of thee!
On the calm midnight's breezy tide
Came the sweet breath of flowers afar;
The sentries of the forest sighed—
On the stream's bosom throbbed the star!
Low murmurs from the holy skies
Haunted, like song, the dreamy air,
And from my heart, the fond replies
Awoke prophetic echoes there;
For boyhood's prayer foretold the hour,
When with fulfillment came the blessing and the power!
IV.
I know not how the world may love—How, in a thousand hearts, the fire
May seem descended from above,
And yet in ashy gloom expire;
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The lip may speak its holiest vow,
Yet shadows dim the spirit's truth
And pride and coldness change the brow;
I only know, how, from the mist
Of childhood's dreams, thine image grew—
A flower by Passion's sunbeams kissed
And fed by Hope's perpetual dew!
I only know how dear a worth
This restless being wins through thee,
Within whose sunshine, o'er the earth,
All beauty lives eternally!
And if my lays, in after-time,
Should win men's love,—the holiest fame;
If Sorrow's gifts of sweetest rhyme
Should brighten round my humble name—
Thy soul will light my footsteps on,
Up the long path of toil and tears,
And share with me the glory won—
Belovèd of my early years!
Heidelberg, 1844.
24
STARLIGHT IN THE ODENWALD.
The Odenwald, or Forest of Odin, one of the loneliest and wildest
mountain districts of Germany, is little known to foreign tourists. Lying
eastward of the celebrated road from Frankfort to Heidelberg, a wooded
chain of lofty hills separates it from the great plain of the Rhine, and the
Main and Neckar rivers, frequented in summer for the picturesque beauty
of their scenery, only touch its eastern and southern boundaries. In its
deep, secluded valleys, threaded by the clearest of streams and overhung
by mountains of pine where the deer and wild boar are still hunted by the
Counts of Erbach, dwell a rude and simple people, who retain with little
change the customs of three centuries past, and preserve a sincere faith
in the traditions of former times. Among these hills are the crumbling
ruins of Snellert and Rodenstein, between which the Wild Huntsman is
still chased by his pack of demon hounds, at the approach of war. Here
also is the Giant's Column, a massive relic of the old Teuton races, buried
in a wild wood, at the foot of the “Sea of Rocks.” It was on the top
of the Musau Height, a lonely ridge which the author crossed at nightfall,
that the poem was composed.
The Odenwald, or Forest of Odin, one of the loneliest and wildest mountain districts of Germany, is little known to foreign tourists. Lying eastward of the celebrated road from Frankfort to Heidelberg, a wooded chain of lofty hills separates it from the great plain of the Rhine, and the Main and Neckar rivers, frequented in summer for the picturesque beauty of their scenery, only touch its eastern and southern boundaries. In its deep, secluded valleys, threaded by the clearest of streams and overhung by mountains of pine where the deer and wild boar are still hunted by the Counts of Erbach, dwell a rude and simple people, who retain with little change the customs of three centuries past, and preserve a sincere faith in the traditions of former times. Among these hills are the crumbling ruins of Snellert and Rodenstein, between which the Wild Huntsman is still chased by his pack of demon hounds, at the approach of war. Here also is the Giant's Column, a massive relic of the old Teuton races, buried in a wild wood, at the foot of the “Sea of Rocks.” It was on the top of the Musau Height, a lonely ridge which the author crossed at nightfall, that the poem was composed.
Upon the mountain's rugged crest
There lingers still a glow,
But twilight's gathering gloom has drest
The valleys far below;
No wild wind sways the mountain pine,
No breeze bends down the flower,
And dim and faint the star-beams shine
Upon the vesper hour.
There lingers still a glow,
But twilight's gathering gloom has drest
The valleys far below;
No wild wind sways the mountain pine,
No breeze bends down the flower,
And dim and faint the star-beams shine
Upon the vesper hour.
Here, in the fading sunset light,
I breathe the upper air,
And hear the low, sad voice of Night,
Inviting Earth to prayer!
Still deeper through the wide profound
The solemn shadows fall,
And rest upon the hills around
Like Nature's funeral pall.
I breathe the upper air,
And hear the low, sad voice of Night,
Inviting Earth to prayer!
Still deeper through the wide profound
The solemn shadows fall,
And rest upon the hills around
Like Nature's funeral pall.
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Now comes to break the breathless spell,
In blended evening-hymn,
The chime of many a distant bell
From valleys deep and dim;
And as they fall, the warder-star
That guards the twilight pale,
Looks o'er the eastern hills afar
And dons his silver mail.
In blended evening-hymn,
The chime of many a distant bell
From valleys deep and dim;
And as they fall, the warder-star
That guards the twilight pale,
Looks o'er the eastern hills afar
And dons his silver mail.
The shadows deepen, as I stand—
The rosy glow is gone,
And westward, towards my native land,
The sunset marches on!
