Poems and Ballads of Heinrich Heine Part 20

HELENA.

Thou hast invoked me from my grave, And through thy magic spell Hast quickened me with fierce desire, This flame thou canst not quell.

Oh press thy lips against my lips, Divine is mortal breath; I drink thy very soul from thee.

Insatiable is death.

SONG.

There stands a lonely pine-tree In the north, on a barren height; He sleeps while the ice and snow flakes Swathe him in folds of white.

He dreameth of a palm-tree Far in the sunrise-land, Lonely and silent longing On her burning bank of sand.

THE NORTH SEA.

1825-26.

TO FREDERICK MERCKEL,

THE PICTURES OF THE NORTH SEA ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

THE NORTH SEA.

FIRST CYCLUS.

"To be disinterested in everything, but above all in love and friends.h.i.+p, was my supreme wish, my maxim, my practice; hence my daring expression at a later period: 'If I love thee, what is that to thee?' sprang directly from my heart."

Goethe's "Truth and Poetry," Book XIV.

I. CORONATION.

Oh songs of mine! beloved songs of mine, Up, up! and don your armor, And let the trumpets blare, And lift upon your s.h.i.+eld This youthful maiden Who now shall reign supreme Over my heart, as queen!

Hail! hail! thou youthful queen!

From the sun above I s.n.a.t.c.h the beaming red gold, And weave therewith a diadem For thy consecrated head.

From the fluttering azure-silken canopy of heaven, Where blaze the diamonds of night, A precious fragment I cut: And as a coronation mantle, I hang it upon thy royal shoulders.

I bestow on thee a court Of richly-attired sonnets, Haughty _Terzine_ and stately stanzas.

My wit shall serve thee as courier, My fancy shall be thy fool, Thy herald, whose crest is a smiling tear, Shall be my humor.

But I myself, oh Queen, Low do I kneel before thee, On the cus.h.i.+on of crimson samite, And as homage I dedicate to thee.

The tiny morsel of reason, That has been compa.s.sionately spared me By thy predecessor in the realm.

II. TWILIGHT.

On the wan sh.o.r.e of the sea Lonely I sat with troubled thoughts.

The sun dropped lower, and cast Glowing red streaks on the water.

And the white wide waves, Crowding in with the tide, Foamed and rustled, nearer and nearer, With a strange rustling, a whispering, a hissing, A laughter, a murmur, a sighing, a seething, And amidst all these a mysterious lullaby.

I seemed to hear long-past traditions, Lovely old-time fairy-tales, Which as a boy I had heard, From the neighbor's children, When on summer evenings we had nestled On the stone steps of the porch.

With little eager hearts, And wistful cunning eyes, Whilst the grown maidens Sat opposite at their windows Near their sweet-smelling flower pots, With their rosy faces, Smiling and beaming in the moonlight.

III. SUNSET.

The glowing red sun descends Into the wide, tremulous Silver-gray ocean.

Ethereal, rosy tinted forms Are wreathed behind him, and opposite, Through the veil of autumnal, twilight clouds, Like a sad, deathly-pale countenance, Breaks the moon, And after her, like sparks of light, In the misty distance, s.h.i.+mmer the stars.

Once there shone forth in heaven, Nuptially united.

Luna the G.o.ddess, and Sol the G.o.d.

And around them gathered the stars, Those innocent little children.

But evil tongues whispered dissension, And in bitterness parted The lofty, ill.u.s.trious pair.

Now all day in lonely splendor The sun-G.o.d fares overhead, Wors.h.i.+ped and magnified in song, For the excellence of his glory, By haughty prosperity--hardened men.

But at night In heaven wandereth Luna, The poor mother, With her orphaned, starry children; And she s.h.i.+nes with a quiet sadness, And loving maidens and gentle poets Dedicate to her their tears and their songs.

Poor weak Luna! Womanly-natured, Still doth she love her beautiful consort.

Towards evening pale and trembling, She peers forth from light clouds, And sadly gazes after the departing one, And in her anguish fain would call to him, "Come!

Come! our children are pining for thee!"

But the scornful sun-G.o.d, At the mere sight of his spouse, Glows in doubly-dyed purple, With wrath and grief, And implacably he hastens downward To the cold waves of his widowed couch.

Thus did evil-whispering tongues Bring grief and ruin Even upon the immortal G.o.ds.

And the poor G.o.ds in heaven above Painfully wander Disconsolate on their eternal path, And cannot die; And drag with them The chain of their glittering misery.

But I, the son of man, The lowly-born, the death-crowned one, I murmur no more.

IV. NIGHT ON THE Sh.o.r.e.

Starless and cold is the night, The sea yawns; And outstretched flat on his paunch, over the sea, Lies the uncouth North-wind.

Secretly with a groaning, stifled voice, Like a peevish, crabbed man in a freak of good humor, He babbles to the ocean, And recounts many a mad tale, Stories of murderous giants, Quaint old Norwegian Sagas, And from time to time, with re-echoing laughter, He howls forth The conjuration-songs of the Edda, With Runic proverbs So mysteriously arrogant, so magically powerful, That the white children of the sea High in the air upspring and rejoice, Intoxicated with insolence.

Meanwhile on the level beach, Over the wave-wetted sand, Strides a stranger whose heart Is still wilder than wind or wave.