University of Virginia Library

Hartmann von Auë, the fame went,
Was a good knight, and well acquent
With books in every character.
Having sought this many a year,
He found at length a record fit,
As far as he apprehendeth it,
To smoothe the rugged paths uneven,
To glorify God which is in Heaven,
And gain kind thoughts from each true hear
For himself as also for his art.

Unto your ears this song sings he,
And begs, an you hear it patiently,
That his reward be held in store;
And that whoso, when his days are o'er,
Shall read and understand this book,
For the writer unto God may look,
Praying that God may be his goal
And the place of rest to his poor soul.
That man his proper shrift shall win
Who prayeth for his brother's sin.

Once on a time, rhymeth the rhyme,
In Swabia-land once on a time,
There was a nobleman sojourning,
Unto whose nobleness everything
Of virtue and high-hearted excellence
Worthy his line and his large pretence
With plentiful measure was meted out:
The land rejoiced in him round about.
He was like a prince in his governing—
In his wealth he was like a king;
But most of all by the fame far-flown
Of his great knightliness was he known,
North and south, upon land and sea.
By his name he was Henry of the Lea.
All things whereby the truth grew dim
Were held as hateful foes with him:
By solemn oath was he bounden fast
To shun them while his life should last.
In honour all his days went by:
Therefore his soul might look up high
To honourable authority.

A paragon of all graciousness,
A blossoming branch of youthfulness,
A looking-glass to the world around,
A stainless and priceless diamond,
Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath,
A home when the tyrant menaceth,
A buckler to the breast of his friend,
And courteous without measure or end;
Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;
Of precious wisdom a limpid well,
A singer of ladies every one,
And very lordly to look upon
In feature and bearing and countenance:—
Say, failed he in anything, perchance,
The summit of all glory to gain
And the lasting honour of all men?

Alack! the soul that was up so high
Dropped down into pitiful misery;
The lofty courage was stricken low,
The steady triumph stumbled in woe,
And the world-joy was hidden in the dust,
Even as all such shall be and must.
He whose life in the senses centreth
Is already in the shadow of death.
The joys, called great, of this under-state
Burn up the bosom early and late;
And their shining is altogether vain,
For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain.
The torch that flames for men to see
And wasteth to ashes inwardly
Is verily but an imaging
Of man's own life, the piteous thing.
The whole is brittleness and mishap:
We sit and dally in Fortune's lap
Till tears break in our smiles betwixt,
And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd
With sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep.
Oh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep:—
In the blossoming of thy flower-crown
A sword is raised to smite thee down.

Even with Earl Henry it was thus:
Though gladsome and very glorious
Was the manner of his life, yet God
Upon his spirit's fulness trod.
The curse that fell was heavy and deep—
A thunderbolt in the hour of sleep.
His body, whose beauty was so much,
Was turned unto loathing and reproach,—
Full of foul sores, increasing fast,
Which grew into leprosy at last.
Ages ago the Lord even so
Ordained that Job should be brought low,
To prove him if in such distress
He would hold fast his righteousness.
The great rich Earl, who otherwhile
Met but man's praise and woman's smile,
Was now no less than out-thrust quite.
The day of the world hath a dark night.
What time Lord Henry wholly knew
The stound that he was come into,
And saw folk shun him as he went,
And his pains food for merriment,
Then did he, as often it is done
By those whom sorrow falleth on—
He wrapped not round him as a robe
The patience that was found in Job.
For holy Job meet semblance took,
And bowed him under God's rebuke,
Which had given to him the world's reverse,
And the shame, and the anguish, and the curse,
Only to snatch away his soul
From emptiness and earth's control:
Therefore his soul had triumphing
Inmostly at the troublous thing.