Ye stars, with whose familiar glance
My thoughts are mingling free,
Shine, glimmering o'er the wide expanse,
And bear them home for me!
The rosy glow is gone,
And westward, towards my native land,
The sunset marches on!
Ye stars, with whose familiar glance
My thoughts are mingling free,
Shine, glimmering o'er the wide expanse,
And bear them home for me!
Still all is breathless, as in prayer,
But to my spirit-ear
Kind voices float upon the air—
Fond eyes are beaming near.
The love, whose pinions never rest,
Soars, constant, o'er the sea,
And by the thrill within my breast
I know they speak of me!
But to my spirit-ear
Kind voices float upon the air—
Fond eyes are beaming near.
The love, whose pinions never rest,
Soars, constant, o'er the sea,
And by the thrill within my breast
I know they speak of me!
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The gentle spirit of the hour
Melts in the dew of tears,
And yielding to its spell of power
I muse on vanished years,
Till through the gloom, no more is heard
The solemn evening-chime,
And mourn the pine-boughs, faintly stirred,
The hurrying march of Time.
Melts in the dew of tears,
And yielding to its spell of power
I muse on vanished years,
Till through the gloom, no more is heard
The solemn evening-chime,
And mourn the pine-boughs, faintly stirred,
The hurrying march of Time.
Germany, 1844.
27
A SONG AT DUSK.
I.
Oh, gloomy up the welkin's archThe night in clouds comes striding on,
And gathers Time, on tireless march,
Another day to myriads gone!
The sun, that in his gray robe drest,
Stole down the veiled and dark'ning sky,
Yet shines behind the clouded West,
Where the green hills of childhood lie;
My heart goes with him o'er the sea,
To gaze, with all his beams, on thee!
II.
Turbid and dark with melted snows,The restless waters by me sweep
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Impatient, to their parent deep;
But when the chafing shores are gone
And the blue ocean-wastes expand,
Perchance some storm will bear them on
To break upon my Fatherland!
With them careering, fast and free,
My heart speeds homeward, love, to thee!
III.
I hear the winds of evening moanThrough ivied towers, decayed and old,
Waving their tresses o'er the stone
In desolation, doubly cold;
Yet when o'er thousand leagues they blow,
Beyond this twilight's dusky line,
Their wings may stoop to waken low
The music of our trysting pine,
And, sighing with them in the tree,
My heart would whisper, love, to thee.
Frankfort, Germany, 1845.
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THE CRUSADES.
The red-cross banners moulder here to ashes,
And Godfrey's falchion rusts in dull repose,
That pierced the war-cloud with its crimson flashes,
And clove the helmets of his swarthy foes;
These standards once led Europe's knights undaunted,
Their folds upon the winds of Syria flung,
As over plains by holy memories haunted
Their hymns of faith the pilgrim-warriors sung.
In the Imperial Armory at Vienna, are still to be seen the hat, sword, and breast-plate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the Crusader-king of Jerusalem, and the tattered fragments of the banners planted by his knights on the walls of the Holy City. Some of the shreds, cut by lances and mouldering away by age, retain outlines of the Red Cross and the Virgin and Child.
And Godfrey's falchion rusts in dull repose,
That pierced the war-cloud with its crimson flashes,
And clove the helmets of his swarthy foes;
These standards once led Europe's knights undaunted,
Their folds upon the winds of Syria flung,
As over plains by holy memories haunted
Their hymns of faith the pilgrim-warriors sung.
That breastplate once, on Hermon's hallowed mountain,
With dews from soft Judean skies was wet;
Those plumes have waved beside Bethesda's fountain,
And stood with Godfrey on Mount Olivet!
And once the banners, now all rent and shivered,
Waved on the holy walls from Moslems won,
Or by the Lion-hearted king have quivered,
Upon the sands of fated Ascalon!
With dews from soft Judean skies was wet;
Those plumes have waved beside Bethesda's fountain,
And stood with Godfrey on Mount Olivet!
And once the banners, now all rent and shivered,
Waved on the holy walls from Moslems won,
Or by the Lion-hearted king have quivered,
Upon the sands of fated Ascalon!
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The dreams of Romance, that in days departed
Thrilled through my boyish soul, come back again,
As when the blood unto my brow hath started
At thought of battle on the Syrian plain—
When Richard's glory fired my young ambition,
In sweeping charge to break th' embattled line,
And oft I saw, in dream-enraptured vision,
The deep-blue heaven that burns o'er Palestine!
Thrilled through my boyish soul, come back again,
As when the blood unto my brow hath started
At thought of battle on the Syrian plain—
When Richard's glory fired my young ambition,
In sweeping charge to break th' embattled line,
And oft I saw, in dream-enraptured vision,
The deep-blue heaven that burns o'er Palestine!
