Part 12

which belongs to the poetry of Moore. In matter and choice of subject, and in some measure in respect of treatment, he has much in common with Walter Scott. His preparatory studies were much of the same nature, consisting in the history, scenery, and legends of his own country. He has done for Germany what even Schiller and Goethe with all their greatness omitted to do in the same degree. He has immortalised her local recollections. Second only to the man who leads an army to rescue his country from the stranger, such a man is a patriot of the true kind, whatever the colour of his politics may be. Some poems he has written are like those exquisite ancient miniature pictures on a gold ground, best to be understood and appreciated by the educated connoisseur, while others are so plain in language and sentiment that they have sunk into the hearts of the people, and will flow for ever from the lips of the people in the shape of national songs. Uhland differs most from the twin stars of Germany—Schiller and Goethe—in that his poetry is more exclusively objective than theirs. Goethe was all wrapt in his glorious self, and his all-absorbing devotion to art. Like Horace’s hero, a world might have fallen in ruins about him and he would not have quailed; and, indeed, all the crash of empires and clash of armies in which he lived left his brow as serene as that of one of the gods of Epicurus. But Uhland could not sing through the humiliation of his country, and his voice sank within him through the French occupation; but when Germany arose at length, and with incredible hardihood pushed back the flood of invasion, Uhland, like Körner and others, did manful service, not by fighting and falling among the foremost, as Körner did, but with even better judgment, as husbanding his gifts, becoming the Tyrtæus of the Liberation War. His songs of that time have a deep and manly note peculiarly their own, and they are such as no lesser circumstances could have called forth. Uhland, again, as distinguished from Schiller and Goethe, was the prominent poet of the Romantic school. But he was to them what Socrates was to the Sophists—counted with them, but not of them. From whatever source he derived his inspirations, he always remained fast rooted in truth and nature. The unreal and morbid sentimentality of Tieck and Novalis was unknown to him; nor did he share the Romeward tendencies of Friedrich Schlegel, while fully appreciating the beauty of the Roman Catholic ritual and associations, and freely interweaving them with the golden tissue of his compositions. On the whole, he is the most German of German poets, as he owes none of his inspiration to “the gods of Greece,” and little to any foreign source, except those old Romance writers whom he studied at Paris; but then it must be borne in mind that the early threads of history in France and Germany are closely interwoven, and the empire of the Franks in particular belonged as much to one as to the other.

In attempting to present to the English reader some of the best of the poems of Uhland, we must premise that to translate a perfect poem from one language into another is simply an impossibility, and difficult exactly in proportion to the degree in which any poem approaches perfection. The special difficulty of translating German poetry into English, and _vice versâ_, consists in this, that though the two languages are not in their basis much more than dialects of the same original stock, yet German is as generally dissyllabic as English is monosyllabic, owing in part to English having discarded inflection where German retains it. We are aware that many of Uhland’s poems are already known through very good translations, one of those most highly spoken of being that of Mr Platt. Longfellow has also done freely into English verse the ‘Castle by the Sea,’ ‘The Black Knight,’ the ‘Luck of Edenhall,’ and others, and has succeeded admirably in catching the spirit of the original. Not having Mr Platt’s translations before us, as we write in Germany, we must apologise, in our zeal for Uhland’s memory, for attempts of our own in the same direction, in which we have tried to reproduce as nearly as we can the ideas of the original in the metres in which they appeared. It is impossible to find a song in the whole collection more perfect than ‘Der Wirthin Töchterlein.’ There is not a word or thought one would wish changed. The pathos is expressed, without a single pathetic epithet, solely by the situation. This poem has been interpreted politically, as alluding to the different feelings with which three classes of patriots regard the corpse of German liberty. But to our mind this spoils the simplicity of the picture. It is more likely to be true that the poem was occasioned by an incident of Uhland’s youth, since it is said that he once stopped some students who were singing it under his window, telling them not to end it, as the end had too close a personal interest for him. If this be true, the poem is more complimentary to the memory of the fair maid of the inn than to the lady who became Frau Uhland. But poets will be poets, as boys will be boys.

THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER.

Three students they hied them over the Rhine, And there they turned in at a landlady’s sign.

“Landlady, hast thou good beer and wine? And where is that beauteous daughter of thine?”

“My beer and wine are fresh and clear; My daughter she lies on the funeral-bier.”

And when they did enter the inner room, There lay she all white in a shrine of gloom.

The first from her face the veil he took, And, gazing upon her with sorrowful look,

“Oh, wert thou living, thou fairest maid, ’Tis thee I would love from this hour,” he said.

The second let down on the face that slept The veil, and turned him away and wept:

“Alas for thee there on the funeral-bier! For thee I have loved full many a year.”