In such wise Henry bore him not;
Its duteousness his heart forgot;
His pride waxed hard and kept its place,
But the glory departed from his face,
And that which was his strength grew weak.
The hand that smote him on the cheek
Was all too heavy. It was night
Now, and his sun withdrew its light.
To the pride of his uplifted thought
Much woe the weary knowledge brought
That the pleasant way his feet did wend
Was all passed o'er and had an end.
The day wherein his years had begun
Went in his mouth with a malison.
As the ill grew stronger and more strong,
There was but hope bore him along:
Even yet to hope he was full fain
That gold might help him back again
Thither whence God had cast him out.
Ah! weak to strive and little stout
'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possess'd.
North and south, and east and west,
Far and wide from every side,
Mediciners well proved and tried
Came to him at the voice of his woe;
But, mused and pondered they everso,
They could but say, for all their care,
That he must be content to bear
The burthen of the anger of God:
For him there was none other road.
Already was his heart nigh down,
When yet to him one chance was shown;
For in Salerno dwelt, folk said,
A leach who still might lend him aid,
Albeit unto his body's cure
All such had been as nought before.
Up rose fresh-hearted the sick man,
And sought the great physician,
And told him all, and prayed him hard,
With the proffer of a rich reward,
To take away his grief's foul cause.
Then said the leach without a pause,
“There is one means might healing yield,
Yet will you ever be unheal'd.”

And Henry said, “Say on; define
Your thoughts; your words are as thick wine.
Some means may bring recovery?—
I will recover! Verily,
Unto your will my will shall bend,
So this mine anguish pass and end.”

Then said the leach, “Give ear to me:
Thus stands it with your misery.
Albeit there be a means of health,
From no man shall you win such wealth;
Many have it, yet none will give;
You shall lack it all the days you shall live;—
Strength gets it not; valour gains it not;
Nor with gold nor with silver is it bought.
Then, since God heedeth not your plaint,
Accept God's will and be content.”

“Woe's me!” did Henry's speech begin;
“Your pastime do you take herein,
To snatch the last hope from my sight?
Riches are mine, and mine is might,—
Why cast away such golden chance
As waiteth on my deliverance?
You shall grow rich in succouring me:
Tell me the means, what they may be.”

Quoth the leach, “Then know them, what they are;
Yet still all hope must stand afar.
Truly if the cure for your care
Might be gotten anyway anywhere,
Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth,
This-wise I had not sent you forth.
But all my knowledge hath none avail;
There is but one thing would not fail:—
An innocent virgin for to find,
Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind,
Who, to save you from death, might choose
Her own young body's life to lose:
The heart's blood of the excellent maid—
That and nought else can be your aid.
But there is none will be won thereby
For the love of another's life to die.”

'Twas then poor Henry knew indeed
That from his ill he might not be freed,
Sith that no woman he might win
Of her own will to act herein.
Thus gat he but an ill return
For the journey he made unto Salerne,
And the hope he had upon that day
Was snatched from him and rent away.
Homeward he hied him back: full fain
With limbs in the dust he would have lain.
Of his substance—lands and riches both—
He rid himself; even as one doth
Who the breath of the last life of his hope
Once and for ever hath rendered up.
To his friends he gave, and to the poor;
Unto God praying evermore
The spirit that was in him to save,
And make his bed soft in the grave.
What still remained, aside he set
For Holy Church's benefit.
Of all that heretofore was his
Nought held he for himself, I wis,
Save one small house, with byre and field:
There from the world he lived conceal'd,—
There lived he and awaited Death,
Who, being awaited, lingereth.
Pity and ruth his troubles found
Alway through all the country round.
Who heard him named, had sorrow deep,
And for his piteous sake would weep.

The little farm, with herd and field,
Now, as it had been erst, was till'd
By a poor man of simple make
Whose heart right seldom had the ache.
A happy soul, and well content
With every chance that fortune sent,
Being equal in fortune's pitch
Even unto him that is rich,—
For that his master's kindly will
Set limit to his labour still,
And without cumbrance and in peace
He lived upon the field's increase.
With him poor Henry, trouble-press'd,
Dwelt, and to dwell with him was rest.
In grateful wise, neglecting nought,
Still was the peasant's service wrought:
Cheerily, both in heart and look,
The trouble and the toil he took,
Which, new as each day dawned anew,
For Henry he must bear and do.

