COUNT.
I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,Ah, how I hold it dear!
To seek it I would fain repair,Were I not prison'd here.
My sorrow sore oppresses me, For when I was at liberty,I had it close beside me.
Though from this castle's walls so steepI cast mine eyes around, And gaze oft from the lofty keep,The flower can not be found.
Whoe'er would bring it to my sight, Whether a vassal he, or knight,My dearest friend I'd deem him.
THE ROSE.
I blossom fair,--thy tale of woesI hear from 'neath thy grate.
Thou doubtless meanest me, the rose.
Poor knight of high estate!
Thou hast in truth a lofty mind;
The queen of flowers is then enshrin'd,I doubt not, in thy bosom.
COUNT.
Thy red, in dress of green array'd,As worth all praise I hold;And so thou'rt treasured by each maidLike precious stones or gold.
Thy wreath adorns the fairest face But still thou'rt not the flower whose graceI honour here in silence.
THE LILY.
The rose is wont with pride to swell,And ever seeks to rise;But gentle sweethearts love full wellThe lily's charms to prize, The heart that fills a bosom true, That is, like me, unsullied too,My merit values duly.
COUNT.
In truth, I hope myself unstain'd,And free from grievous crime;Yet I am here a prisoner chain'd,And pass in grief my time, To me thou art an image sure Of many a maiden, mild and pure,And yet I know a dearer.
THE PINK.
That must be me, the pink, who scentThe warder's garden here;Or wherefore is he so intentMy charms with care to rear?
My petals stand in beauteous ring, Sweet incense all around I fling,And boast a thousand colours.
COUNT.
The pink in truth we should not slight,It is the gardener's pride It now must stand exposed to light,Now in the shade abide.
Yet what can make the Count's heart glow Is no mere pomp of outward show;It is a silent flower.
THE VIOLET.
Here stand I, modestly half hid,And fain would silence keep;Yet since to speak I now am bid,I'll break my silence deep.
If, worthy Knight, I am that flower, It grieves me that I have not powerTo breathe forth all my sweetness.
COUNT.
The violet's charms I prize indeed,So modest 'tis, and fair, And smells so sweet; yet more I needTo ease my heavy care.
The truth I'll whisper in thine ear:
Upon these rocky heights so drear,I cannot find the loved one.
The truest maiden 'neath the skyRoams near the stream below, And breathes forth many a gentle sigh,Till I from hence can go.
And when she plucks a flow'ret blue, And says "Forget-me-not!"--I, too,Though far away, can feel it.
Ay, distance only swells love's might,When fondly love a pair;Though prison'd in the dungeon's night,In life I linger there And when my heart is breaking nigh, "Forget-me-not!" is all I cry,And straightway life returneth.
1798.
SIR CURT'S WEDDING-JOURNEY.
WITH a bridegroom's joyous bearing,Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast, To his mistress' home repairing,There to hold his wedding feast;When a threatening foe advancesFrom a desert, rocky spot;For the fray they couch their lances,Not delaying, speaking not.
Long the doubtful fight continues,Victory then for Curt declares;Conqueror, though with wearied sinews,Forward on his road he fares.
When he sees, though strange it may be,Something 'midst the foliage move;'Tis a mother, with her baby,Stealing softly through the grove!
And upon the spot she beckons--"Wherefore, love, this speed so wild?
Of the wealth thy storehouse reckons,Hast thou nought to give thy child!"Flames of rapture now dart through him,And he longs for nothing more, While the mother seemeth to himLovely as the maid of yore.
But he hears his servants blowing,And bethinks him of his bride;And ere long, while onward going,Chances past a fair to ride;In the booths he forthwith buys himFor his mistress many a pledge;But, alas! some Jews surprise him,And long-standing debts allege.
And the courts of justice dulySend the knight to prison straight.
Oh accursed story, truly!
For a hero, what a fate!
Can my patience such things weather?
Great is my perplexity.
Women, debts, and foes together,--Ah, no knight escapes scot free!
1803.
WEDDING SONG.
THE tale of the Count our glad song shall recordWho had in this castle his dwelling, Where now ye are feasting the new-married lord,His grandson of whom we are telling.
The Count as Crusader had blazon'd his fame, Through many a triumph exalted his name, And when on his steed to his dwelling he came,His castle still rear'd its proud head, But servants and wealth had all fled.
'Tis true that thou, Count, hast return'd to thy home,But matters are faring there ill.
The winds through the chambers at liberty roam,And blow through the windows at will What's best to be done in a cold autumn night?
Full many I've pass'd in more piteous plight;The morn ever settles the matter aright.
Then quick, while the moon shines so clear,To bed on the straw, without fear,And whilst in a soft pleasing slumber he lay,A motion he feels 'neath his bed.
The rat, an he likes it, may rattle away!
Ay, had he but crumbs there outspread!
But lo! there appears a diminutive wight, A dwarf 'tis, yet graceful, and bearing a light, With orator-gestures that notice invite,At the feet of the Count on the floorWho sleeps not, though weary full sore.
"We've long been accustom'd to hold here our feast,Since thou from thy castle first went;And as we believed thou wert far in the East,To revel e'en now we were bent.
And if thou'lt allow it, and seek not to chide, We dwarfs will all banquet with pleasure and pride, To honour the wealthy, the beautiful brideSays the Count with a smile, half-asleep;--"Ye're welcome your quarters to keep!"
Three knights then advance, riding all in a group,Who under the bed were conceal'd;And then is a singing and noise-making troopOf strange little figures reveal'd;And waggon on waggon with all kinds of things--The clatter they cause through the ear loudly rings--The like ne'er was seen save in castles of kings;At length, in a chariot of gold,The bride and the guests too, behold!
