Part 3 (1/2)

(Do they dream of throes of labour Which their mother-earth of old felt, When they from her womb were bursting?)

From the horse got off our rider, To a pine-tree stump he bound it, Gazed in wonder at the landscape, Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up In the air his pointed c.o.c.ked hat, And began to blow a cheering Joyous tune upon his trumpet.

To the Rhine it bore a greeting, Over toward the Alps it floated, Merry now, then full of feeling, Like a prayer devout and solemn, Then again quite roguish, joyful.

Now trari-trara resounded, Echo's voice her plaudits sending From the bosom of the forest.

Fair it was o'er hill and valley, But fair also to behold him, As he in the deep snow standing Lightly on his horse was leaning; Now and then a golden sunbeam Glory shed on man and trumpet, In the background gloomy fir-trees, Farther down among the meadows Rang his tunes out not unheeded!

There was walking then the worthy Pastor of the neighbouring village, Who the snow-drifts was examining, Which, fast melting with the surging Waters rising o'er the meadows, Threatened to destroy the gra.s.s there.

Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered How to ward off this great danger.

Round him bounded, loudly barking, His two white and s.h.a.ggy dogs.

You who live in smoky cities, And are separated wholly From the simple life of nature, Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will Joyfully now sing the praises Of a pastor in the country.

Simple is his life, and narrow: Where the village ends, end also All his labours and endeavours.

While men slaughtered one another, In the b.l.o.o.d.y Thirty Years' War, For G.o.d's honour, the calm grandeur Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods Breathed its peace into his soul.

Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves; And, 'mid all the theologians'

Squabbles, he most likely never Had read one polemic treatise.

With dogmatics altogether, Science in her heavy armour, He possessed but slight acquaintance.

But, whenever 'mongst his people Could some discord be adjusted-- When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled; When the demon of dissension Marriage marred and children's duty; When the daily load of sorrow Heavily weighed down some poor man, And the needy longing soul looked Eagerly for consolation-- Then, as messenger from Heaven, To his flock the old man hastened; From the depths of his heart's treasure Gave to each advice and comfort.

And if, in a distant village, Someone lay upon a sick-bed, With grim Death hard battle waging, Then--at midnight--at each hour, When a knock came at his hall-door-- E'en if snow the pathway covered-- Undismayed he went to comfort And bestow the sacred blessing.

Solitary was his own life, For his nearest friends were only His two n.o.ble dogs (St. Bernards).

His reward: a little child oft Bashfully approached him, kissing His old hand with timid reverence; Also oft a grateful smile played O'er the features of the dying, Which was meant for the old priest.

Unperceived the old man came now By the border of the forest, To the Trumpeter whose last notes Rang resounding in the distance, Tapped him friendly on the shoulder: ”My young master, may G.o.d bless you, 'Twas a fine tune you were playing!

Since the hors.e.m.e.n of the emperor Buried here their serjeant-major, Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld, And they blew as a farewell then The Reveille for their dead comrade-- Though 'tis long since it has happened, I have never heard such sounds here.

Only on the organ plays my Organist, and that quite poorly; Therefore I am struck with wonder To encounter such an Orpheus.

Will you treat to such fine music The wild beasts here of our forest, Stag and doe, and fox and badger?

Or, perhaps, was it a signal, Like the call of the lost huntsman?

I can see that you are strange here, By your long sword and your doublet; It is far still to the town there, And the road impracticable.

Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already High up towards these upland forests, And it seems to me but prudent That with me you take your lodging; In the vale there stands my glebe-house, Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider Find sufficient shelter there.”

Then the horseman quickly answered: ”Yes, I'm strange in a strange country, And I have not much reflected Where to-night shall be my lodging.

To be sure, in these free forests A free heart can sleep if need be; But your courteous invitation I most gratefully accept.”

Then unfastened he his horse and Led it gently by the bridle, And the Pastor and the rider Like old friends walked to the village In the twilight of the evening.

By the window of the glebe-house The old cook stood, looking serious; Mournfully her hands she lifted, Took a pinch of snuff and cried out: ”Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes!

Stand by me in this my trouble!

Thoughtlessly my kind old master Brings again a guest to stay here; What a thorough devastation Will he make in my good larder!

Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout, Which I had reserved for Sunday, When the Dean of Wehr will dine here.

Now farewell, thou hough of bacon!