With favour which to blessings ran,
God looked upon the worthy man:
He gave him strength to aid his life,
A sturdy heart, an honest wife,
And children such as bring to be
That a man's breast is brimmed with glee.
Among them was a little maid,
Red-cheeked, in yellow locks arrayed,
Whose tenth year was just passing her;
With eyes most innocently clear,
Sweet smiles that soothe, sweet tones that lull;
Of gracious semblance wonderful.
For her sick lord the dear good child
Was full of tender thoughts and mild.
Rarely from sitting at his feet
She rose; because his speech was sweet,
To serve him she was proud and glad.
Great fear her little playmates had
At the sight of the loathly wight;
But she, as often as she might,
Went to him and with him would stay;
And her heart unto him alway
Clave as a child's heart cleaves: his pain
And grief that ever must remain,
With childish grace she soothed the while,
And sat her at his feet with a smile.

And Henry loved the little one
Who had such thought his woes upon,
And he would buy her baubles bright
Such as to children give delight:
Nought else to peace his heart could lift
Like her innocent gladness at the gift.
A riband sometimes, broad and fair,
To twine with the tresses of her hair,
Or a looking-glass, or a little ring,
Or a girdle-clasp;—at anything
She was so thankful, was so pleased,
That in some sort his pain was eased,
And he would even say jestingly,
His own good little wife was she.
Seldom she left him long alone,
Winning him from his inward moan
With love and childish trustfulness;
Her joyous seeming ne'er grew less;
She was a balm unto his breast,—
Unto his eyes she was shade and rest.

Already were three years outwrung,
And still his torment o'er him hung,
And still in death ceased not his life.

It chanced the peasant and his wife,
And his two little daughters, sate
Together when the day was late,
Their talk was all upon their lord,
And how the help they could afford
Was joy to them, and of the woe
They suffered for his sake,—yet how
His death, they feared, might bring them worse.
They thought that in the universe
No lord could be so good as he,
And if but once they lived to see
Another inherit of their friend,
That all their welfare needs must end.

Then to his lord the peasant spake.
“Question, dear master, I would make,
So you permit me, of the cause
Wherefore thus long you have made pause
From seeking help from such as win
Worship by lore of medicine,
And famous are both near and far.
One such might yet break down the bar
That shuts you from your health's estate.
Wherefore, dear master, should you wait?”

Then sighs from the soul of the sick man
Pressed outward, and his tears began;
They were so sore, that when he spake
It seemed as though his heart would break.

“From God this woful curse,” he said,
“Wofully have I merited,
Whose mind but to world-vanity
Looked, and but thought how best to be
Wondrous in the thinking of men:
Worship I laboured to attain
By wealth, which God in His great views
Had given me for another use.
God's self I had well-nigh forgot,
The moulder of my human lot,
Whose gifts, ill ta'en, though well bestow'd,
Hindered me from the heaven-road;
Till I at length, lost here as there,
Am chosen unto shame and despair,
His wrath's insufferable weight
Made me to know Him—but too late.
From bad to worse, from worse to worst,
At length I am cast forth and curs'd:
The whole world from my side doth flee;
The wretchedest insulteth me;
Looking on me, each ruffian
Accounts himself the better man,
And turns his visage from the sight,
As though I brought him bane and blight.
Therefore may God reward thee, thou
Who dost bear with me even now,
Not scorning him whose sore distress
No more may guerdon faithfulness.
And yet, however kind and true
The deeds thy goodness bids thee do,—
Still, spite of all, it must at heart
Rejoice thee when my breath shall part.
How am I outcast and forlorn!—
That I, who as thy lord was born,
Must now beseech thee of thy grace
To suffer me in mine evil case.
With a great blessing verily
Thou shalt be blest of God through me,
Because to me, whom God thus tries,
Pity thou grantest, Christian-wise.
The thing thou askest thou shalt know:—
All the physicians long ago
Who might bring help in any kind
I sought;—but, woe is me! to find
That all the help in all the earth
Avails not and is nothing worth.
One means there is indeed, and yet
That means nor gold nor prayers may get:—
A leach who is full of lore hath said
How it needeth that a virtuous maid
For my sake with her life should part,
And feel the steel cut to her heart:
Only in the blood of such an one
My curse may cease beneath the sun.
But such an one what hope can show,
Who her own life would thus forego
To save my life? Then let despair
Bow down within my soul to bear
The wrath God's justice doth up-pile.
When will death come? Woe, woe the while!”

Of these, poor Henry's words, each word
The little maiden likewise heard
Who at his feet would always sit;
And forgot it not, but remember'd it.
In the hid shrine, her heart's recess,
She held his words in silentness.
As the mind of an angel was her mind,
Grave and holy and Christ-inclin'd.

