Gottfried August Bürger



                   Leonora


                   From sickly dream sad Leonor' 
                   Upstarts at morning's ray:
                   "Art faithless, William? — or no more?
                   How long wilt bide away?"
                   He march'd in Fred'rick's war-like train,
                   And fought on Prague's ensanguin'd plain;
                   Yet no kind tidings tell,
                   If William speeds him well.

                   The king and fair Hungaria's queen
                   At length bid discord cease;
                   Each other eye with milder mien,
                   And hail the grateful peace.
                   And now the troops, a joyous throng,
                   With drum and uproar, shout and song,
                   All deck'd in garlands fair,
                   To welcome home repair.

                   On ev'ry road, on ev'ry way,
                   As now the crowd appears,
                   See young and old their path belay,
                   And greet with friendly tears.
                   "Praise God!" each child and matron cry'd,
                   And "Welcome", many a happy bride:
                   But ah! for Leonor'
                   No kiss remains in store!

                   From rank to rank, now see her rove,
                   O'er all the swarming field;
                   And ask for tidings of her love;
                   But none could tidings yield.
                   And when the bootless task was o'er,
                   Her beauteous ravenlocks she tore;
                   And low on earth she lay,
                   And rav'd in wild dismay.

                   With eager speed the mother flies:
                   "God shield us all from harms!
                   What ails my darling child?" she cries,
                   And snatch'd her to her arms.
                   "Ah! mother, see a wretch undone!
                   What hope for me beneath the sun!
                   Sure heav'n no pity knows!
                   Ah! me, what cureless woes!"

                   "Celestial pow'rs, look gracious on!
                   Haste, daughter, haste to pray'r.
                   What heav'n ordains is wisely done,
                   And kind its parents care."
                   "Ah, mother, mother, idle tales!
                   Sure heav'n to me no kindness deals.
                   O, unavailing vows!
                   What more have I to lose?"

                   "O, trust in God! — Who feels aright,
                   Must own his fost'ring care;
                   And holy sacramental rite,
                   Shall calm thy wild despair."
                   "Alas! the pangs my soul invade,
                   What pow'r of holy rite can aid?
                   What sacrament retrieve
                   The dead, and bid them live?"

                   "Perchance, dear child, he loves no more;
                   And, wand'ring far and wide,
                   Has chang'd his faith on foreign shore,
                   And weds a foreign bride.
                   And let him rove and prose untrue!
                   Erelong his gainless crimes he'll rue.
                   When soul and body part,
                   What pangs shall wring his heart!"

                   "Ah, mother, mother, gone is gone!
                   The past shall ne'er return!
                   Sure death were now a welcome boon:
                   O had I ne'er been born!
                   No more I'll bear the hateful light;
                   Sink, sink, my soul, in endless night!
                   Sure heav'n no pity knows.
                   Ah! me, what endless woes!"

                   "Help, heav'n, nor look with eye severe,
                   On this deluded maid;
                   My erring child in pity spare,
                   She knows not what she said.
                   Ah! child, all earthly cares resign,
                   And think of God and joys divine.
                   A spouse celestial, see: —
                   In heav'n he waits for thee."

                   "Oh, mother, what are joys divine?
                   What hell, dear mother, say?
                   'Twere heav'n, were dearest William mine;
                   'Tis hell, now he's away.
                   No more I'll bear the hateful light:
                   Sink, sink, my soul, in endless night!
                   All bliss with William flies;
                   Nor earth, nor heav'n I prize!"

                   Thus rav'd the maid, and mad despair
                   Shook all her tender frame;
                   She wail'd at providential care,
                   And tax'd the heav'ns with blame.
                   She wrung her hands and beat her breast,
                   Till parting daylight streak'd the west;
                   Till brightest starlight shone
                   Around night's darksome throne.

                   Now hark! a courser's clatt'ring tread,
                   Alarms the lone retreat;
                   And straight a horseman slacks his speed,
                   And lights before the gate. 
                   Soft rings the bell; the startled maid,
                   Now lists, and lifts her languid head;
                   When lo, distinct and clear,
                   These accents reach her ear: 

                   "What, ho! what, ho! ope wide the door!
                   Speak, love; — dost wake or sleep?
                   Think'st on me still? — or think'st no more?
                   Dost laugh, dear maid, or weep?"
                   "Ah! William's voice! so late art thou here?
                   I've wept and watch'd with sleepless care,
                   And wail'd in bitter woe!
                   Whence com'st thou mounted so?"

                   "We start at midnight's solemn gloom;
                   I come, sweet maid, from far.
                   In haste and late I left my home;
                   And now I'll take thee there!"
                   "O, bide one moment first my love,
                   Chill blows the wind athwart the grove;
                   And here, secure from harm,
                   These arms my love shall warm."

                   "Let blow the wind and chill the grove;
                   Nor wind, nor cold I fear.
                   Wild stamps my steed; come, haste, my love: —
                   I dare not linger here.
                   Haste, tuck thy coats, make no delay;
                   Mount quick behind, for e'en to-day,
                   Must ten-score leagues be sped
                   To reach our bridal bed!"

