The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06. Коллектив авторов

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        "Clouds of evil flee before him,

          And those cobwebs of the brain

        Which forbade us love and pleasure,

          Scowling grimly on our pain.

        "And a thousand knights in armor

          Hath he chosen and required

        To fulfil his holy bidding—

          All with noblest zeal inspired.

        "Lo! I their precious swords are gleaming,

          And their banners wave in fight!

        What! Thou fain would'st see, my darling,

          Such a proud and noble knight?

        "Well, then, gaze on me, my dearest;

          I am of that lordly host,

        Kiss me! and you kiss a chosen

          Champion of the Holy Ghost!"

        Silently the moon conceals her

          Down behind the sombre trees,

        And the lamp which lights our chamber

          Flickers in the evening breeze.

        But the starry eyes are beaming

          Softly o'er the dimpled cheeks,

        And the purple rose is glowing,

          While the gentle maiden speaks.

        "Little people—fairy goblins—

          Steal away our meat and bread;

        In the chest it lies at evening,

          In the morning it has fled.

        "From our milk the little people

          Steal the cream and all the best;

        Then they leave the dish uncovered,

          And our cat drinks up the rest.

        "And the cat's a witch, I'm certain,

          For by night, when storms arise,

        Oft she seeks the haunted hill-top

          Where the fallen tower lies.

        "There was once a splendid castle.

          Home of joy and weapons bright,

        Where there swept in stately pageant

          Lady, page, and armèd knight.

        "But a sorceress charmed the castle,

          With its lords and ladies fair;

        Now it is a lonely ruin,

          And the owls are nesting there.

        "But my aunt hath often told me,

          Could I speak the proper word,

        In the proper place up yonder,

          When the proper hour occurred,

        "I should see the ruins changing

          Swiftly to a castle bright,

        And again in stately dances

          Dame and page and gallant knight.

        "He who speaks the word of power

          Wins the castle for his own,

        And the knight with drum and trumpet

          Loud will hail him lord alone."

        So the simple fairy pictures

          From the little rose-mouth bloom,

        And the gentle eyes are shedding

          Star-blue lustre through the gloom.

        Round my hand the little maiden

          Winds her gold locks as she will,

        Gives a name to every finger,

          Kisses, smiles, and then is still.

        All things in the silent chamber,

          Seem at once familiar grown,

        As if e'en the chairs and clothes-press,

          Well of old to me were known.

        Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,

          And the cithern, as 'twould seem,

        Of itself is faintly chiming,

          And I sit as in a dream.

        Now the proper hour is striking,

          Here the charm should now be heard;

        Child, how would'st thou be astonished,

          Should I speak the magic word!

        If I spoke that word, then fading

          Night would thrill in fearful strife;

        Trees and streams would roar together

          As the mountains woke to life.

        Ringing lutes and goblin ditties

          From the clefted rock would sound,

        Like a mad and merry spring-tide

          Flowers grow forest-high around.

        Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,

          Leaves of vast and fabled form,

        Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,

          As if thrilled with passion's storm.

        In a crimson conflagration

          Roses o'er the tumult rise;

        Giant lilies, white as crystal,

          Shoot like columns to the skies.

        Great as suns, the stars above us

          Gaze adown with burning glow;

        Fill the lilies' cups gigantic

          With their lights' abundant flow.

        We ourselves, my little maiden,

          Would be changed more than all;

        Torchlight gleams o'er gold and satin

          Round us merrily would fall.

        Thou thyself would'st be the princess,

          And this hut thy castle high;

        Ladies, lords, and graceful pages

          Would be dancing, singing by.

        I, however, I have conquered

          Thee, and all things, with the word!

        Serfs and castle—lo! with trumpet

          Loud they hail me as their Lord!