III.

_Winter_, 1863.

Dar kumt en Brusen as Værjahswind, Dat dræhnt as wær dat de Floth,— Will’t Fröhjahr kamen to Wihnachtstid? Hölpt Gott uns sülb’n inne Noth?

Vun alle Bargen de Krüz un Quer Dar is dat wedder dat dütsche Heer! Dat gelt op Nu oder Nimmermehr! So rett se, de dütsche Ehr!

Wi hört den Adler, he kumt, he kumt! Noch eenmal hæpt wi un harrt! Is’t Friheit endlich, de he uns bringt? ls’t Wahrheit, wat der ut ward?

Sunst hölp uns Himmel, nu geit’t ni mehr! Hölp du, un bring uns den Herzog her! Denn wüllt wi starben vær dütsche Ehr! Denn begravt uns in dütsche Eer!

30 _December_, 1863.

_Winter_, 1863.

There comes a blast like winter storm; It roars as it were the flood. Is the spring coming at Christmas-tide? Does God himself help us in our need?

From all the hills on the right and left, There again comes the German host! It is to be now or never! O, save the German honor!

We hear the eagle, he comes, he comes! Once more we hope and wait! Is it freedom at last he brings to us? Is it truth what comes from thence?

Else Heaven help us, now it goes no more! Help thou, and bring us our Duke! Then will we die for German honor! Then bury us in German earth!

_December_ 30, 1863.

It is not, however, in war songs or political invective that the poetical genius of Klaus Groth shows to advantage. His proper sphere is the quiet idyl, a truthful and thoughtful description of nature, a reproduction of the simplest and deepest feelings of the human heart, and all this in the homely, honest, and heartfelt language of his own “Platt Deutsch.” That the example of Burns has told on Groth, that the poetry of the Scotch poet has inspired and inspirited the poet of Schleswig-Holstein, is not to be denied. But to imitate Burns, and to imitate him successfully, is no mean achievement, and Groth would be the last man to disown his master. The poem “Min Jehann” might have been written by Burns. I shall give a free metrical translation of it, but should advise the reader to try to spell out the original; for much of its charm lies in its native form, and to turn Groth even into High-German destroys his beauty as much as when Burns is translated into English.

MIN JEHANN.

Ik wull, wi weern noch kleen, Jehann, Do weer de Welt so grot! We seten op den Steen, Jehann, Weest noch? by Nawers Sot. An Heben sell de stille Maan, Wi segen, wa he leep, Un snacken, wa de Himmel hoch, Un wa de Sot wul deep.

Weest noch, wa still dat weer, Jehann? Dar röhr keen Blatt an Bom. So is dat nu ni mehr, Jehann, As höchstens noch in Drom. Och ne, wenn do de Scheper sung— Alleen in’t wide Feld: Ni wahr, Jehann? dat weer en Ton— De eenzige op de Welt.

Mitünner inne Schummerntid Denn ward mi so to Mod, Denn löppt mi’t langs den Rügg so hitt, As domals bi den Sot. Den dreih ik mi so hasti um, As weer ik nich alleen: Doch Allens, wat ik finn, Jehann, Dat is—ik stah un ween.

MY JOHN.

I wish we still were little, John, The world was then so wide! When on the stone by neighbor’s bourn We rested side by side. We saw the moon in silver veiled Sail silent through the sky; Our thoughts were deeper than the bourn, And as the heavens high.

You know how still it was then, John; All nature seemed at rest; So is it now no longer, John, Or in our dreams at best! Think when the shepherd boy then sang Alone o’er all the plain, Aye, John, you know, that was a sound We ne’er shall hear again.

Sometimes now, John, the eventides The self-same feelings bring, My pulses beat as loud and strong As then beside the spring. And then I turn affrighted round, Some stranger to descry; But nothing can I see, my John,— I am alone and cry.

The next poem is a little popular ballad, relating to a tradition, very common on the northern coast of Germany, both east and west of the peninsula, of islands swallowed by the sea, their spires, pinnacles, and roofs being on certain days still visible, and their bells audible, below the waves. One of these islands was called _Büsen_, or _Old Büsum_, and is supposed to have been situated opposite the village now called Büsen, on the west coast of Dithmarschen. Strange to say, the inhabitants of that island, in spite of their tragic fate, are represented rather in a comical light, as the Bœotians of Holstein.