They were but dreams; yet this old blade has broken
The spell that bound them in the wondrous Past,
For, long ere this, had other voices spoken,
Nor leaped my heart unto that clarion-blast.
All dust and ruin, let those ages moulder
Like these rent banners crumbling on the wall;
The Earth learns wisdom as she waxes older—
The proudest glory of the Past shall fall!
The spell that bound them in the wondrous Past,
For, long ere this, had other voices spoken,
Nor leaped my heart unto that clarion-blast.
All dust and ruin, let those ages moulder
Like these rent banners crumbling on the wall;
The Earth learns wisdom as she waxes older—
The proudest glory of the Past shall fall!
Not for the land, where dwelt the Meek and Lowly,
Shall knights anointed crowd the battle-sod,
But Earth itself, which God created holy,
And now so long by unbelievers trod!
For Earth, where, Freedom's sepulchre profaning,
A brood of tyrants laugh at Mankind's loss,
They vow to fight, till Wrong's pale crescent, waning,
Forever yield to Freedom's hallowed cross!
Shall knights anointed crowd the battle-sod,
But Earth itself, which God created holy,
And now so long by unbelievers trod!
For Earth, where, Freedom's sepulchre profaning,
A brood of tyrants laugh at Mankind's loss,
They vow to fight, till Wrong's pale crescent, waning,
Forever yield to Freedom's hallowed cross!
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No more regret o'er chivalry departed—
No dreams of battles on Judea's strand!
The world has need of many a Lion-hearted,
And Truth is gathering her Crusader-band.
I seize the blade the lofty cause will hallow,
And swing the banner in the light of morn,
Through the long march of Life the cross to follow,
Which martyred Freedom's holy hands have borne!
No dreams of battles on Judea's strand!
The world has need of many a Lion-hearted,
And Truth is gathering her Crusader-band.
I seize the blade the lofty cause will hallow,
And swing the banner in the light of morn,
Through the long march of Life the cross to follow,
Which martyred Freedom's holy hands have borne!
Oh! when for ages her Crusade has breasted
Oppression's armies o'er the groaning Earth,
When from the foe her sepulchre is wrested,
And the raised tombstone lets the captive forth,
Will she arise, in beauty such as never
Dawned on the Poet's most ecstatic dream—
A blessing that the soul will clasp forever—
A world renewed in God's eternal beam!
Oppression's armies o'er the groaning Earth,
When from the foe her sepulchre is wrested,
And the raised tombstone lets the captive forth,
Will she arise, in beauty such as never
Dawned on the Poet's most ecstatic dream—
A blessing that the soul will clasp forever—
A world renewed in God's eternal beam!
Vienna, 1845.
43
TO MY MOTHER.
The wind is cold, and dark the sky
That bends, dear mother! o'er thy child,
And cloudy masses, wild and high,
In the night-heaven are piled.
That bends, dear mother! o'er thy child,
And cloudy masses, wild and high,
In the night-heaven are piled.
And, sweeping with a mournful sound,
I hear the swift wings of the blast,
Whose rainy cisterns, poured around,
Fall drearily and fast.
I hear the swift wings of the blast,
Whose rainy cisterns, poured around,
Fall drearily and fast.
Scarce through the midnight's groaning deep
The glimmering lights of Florence shine,
And wintry gusts, incessant, sweep
The shrouded Appenine.
The glimmering lights of Florence shine,
And wintry gusts, incessant, sweep
The shrouded Appenine.
I breathe not Europe's air to-night;
Gone is the pomp Day spreads around—
Lost are the vales and seas of light
In storm and mingling sound!
Gone is the pomp Day spreads around—
Lost are the vales and seas of light
In storm and mingling sound!
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Loved scenes, amid the gloom are near;
I hear the rush of well-known floods;
The rattling of the rain I hear,
Through gray, primeval woods.
I hear the rush of well-known floods;
The rattling of the rain I hear,
Through gray, primeval woods.
I stand, amid the beating blast,
Where all the haunts of boyhood stand;
To-night the sea's wide waste is passed—
I walk my native land!
Where all the haunts of boyhood stand;
To-night the sea's wide waste is passed—
I walk my native land!
The tide of years rolls backward now,
Dear mother! and I seem to feel
The glow of childhood o'er my brow
And through my bosom steal.
Dear mother! and I seem to feel
The glow of childhood o'er my brow
And through my bosom steal.
This night of storm recalls the hour
I clung for safety to thy side,
When shadows of the thunder-shower
Hung o'er the meadows wide.
I clung for safety to thy side,
When shadows of the thunder-shower
Hung o'er the meadows wide.
I feel that solemn joy again,
Which filled my soul in autumn hours,
When forest-leaves fell like this rain
And hid the dying flowers.
Which filled my soul in autumn hours,
When forest-leaves fell like this rain
And hid the dying flowers.
