Part 15 (1/2)

”'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing,”

Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off.

Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty.

Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming.

In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting.

Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger.

But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream.

Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels'

In the church of Fridolinus.

Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips.

Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming.

Margaretta listened docile.

And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her.

Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuira.s.siers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring.

Love is, there can be no question, Of all teachers the most skilful; And what years of earnest study Do not conquer, he is winning With the charm of an entreaty, With the magic of a look.

E'en a common Flemish blacksmith Once became through love's sweet pa.s.sion In advanced age a great painter.

Happy teacher, happy scholar, In the honeysuckle arbour!

'Twas as if the only safety Of the German empire rested On this trumpet-call's performance.

But within their souls was stirring Quite a different melody: That sweet song, old as creation, Of the bliss of youthful lovers; True, a song without the words yet, But they had divined its meaning, And beneath a playful manner Hid the blissful consciousness, Startled by this trumpet-blowing Came the Baron reconnoitring, Tried to frown, but soon his anger Was converted into pleasure, When he heard his child there blowing The old fanfar of his hors.e.m.e.n.

Friendly spoke he to young Werner: ”You are truly in your office A most ardent zeal unfolding.

If you go on in this manner, We shall see most wondrous things yet.

The old stable-door which harshly Creaks and groans upon its hinges, Even in the pond the bull-frogs May perhaps change for the better, Through your trumpet's magic charm.”

Werner held, however, henceforth His dear trumpet as a jewel, Which the richest Basel merchant, With the fullest bag of money, Could not ever purchase from him; For the lips of Margaretta Made it sacred by their touch.

TENTH PART.

YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE.

From the Feldberg tears a raging Foaming torrent through the forests To the Rhine--its name is Wehra.

In the narrow valley standeth 'Midst the rocks a single fir-tree; In the branches sat the haggard Wicked wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Who to-day behaved quite badly: Showing his sharp teeth and grinning, Tore a branch off from the fir-tree, And kept gnawing at a pine-cone; Clambered often quite indignant Up and down just like a squirrel; From the wings of a poor night-owl Roughly plucked out several feathers; And while mocking the old fir-tree Rocked himself upon its summit.

”High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!

I with thee would ne'er my lot change.

Firmly rooted must thou stand there, And take everything that happens; Never canst thou quit thy station.

And if ever Fate ordaineth.

Thou to far-off lands shalt wander, Men have first to come with axes; With hard strokes they hack and cut thee, Deep into thy flesh, till falling; And then strip unmercifully All thy skin from off thy body; Throw thee next into the Rhine, and Make thee swim as far as Holland.

And if e'er they pay the honour On a frigate to erect thee As a proud and stately mast, still Thou art but a smooth-skinned fir-tree, Without roots there lonely standing; And thou yearnest on the ocean For thy old home in the forest, Till at last a flash of lightning Mast and s.h.i.+p and all destroyeth.

High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!

I with thee would ne'er my lot change!”

Said the fir-tree: ”Everybody Must accept the sphere he's born in, And fulfil his duties fully.

So we think here in the forest; And 'tis well so, at least better Than to hop will-o'-the-wisp like, Playing pranks and doing mischief, Men and cattle oft misleading, And the stupid wanderer's curses As reward home with thee taking.

Anyhow, no one cares for thee.