The third, he lifted again the veil, And kissed her upon the mouth so pale:

“I loved thee before, I love thee to-day, And I will love thee for ever and aye!”

The last line, “Und werde dich lieben in ewigkeit,” would be more correctly rendered, “And I will love thee _in_ eternity.” And we are equally aware that our “landlady’s sign” is objectionable, as the original is simply, “They turned in there to a landlady’s.” But it would be hard to render it otherwise without losing the quadruple rhyme, which has a certain mournful elegance. ‘The Landlady’s Daughter’ naturally leads us to ‘The Goldsmith’s Daughter.’ In this poem we must not suppose that the hero and heroine meet for the first time. The maiden has fallen in love with the knight, her superior in station, but scarcely dares even confess it to herself, till the knight agreeably surprises her by adorning her as his bride, taking her acceptance for granted. We would not spoil the romance by hinting that it may not have been an uncommon case in the middle ages for young noblemen of small fortune to seek their brides from the rich _bourgeoisie_ of the Free Towns.

THE GOLDSMITH’S DAUGHTER.

A goldsmith stood within his stall, Mid pearl and precious stone: Of all the gems I own, of all, Thou art the best, Heléna, My daughter, darling one.

One day came in a knight so fine: “Good morrow, maiden fair; Good morrow, worthy goldsmith mine; Make me a costly crownlet, For my sweet bride to wear.”

The crown was made, the work was good, It shone the eye to charm, But Helen hung in pensive mood (I trow, when none was by her) The trinket on her arm.

“Ah! happy happy _she_ to bear This glittering bridal toy; Would that true knight give me to wear A crownlet but of roses, How full were I of joy!”

Ere long the knight came in again, Did well the crown approve: “Now make me, goldsmith, best of men, A ring with diamonds set, To deck my lady-love.”

The ring was made, the work was good, The diamonds brightly shone, But Helen drew ‘t in pensive mood (I trow, when none was by her) Her finger half-way on.

“Ah, happy happy _she_ to bear This other glittering toy; Would that true knight give me to wear But of his hair a ringlet, How full were I of joy!”

Ere long the knight came in again, Did well the ring approve: “Thou’st made me, goldsmith, best of men, The gifts with rarest cunning, For my sweet lady-love.

“Yet would I prove them how they sit; So prithee, maiden, here Let me on thee for trial fit My darling’s bridal jewels: In beauty she’s thy peer.”

’Twas on a Sunday morn betime; It happed the maiden fair, Expectant of the matin chime, Had donned her best of raiment With more than wonted care.”

With coyness all aglow, behold The maid before him stand; He crowns her with the crown of gold, The ring upon her finger He sets, then takes her hand.

“Heléna sweet, Heléna true, I’ve ended now the jest; That fairest bride is none but you, By whom I would the crownlet And ring should be possest.

“Mid gold and pearl and jewel fine Hath been thy childhood’s home; Be this to thee a welcome sign That thou to heights of honour With me shalt duly come.”

There is a great dramatic beauty in the accident of the girl having put on her best apparel to make ready to go to church, so that the knight has only to furnish her with the bridal accessaries to prepare her at a moment’s notice to go to church with him.

A ferry-boat is a favourite subject for painters; and the navigation of his native Neckar has been to Uhland the occasion of some of his sweetest verse-pictures. In the poem called ‘The Boat’ he shows how a freight of people, before unacquainted with each other, and therefore silent, struck up an intimacy, and parted with regret, when some improvised music had once furnished an introduction.

THE BOAT.

The boat is swiftly going, Adown the river’s flowing; No word beguiles the labour, For no one knows his neighbour.

What pulls from coat the stranger, The tawny forest-ranger? A horn that sounds so mildly, The stream-banks echo wildly.

Then haft and stopper screwing, His staff to flute undoing, Another, deftly playing, Chimes with the cornet’s braying.

Shy sat the maid, self-chidden, As speech were thing forbidden, Now blend her accents willing With flute and cornet’s trilling.

The rowers with new pleasure Pull strokes that match the measure; The boat the stream divideth, And, lulled by music, glideth.

It strikes with shock the landing, The folk are all disbanding; “May we again meet, brother, On board this boat or other!”

The companion to this little cabinet picture of the boat going with the stream is the crossing of the ferry. The poet offers the ferryman three times his fare, because the spirits of two friends, now dead, who crossed the same ferry with him in past years, are supposed to have gone with him.

THE FERRY.

Many years have passed for ever Since I came across the river; Here’s the tower, in evening’s blushing, There, as erst, the weir is rushing.

Then with me the boat did carry Two companions o’er the ferry, One a friend, a father seeming, One a youth with high hopes beaming.

That one lived a peaceful story, And is gone in peace to glory; This, of all most fiery-hearted, Hath in fight and storm departed.