I seek the window, still, to see
How the wet boughs by storms are tost,
That down the fields go drearily,
Till all the woods are lost.
How the wet boughs by storms are tost,
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Till all the woods are lost.
Beneath the sheltered beechen copse
I couch on mosses, warm and soft,
Or, lulled by beat of myriad drops,
Dream in the dusky loft.
I couch on mosses, warm and soft,
Or, lulled by beat of myriad drops,
Dream in the dusky loft.
Those days shall be again no more;
I walk amid the world of men,
And childhood's soul must learn a lore
It ne'er foreboded then.
I walk amid the world of men,
And childhood's soul must learn a lore
It ne'er foreboded then.
But in the storm and strife, its wing
Shall find thy love a sheltering bough,
And there with holier trust shall cling
To all it worships now.
Shall find thy love a sheltering bough,
And there with holier trust shall cling
To all it worships now.
Florence, 1845.
55
IMPATIENCE.
This poem was written under the pressure of somewhat trying circumstances, and from the impulse of an impatient spirit. It has been retained for the lesson it bears to the author, rather than any poetic merit.
That the feeling which it expresses is not habitual with him, is shown by
the poem which succeeds it.
This poem was written under the pressure of somewhat trying circumstances, and from the impulse of an impatient spirit. It has been retained for the lesson it bears to the author, rather than any poetic merit. That the feeling which it expresses is not habitual with him, is shown by the poem which succeeds it.
Lift up your heavy wings,
Ye boding shadows, that upon me rest!
Let but a wave from Morn's o'erflowing springs
Steal in upon the bound and struggling breast,
That like a half-fledged bird, impatient sings,
Beating its weary nest!
Ye boding shadows, that upon me rest!
Let but a wave from Morn's o'erflowing springs
Steal in upon the bound and struggling breast,
That like a half-fledged bird, impatient sings,
Beating its weary nest!
Is't not enough to go
Unknown, and scorned perhaps, amid the throng—
The curse of want, twin with mistrust, to know,
That mocks the pride of ever-soaring song,
And drags the soul revolting down, to grow
Familiarized with wrong?
Unknown, and scorned perhaps, amid the throng—
The curse of want, twin with mistrust, to know,
That mocks the pride of ever-soaring song,
And drags the soul revolting down, to grow
Familiarized with wrong?
Is't not enough to feel
The spirit's manhood made a thing of scorn?
To conquer Pride's restraining voice, and kneel
With abject lip before the meaner born,—
But must the gathered shadows still conceal
The mounting rays of morn?
The spirit's manhood made a thing of scorn?
To conquer Pride's restraining voice, and kneel
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But must the gathered shadows still conceal
The mounting rays of morn?
When mind, and heart, and soul
Thrill, tremble with their new-awakened might,
'Tis hard to view afar the shining goal
And grope beneath in slow-receding night;
But harder yet, when hostile fates control
Life's common beams of light.
Thrill, tremble with their new-awakened might,
'Tis hard to view afar the shining goal
And grope beneath in slow-receding night;
But harder yet, when hostile fates control
Life's common beams of light.
To feel that God-given power
Acknowledged, known at last, would calm the brain,
And for the world, the bright and lavish dower
Of thoughts, long-hoarded, were not given in vain;
But oh, how long must clouds, low-brooding, lower,
And noteless rise the strain?
Acknowledged, known at last, would calm the brain,
And for the world, the bright and lavish dower
Of thoughts, long-hoarded, were not given in vain;
But oh, how long must clouds, low-brooding, lower,
And noteless rise the strain?
London, 1846.
57
ASPIRATION.
Glorious Deep! on the swell of thy surges
My soul from the night of its boding emerges,
Lifting its front to Life's sorrows, unveering—
Boldly as thou to the mad wind's careering!
My soul from the night of its boding emerges,
Lifting its front to Life's sorrows, unveering—
Boldly as thou to the mad wind's careering!
The Past and its burdens from memory I sever,
Buried on shores that have vanished forever!
My soul gathers nerve as the billows grow frantic:
There's strength in thy heaving, oh stormy Atlantic!
Buried on shores that have vanished forever!
My soul gathers nerve as the billows grow frantic:
There's strength in thy heaving, oh stormy Atlantic!
Throned on thy waters, in proud exultation,
I see the dim land of the Mind's new creation;
Looming sublime as a cloud-hidden summit,
That stands in an ocean unsounded by plummet!
I see the dim land of the Mind's new creation;
Looming sublime as a cloud-hidden summit,
That stands in an ocean unsounded by plummet!
Oh, for a place on that mount of the spirit,
Feeling the breath of Eternity near it—
Walking with bards through the spaces Elysian,
Where God only baffles their grandeur of vision!
Feeling the breath of Eternity near it—
Walking with bards through the spaces Elysian,
Where God only baffles their grandeur of vision!
On the Atlantic.
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