WAT SIK DAT VOLK VERTELLT.

_Ol Büsum._

Ol Büsen hggt int wille Haff, De Floth de keem un wöhl en Graff. De Floth de keem un spöl un spöl, Bet se de Insel ünner wöhl. Dar blev keen Steen, dar blev keen Pahl, Dat Water schæl dat all hendal. Dar weer keen Beest, dar weer keen Hund, De ligt nu all in depen Grund. Un Allens, wat der lev un lach, Dat deck de See mit depe Nach. Mitünner in de holle Ebb So süht man vunne Hüs’ de Köpp. Denn dukt de Thorn herut ut Sand, As weert en Finger vun en Hand. Denn hört man sach de Klocken klingn, Denn hört man sach de Kanter singn; Denn geit dat lisen dær de Luft: “Begrabt den Leib in seine Gruft.”

WHAT THE PEOPLE TELL.

_Old Büsum._

Old Büsen sank into the waves; The sea has made full many graves; The flood came near and washed around, Until the rock to dust was ground. No stone remained, no belfry steep; All sank into the waters deep. There was no beast, there was no hound; They all were carried to the ground. And all that lived and laughed around The sea now holds in gloom profound. At times, when low the water falls, The sailor sees the broken walls; The church tower peeps from out the sand, Like to the finger of a hand. Then hears one low the church bells ringing Then hears one low the sexton singing; A chant is carried by the gust: “Give earth to earth, and dust to dust.”

In the Baltic, too, similar traditions are current of sunken islands and towns buried in the sea, which are believed to be visible at certain times. The most famous tradition is that of the ancient town of Vineta,—once, it is said, the greatest emporium in the north of Europe,—several times destroyed and built up again, till, in 1183, it was upheaved by an earthquake and swallowed by a flood. The ruins of Vineta are believed to be visible between the coast of Pomerania and the island of Rügen. This tradition has suggested one of Wilhelm Müller’s—my father’s—lyrical songs, published in his “Stones and Shells from the Island of Rügen,” 1825, of which I am able to give a translation by Mr. J. A. Froude.

VINETA.

Aus des Meeres tiefem, tiefem Grunde Klingen Abendglocken dumpf und matt, Uns zu geben wunderbare Kunde Von der schönen alten Wunderstadt.

In der Fluthen Sehooss hinabgesunken Blieben unten ihre Trümmer stehn, Ihre Zinnen lassen goldne Funken Wiederscheinend auf dem Spiegel sehn.

Und der Schiffer, der den Zauberschimmer Einmal sah im hellen Abendroth, Nach derselben Stelle schifft er immer, Ob auch rings umher die Klippe droht.

Aus des Herzens tiefem, tiefem Grunde Klingt es mir, wie Glocken, dumpf und matt: Ach, sie geben wunderbare Kunde Von der Liebe, die geliebt es hat.

Eine schöne Welt ist da versunken, Ihre Trümmer blieben unten stehn, Lassen sich als goldne Himmelsfunken Oft im Spiegel meiner Träume sehn.

Und dann möcht’ ich tauchen in die Tiefen, Mich versenken in den Wiederschein, Und mir ist als ob mich Engel riefen In die alte Wunderstadt herein.

VINETA.

From the sea’s deep hollow faintly pealing, Far off evening bells come sad and slow; Faintly rise, the wondrous tale revealing Of the old enchanted town below.

On the bosom of the flood reclining, Ruined arch and wall and broken spire, Down beneath the watery mirror shining, Gleam and flash in flakes of golden fire.

And the boatman who at twilight hour Once that magic vision shall have seen, Heedless how the crags may round him lour, Evermore will haunt the charméd scene.

From the heart’s deep hollow faintly pealing, Far I hear them, bell-notes sad and slow, Ah, a wild and wondrous tale revealing Of the drownéd wreck of love below.

There a world, in loveliness decaying, Lingers yet in beauty ere it die; Phantom forms, across my senses playing, Flash like golden fire-flakes from the sky.