So when I, mid blessing cherished, Dare to think on seasons perished, Must I still to sorrow waken, Missing friends that Death hath taken.

Friendship may not be united, Save when soul to soul is plighted: Full of soul those hours went by me, Still to souls a bond doth tie me.

Ferryman, I gladly proffer Thrice the fare that others offer, Since two spirits thou didst carry At my side across the ferry.

Longfellow, in his ‘Hyperion,’ has beautifully rendered the spirit of this poem, if he has somewhat missed its cadence.

The fine elegy on the death of Tell belongs to Uhland’s ‘Songs of Freedom,’ Tell’s death is undemonstrative, and he characteristically comes by it, by rescuing a child from a torrent. ‘The Sunken Crown’ stands before it in the collection, probably by way of introduction:—

THE SUNKEN CROWN.

There, over on the hill-top, A little house doth stand; One gazes from the threshold On all the lovely land. There sits a free-born peasant Upon the bench at even; He whets his scythe so blithely, And sings his thanks to Heaven.

There, under in the hollow, Where glooms the mere of old, There lieth deeply sunken A proud rich crown of gold: Though in it gleam at nightfall Carbuncle and sapphire, Since ages grey it lies there, To seek it none desire.

In his neighbouring Switzerland the poet seems to see the image of his ideal freedom, modest and self-respecting; founded on the laws of decency and order; possessing its ancient charters and title-deeds; no ephemeral offspring of democratic chaos; a gentle and serene goddess of justice holding the exact balance between despotism and universal suffrage. Such freedom as this, in many grand patriotic strains, he desires for Würtemberg—a country whose praises he enumerates in soil, products, climate, scenery, and manners, only lamenting one want, without which it would be a paradise, the want of “Good Right.” He is certainly justified in his praise of his country, which, with the Grand-Duchy of Baden, forms a corner in the map of Europe which is a garden of fertility, a museum of antiquities, and a labyrinth of natural grandeur; but we question whether Uhland is not over-sensitive as to its political misery.

When we pass from his ‘Songs of Freedom’ to his ‘Songs of the Affections,’ we find the same moderation and purity of sentiment. Uhland always seems afraid of saying too much. His exquisite taste is a constant check upon him. He leaves the lines of his sketches to speak for themselves, and shrinks from too much elaboration. The imaginative reader may, if he pleases, supply for himself much of the inessential detail. What a picture of a bashful old-world lover he gives us in his poem called ‘Resolution!’

RESOLUTION.

She comes to walk in this sweet wild; To-day I’ll banish all alarm; Why should I tremble at a child That does no living creature harm?

All give her greeting near and far; I would, but dare not do the same; And to my soul’s transcendent star I cannot lift my eyes for shame.

The flowers that bend as she doth fare, The birds with their voluptuous song,— All these their love so well declare, Why must I only feel it wrong?

To highest Heaven I oft prefer Through livelong nights a bitter plaint; Yet would I say three words to her, “I love thee,” then my heart is faint.

In wait behind the tree I’ll stay She passes in her daily walk, And whisper “My sweet life” to-day, As if in dreaming I did talk.

I will—but oh the fright I feel! She comes, and she will see me sure; So here into the bush I’ll steal, And I shall see her pass secure.

For pathetic simplicity, perhaps none of his love-poems stands higher than Die Mähderin—the ‘Female Mower.’ There is a pathos in the very fact of the delicate girl—delicate at least in feeling—being engaged in rude masculine toil, a case but too common in many countries; then, again, in her hopeless attachment to the son of the rich farmer; then in her overtasking her strength in mowing the whole field without refreshment or repose, because the avaricious and selfish old man has promised her his son’s hand as the price; and again, in the killing deception at the close. She dies a martyr to the combined effects of the labour and the disappointment, and the old man has virtually murdered her to prevent her marrying his son and for selfish gain. Another example of a deep and simple pathos, produced by two pictures of the same place, is ‘The Castle on the Sea;’ it is a dioramic change of effect produced by a dialogue. First the castle stands superb in rising or setting sunlight, towering to heaven and bowing to the deep; the king and queen walk on the terrace in their royal insignia, and a beautiful princess walks with them: the scene changes to a weird moonlight effect, where the castle stands in ghostly grandeur; the king and queen are there on the terrace, but without their robes or crowns; they are in mourning, and the princess is no longer with them. This ballad has been effectively translated by Longfellow. Though verging on the impossible in subject, ‘The Mournful Tournament’ is a grand tragic sketch. Seven knights came to joust for the favour of the king’s daughter, but as they came in through the castle gate they heard the knell of her funeral. They persist in the tournament; for the one who loves her most truly, holds that still, though dead, she is worthy to be fought for, the victor gaining her wreath and ring. All fall in the fight but he, and he is mortally wounded, but, as the prize of victory, is buried with his lady-love.