When in their chamber, day being past,
Her parents, after toil, slept fast,—
Then always with the self-same stir
The sighs of her grief troubled her.
At the foot of her parents' bed
Lying, so many tears she shed
(Bitter and many) as to make
That they woke up and kept awake.

Her secret grieving once perceived,
They made much marvel why she grieved,
And questioned her of the evil chance
To which she gave sorrowful utterance
In her sobbings and in her under-cries:
But nothing answered she anywise,
Until her father bade her tell
Openly and truly and well
Why night by night within her bed
So many bitter tears she shed.
“Alack!” quoth she, “what should it be
But our kind master's misery—
With thoughts how soon we now must miss
Both him and all our happiness?
Our solace shall be ours no more:
There is no lord alive, be sure,
Who, like unto him and of his worth,
Shall bless our days with peace thenceforth.”

They answering said: “Right words and rare
Thou speak'st; but it booteth not an hair
That we should make outcry and lament:
Brood thou no longer thereanent.
Unto us it is pain, as unto thee,
Perchance even more; yet what can we
That may avail for succouring?
Truly the Lord hath done this thing.”

Thus silenced they her speaking; but
Her soul's complaint they silenced not.
Grief lay with her from hour to hour
Through the long night; nor dawn had power
To rid her of it; all beside
That near and about her might betide
Seemed nought. And when sleep covered men,
Again and again, and yet again,
Wakeful and faithful, she would crouch
Wearily on her little couch,
Tossing in trouble without sign:
And from her eyes the scalding brine
Flowed through sick grief that wept apart;
As steadfastly within her heart
She pondered on her heart's sore ache
And on those words Earl Henry spake.
Long with herself communing so,
Her tears were softened in their flow;
Because at length her will was fix'd
To stand his fate and him betwixt.

Where now should such a child be sought,
Thinking even as this one thought,
Who, rather than her lord should die,
Chose her own death and held thereby?

But once her purpose settled fast,
All woe went forth from her and pass'd;
Her heart sat lightly in her breast,
And one thing only gave unrest.
Her lord's own hand, she feared, might stay
Her footsteps from the terrible way,—
She feared her parents strength might lack,
And, through much loving, hold her back.
By reason of such fears, she fell
Into new grief unspeakable,
And that night, as the past nights, wept,
Waking her father where he slept.
“Thou foolish child,” thus did he say,
“Why wilt thou weep thine eyes away
For what no help thou hast can mend?
Is not this moan thou mak'st to end?
We would sleep; let us sleep in peace.”
Thus chidingly he bade her cease,
Because his thought conceived in nought
The thing she had laid up in her thought.

Answered him the excellent maid:
“Truly my own dear lord hath said
That by one means he may be heal'd.
So ye but your consenting yield,
It is my blood that he shall have.
I, being virgin-pure, to save
His days, do choose the edge o'the knife,
And my death rather than my life.”

The young girl's parents lay and heard,
And had sore grief of her spoken word;
And thus her father said: “How now?
What silly wish, child, wishest thou?
Thou durst not do it in very truth.
What knows a child of these things, forsooth?
Ugly Death thou hast never seen:
Were he once to near thee, I ween—
Didst thou view the pit of the sepulchre—
Thy face would change and thy flesh fear,
And thy soul within thee would shake,
And thy weak hands would toil to break
The grasp of the monster foul and grim,
Drawing thee from thyself to him.
Leave thy words and thy weeping too;
What cannot be done, seek not to do.”