                   "What, ten-score leagues! canst speed so far,
                   Ere morn the day restore?
                   Hark! hark! the village clock I hear: —
                   How late it tells the hour!"
                   "See there, the moon is bright and high,
                   Swift ride the dead! — we'll bound, we'll fly,
                   I'll wager, love, we'll come,
                   Ere morn, to bridal home."

                   "Say, where is deck'd the bridal hall?
                   How laid the bridal bed?"
                   "Far, far from hence, still, cool and small;
                   Six planks my wants bestead."
                   "Hast room for me?" — "For me and thee!
                   Come, mount behind, and haste and see
                   E'en now the bride-mates wait,
                   And open stands the gate."

                   With graceful ease the maiden sprung
                   Upon the coal-black steed,
                   And round the youth her arms she flung,
                   And held with fearful heed.
                   And now they start and speed amain,
                   Tear up the ground and fire the plain;
                   And o'er the boundless waste,
                   Urge on with breathless haste.

                   Now on the right, now on the left,
                   As o'er the waste they bound,
                   How flies the heath! the lake! the clift!
                   How shakes the hollow ground!
                   "Art frighted, love? The moon rides high.
                   What, ho! the dead can nimbly fly!
                   Dost fear the dead, dear maid?"
                   "Ah! no, — why heed the dead!"

                   Now knell and dirges strike the ear;
                   Now flaps the raven's wing;
                   And now a sable train appear;
                   Hark! "Dust to dust," they sing.
                   In solemn march, the sable train
                   With bier and coffin cross the plain.
                   Harsh float their accents round;
                   Like night's sad bird the sound.

                   "At midnight's hour, the corpse be laid
                   In soft and silent rest!
                   Now home I take my plighted maid,
                   To grace the wedding feast!
                   And, sexton, come with all thy train,
                   And tune for me the bridal strain.
                   Come, priest, they pray'r bestow,
                   Ere we to bride-bed go!"

                   The dirges cease — the coffin flies,
                   And mocks the cheated view;
                   Now rattling dins around him rise,
                   And hard behind pursue.
                   And on he darts with quicken'd speed:
                   How pants the man! — How pants the steed!
                   O'er hill, o'er dale they bound;
                   How sparks the flinty ground!

                   On right, on left, how swift the flight
                   Of mountains, woods, and downs!
                   How fly on left, how fly on right,
                   The hamlets, spires and towns!
                   "Art frighted love? The moon rides high.
                   What ho! the dead can nimbly fly!
                   Dost fear the dead, dear maid?"
                   "Ah! leave, ah! leave the dead!"

                   Lo, where the shadowy mob, by moon's pale light,
                   Disports with lightsome heel.
                   "Ho! hither, rabble, hither come,
                   And haste with me to bridal home.
                   There dance in grisly row,
                   When we to bride-bed go.
                   There dance in grisly row,
                   When we to bride-bed go.

                   He spoke, and o'er the cheerless waste,
                   The rustling rabble move;
                   So sounds the whirlwind's driving blast,
                   Athwart the wither'd grove.
                   And on he drives with fiercer speed;
                   How pants the man! how pants the steed!
                   O'er hill and dale they bound;
                   How sparks the flinty ground!

                   And all the landscape, far and wide,
                   That 'neath the moon appears;
                   How swift it flew, as on they glide!
                   How flew the heav'ns, the stars!
                   "Art frighted love? The moon rides high.
                   What ho! the dead can nimbly fly!
                   Dost fear the dead, dear maid?"
                   "Oh heav'ns! — Ah! leave the dead!"

                   "The early cock, methinks I hear:
                   My fated hour is come!
                   Methinks I scent the morning air:
                   Come, steed, come haste thee home!
                   Now ends our toil, now cease our cares: —
                   And, see, the bridal house appears.
                   How nimbly glide the dead!
                   See, here, our course is sped!"

                   Two folding grates the road belay,
                   And check his eager speed;
                   He knocks, the pond'rous bars give way,
                   The loosen'd bolts recede.
                   The grates unfold with jarring sound;
                   See, new-made graves bestrew the ground,
                   And tomb-stones faintly gleam,
                   By moonlight's pallid beam.

                   And now, O frightful prodigy!
                   (As swift as lightning's glare)
                   The rider's vestments piecemeal fly,
                   And melt to empty air!
                   His poll a ghastly death's head shews.
                   A skeleton his body grows;
                   His hideous length unfolds,
                   And scythe and glass he holds!

                   High rear'd the steed, and sparks of fire
                   From forth his nostrils flew;
                   He paw'd the ground in frantic ire,
                   And vanish'd from the view.
                   Sad howling fill the regions round;
                   With groans the hollow caves resound;
                   And death's cold damps invade 
                   The shudd'ring hapless maid!

                   And lo, by moonlight's glimm'ring ray,
                   In circling measures hie
                   The nimble sprites, and as they stray,
                   In hollow accents cry:
                   "Though breaks the heart, be mortals still;
                   Nor rail at heav'n's resistless will.
                   And thou, in dying pray'r,
                   Call heav'n thy soul to spare!"

                   "Lenore"
                   Translated by Benjamin Beresford


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