Similar in actual improbability of subject, but demonstrating its bare possibility by its tragic truth, is the ballad of ‘Three Young Ladies.’ The father brings to mind the Greek bandit, the hero of About’s ‘Roi des Montagnes,’ who keeps his daughter at school at Athens, and when she wants a new piano, harries a village. As he returns from his rides, or raids, the three maidens ask this feudal tyrant what he has brought for them. The first, he knows, loves gold and finery; he has killed a knight for her, and brought her the spoil. But the dead knight was her lover; she strangles herself with the stolen chain, and dies beside his body. Two maidens only welcomed the father on his next return. The second, he knows, loves the chase; so he brings her a hunting-lance with a gold band, having killed a wild huntsman to obtain it. The wild huntsman was her lover, and she falls on the lance and dies beside him. One maiden only greets him the next time. Flowers are her passion; so he brings her flowers, having slain the bold gardener to obtain them. She takes the flowers and seeks the body of the dead gardener, who was also her lover; but flowers can inflict no wounds, so she stays beside him till the flowers wither, and she withers with them. ‘The Black Knight’ has been done full justice to by Longfellow. The practice of wearing visors in the ages of chivalry made such tales a poetic possibility. Death comes to joust in a king’s court, like a knight in black armour on black steed; he kills all the champions, dances with the king’s daughter, pours out a draught for the prince and princess, from which they quickly grow pale and sink. The old king begs him to take him also, but he says that “he only breaks flowers in spring,” and stalks away. In the ‘Luck of Edenhall’ Uhland gets upon English ground. His own preserves are so well stocked that he had no need to poach on those of the minstrels of the Scottish Border. But the offence is a single one, and may be forgiven for its admirable success and the world-wide interest of the beautiful Cumbrian legend.

The trumpet-like bray and strange metre of this poem render it one of the most difficult for a translator to grapple with; Longfellow, however, has done it almost without fault, the only exception we might take being to the repetition of the “crystal tall,” and the expression “the cup to praise” instead of “the cup to honour.” But in sonorous cadence his rendering equals the original. There is a thrilling solemnity in the remark at the end, that the world will one day be dashed to pieces like the shattered Luck of Edenhall. In a note below Longfellow’s translation it is said, “The tradition on which this ballad is founded, and the ‘shards of the Luck of Edenhall,’ still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart. of Edenhall, Cumberland, and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.”

If not the very best of all the ballads, at least the most characteristic of the poet’s ethical bent, is ‘The Singer’s Curse.’ With this we may fitly conclude our specimens, as it is a declaration of the greatness and holiness of the poet’s mission, and a prophecy of the annihilation of all earthly pomp that is founded on injustice and wrong, which it is the poet’s highest duty to raise his voice against. It might also be entitled ‘The Martyr-Minstrel.’

THE SINGER’S CURSE.

In days of old a castle stood, it stood so haught and high, Wide o’er the lands it shone to where the blue sea met the sky; All round it lush flower-gardens a perfumed girdle made, Wherein with radiance rainbow-arched reviving fountains played.

Sat there a proud king rich in spoil of war and rich in land, Upon his ancient throne he sat so gaunt and grimly grand; For all he thinks is Terror, and all he looks is Hate, And all he speaks is Scourging, and all he writes is Fate.

Once did a noble minstrel pair up to this castle go, The one with golden ringlets, the other with locks of snow; The old man with the harp he sat on a goodly steed astride, The while his blooming comrade tript gaily at his side.

Spake to the youth the old man, “My son, be strong to-day; Our deepest songs remember, attune thy fullest lay; Knit all the nerves of music, the joy, the pain, in one; Our task it is to-day to touch the tyrant’s heart of stone.”

Now stand the singers twain within the lofty pillared house, And high upon his throne the king sits with his royal spouse;

The king so fiercely splendid, like blood-red northern light, But sweet and mild the queen as looks the full moon on the night.

Then smote the strings the old man right wondrously and well, That full and fuller on the ear the tides of music swell; And then angelically clear the young man’s voice did flow In the elder’s pauses, like a choir of spirits, weird and low.

They sing of spring and true love, of an age of golden youth, Of freedom and of manhood, of holiness and truth; They sing of every sweetness that makes man’s bosom soft, They sing of every greatness that bears man’s heart aloft.

Forthwith the courtier circle unlearns the courtly sneer, The king’s disdainful warriors bow down to God and fear. Then, as her soul with tender pain and rapture overflows, The queen before the singers from her bosom flings the rose.

“Ye have beguiled my people—will ye bring my wife to shame?” So cries the king in fury, quivering through all his frame; He hurls his sword, that flashing strikes through the stripling’s heart; Now from the source of golden songs a blood-jet high doth start.