“Nay, father mine,” replied the child,
“Though my words may be counted wild,
Well I know that the body's death
Is a torture and tortureth.
Yet truly this is truth no less:
He who is plagued with sharp distress,
Who hates his life, having but woe,—
To him the end cometh, even so,
When for all the curses that he hath pass'd,
He 'scapes not the curse of death at last.
What booteth it him a long-drawn life
To have traversed in trouble and in strife,
If nothing after all he can win,
Except, being old, to enter in
At the self-same door which years ago
He might more firmly have passed through?
But scantly may the soul see good,—
So rough is world-driving and so rude;
And, good once ended, hope once lorn,
Best it were I had not been born.
Therefore my lips give praise to God,
Who this great blessing hath bestow'd
On me,—by loss of body and limb
To have the life that lives with Him.
'Twere ill done, did ye make me loth
From what unto me and unto both
Bringeth joy and prosperity,
Gaining the crown of Christ for me;
And you, from every troublous thing
That threateneth you, delivering.
The generous master ye shall keep
Who leaves you undisturbed to reap
The fruits our little field doth grow,
Earn'd, father, in the sweat of thy brow.
With you, while he liveth, it shall stay;
He is good; he will not drive you away.
But if we now should let him die,
Our ruining hasteneth thereby:
The thought whereof doth make me give
My own young life that he may live.
To such a choice, which profits all,
Meseems your chiding should be small.”

Then the mother broke forth at last,
Finding her daughter's purpose fast.
“Think, my own child,—daughter mine, think
Of the bitter cup that I had to drink,
Of the pain that I suffered once for thee;
And, thinking, turn thyself unto me.
Is this the guerdon thou dost give
Even to the womb that bade thee live?
Her in pain must I lose again
Whom I bore and brought forth in pain?
Wouldst leave thy parents for thy lord?
This were hatred of God and of His word.
Clean from thy mind is the word gone
Which God pronounced? Ponder thereon:
‘Listen,’ it is written, ‘to their command,
That thy days may be long in the land.’
Lo! how corrupt must be thine heart!—
It hath striven the will of God to thwart.
And sayest thou, if thou losest thus
Thy life, good hap shall come to us?
Oh no! in us thou wilt give birth
To weariness and to scorn of earth.
In the whole world thou art alone
That which our joy is set upon.
Yes, little daughter, always dear,
'Tis thou shouldst make our gladness here;
Thou shouldst be a lamp to our life,
Our aim in the troublesome hard strife,
And a staff our falling steps to save:
In place whereof, thine own black grave
With thine own hand thou digg'st, and sad
Grow the hope and the comfort that we had,
And I must weep at thy tomb all day
Till in plague and torment I pass away.
Yet oh! whate'er our ills may be,
So much and more shall God do to thee.”

Then the pious maid answered and said:—
“O mother, that in my soul art laid,
How should I not at all times here
See the path of my duty clear,
When at all times my thankful mind
Meeteth thy love, tender and kind,
That kindly and tenderly ministers?
Of a verity I am young in years;
Yet this I know: what is mine, to wit,
Is mine but since thou gavest it.
And if the people grant me praise,
And look with favour in my face,
Yet my heart's tale is continual—
That only thee must I thank for all
Which it pleaseth them to perceive in me;
And that ne'er a thing should be brought to be
By myself on myself, save such
As thou wouldst permit without reproach.
Mother, it was thou that didst give
These limbs and the life wherewith I live,—
And is it thou wouldst grudge my soul
Its white robe and its aureole?
The knowledge of evil in my breast
Hath not yet been, nor sin's unrest;
Therefore, the road being overtrod,
I know I shall have portion with God.
Say not that this is foolishness;
No hand but God's hand is in this:
Him must thou thank, Whose grace doth cleanse
My heart from earth's desire, till hence
It longs with a mighty will to go
Ere sin be known that's yet to know.
Well it needs that the joys of earth
(Deemed oftentimes of a priceless worth
By man should be counted excellent:
How otherwise might he rest content
With anything but Christ's perfecting?
Oh! to such reeds let me not cling!
God knows how vain seem to my sight
The bliss of this world and the delight;
For the delight turneth amiss,
And soul's tribulation hath the bliss.
What is their life?—a gasp for breath;
And their guerdon?—but the burthen of death.
One thing alone is sure:—should peace
Come to-day, with to-morrow it shall cease;
Till the last evil thing at last
Shall find us out, and our days be past.
Nor birth nor wealth succoureth then,
Nor strength, nor the courage of strong men,
Nor honour, nor fealty, nor truth.
Out and alack! our life, our youth,
Are but dust only and empty smoke;
We are laden branches that the winds rock.
Woe to the fool who layeth hold
On earth's vain shadows manifold!
The marsh-fire gleam, as it hath shone,
Still shines, luring his footsteps on:
But he is dead ere he reach the goal,
And with his flesh dieth his soul.
Therefore, dear mother, be at rest,
And labour not to make manifest
That for my sake thou hold'st me here:
But let one silence make it clear
That my father's will is joined with thine.
Alas! though I kept this life of mine
'Tis verily but a little while
That ye may smile, or that I may smile.
Two years perchance, perchance even three,
In happiness I shall keep with ye:
Then must our lord be surely dead,
And sorrow and sighing find us instead;
And your want shall your will withhold
From giving me any dowry-gold,
And no man will take me for his wife;
And my life shall be trouble-rife,
And very hateful, and worse than death.
Or though this thing that threateneth
Were 'scaped, and ere our good lord died
Some bridegroom chose me for his bride,—
Though then, ye think, all is made smooth,
Yet the bad is but made worse, forsooth;
For even with love, woes should not cease,
And not to love were the end of peace.
Thus through ill and grief I struggle still,
What to attain? Even grief and ill.
In this strait, One would set me free,
My soul and my body asking of me,
That I may be with Him where He is.
Hold me not; I would make myself His.
He only is the true Husbandman;
The labour ends well which He began;
Ever His plough goeth aright;
His barns fill; for His fields there is no blight;
In His lands life dies not anywhere;
Never a child sorroweth there;
There heat is not, neither is cold;
There the lapse of years maketh not old;
But peace hath its dwelling there for aye,
And abideth, and shall not pass away.
Thither, yea, thither let me go,
And be rid of this shadow-place below,—
This place laid waste like a waste plain,
Where nothing is but torment and pain,
Where a day's blight falleth upon
The work of a year, and it is gone;
Where ruinous thunder lifts its voice,
And where the harvest may not rejoice.
You love me? Oh let your love be seen,
And labour no more to circumvene
My heart's desire for the happy place!
To the Lord let me lift my face,—
Even unto Jesus Christ my Friend,
Whose gracious mercies have no end,
In whose name Love is the world's dear Lord,
And by whom not the vilest is abhorr'd.
Alike with Him is man's estate,—
As the rich the poor, the small as the great:
Were I a queen, be sure that He
With more joy could not welcome me.
Yet from your hearts do I turn my heart?
Nay, from your love I will not part,
But rejoice to be subject unto you.
Then count not my thought to be untrue
Because I deem, if I do this thing,
It is your weal I am furthering.
Whoso, men say, another's pelf
Heaping, pulls want upon himself,—
Whoso his neighbour's fame would crown
By bringing ruin upon his own,—
His friendship is surely overmuch.
But this my purpose is none such:
For though ye too shall gain relief,
It is myself I would serve in chief.
O mother dear, weep not, nor mourn:
My duty is this; let it be borne.
Take heart,—thou hast other children left;
In theirs thy life shall be less bereft;
They shall comfort thee for the loss of me:
Then my own gain let me bring to be,
And my lord's; for to him upon the earth
This only can be of any worth.
Nor think that thou shalt look on my grave;
That pain, at least, thou canst never have;
Very far away is the land
Where that must be done which I have plann'd.
God guerdoneth; in God is my faith;
He shall loosen me from the bonds of Death.”

All trembling had the parents heard
Death by their daughter thus preferr'd
With a language so very marvellous
(Surely no child reasoneth thus),
Whose words between her lips made stir,
As though the Spirit were poured on her
Which giveth knowledge of tongues unknown.
So strange was every word and tone,
They knew not how they might answer it,
Except by striving to submit
To Him Who had made the child's heart rife
With the love of death and the scorn of life.
Therefore they said, silently still,
“All-perfect One, it is Thy will.”
With fear and doubt's most bitter ban
They were a-cold; so the poor man
And the poor woman sat alway
In their bed, without yea or nay.
Ever alack! they had no speech
The new dawn of their thought to reach.
With a wild sorrow unrepress'd
The mother caught the child to her breast;
But the father after long interval
Said, though his soul smote him withal,
“Daughter, if God is in thine heart,
Heed not our grieving, but depart.”

Then the sweet maid smiled quietly;
And soon i'the morning hastened she
To the room where the sick man slept.
Up to his bed she softly stepp'd,
Saying, “Do you sleep, my dear lord?”

“No, little wife,” was his first word,
“But why art thou so early to-day?”