Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 17

(From the German.)

Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot; To range the wide world, now from me you depart, Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."

If moving in circles of beauty and love, Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot, O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove, And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."

If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever, How drearily mournful would be my sad lot, In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever, Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."

If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom, To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot, Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom, Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."

Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above, We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot; We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love, Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."

Z.

_Gleaner_, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which the following is a translation; it commences thus--

Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.

All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat, With his imps and his devils around, When the thundering knocker of h.e.l.l's outer grate Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate, That all Erebus echoed the sound.

Full swift to the portal the young devils flew, And the long gloomy pa.s.sage unbarr'd; When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view, So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue, That the devils all trembled and star'd.

All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd, His nose was projecting and wide, In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd, On his scull he a three-corner'd sc.r.a.per display'd, And two volumes[34] he bore at his side.

So foul were his breath and the words that he said, That his teeth had long rotted away-- And now to the devils a signal he made, To show him their master, the devils obey'd, And brought him where Beelzebub lay.

Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in, And stood for a moment in dread, For they look'd like each other enough to be kin, Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin, And the other had horns on his head.

'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim, For if Satan can rightly divine, Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame, For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came, With figure so h.e.l.lish as thine.'

'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied, With voice that was hollow and shrill; 'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied, Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide, And in mischief I never was still.

'My name is ---- ----;' no sooner said he, Than Beelzebub rose with a grin; He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd His joy at the meeting; and both of them made All h.e.l.l echo round with their din.

_Ordeal_, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston.

[Footnote 34: I have not been able to discover what these volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which implies that they were ent.i.tled Dulder Soudth.]

THE FOWLER.

A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote."

_Gleaner_, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in _Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.]

TO CHLOE.

From the German of Gesner.

[Prose translation.]

_Visitor_, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond.

[S. Gessner, _An Chloen_.]

SONG.

From the German of Jacobi.

_Boston Mirror_, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston.

[Same as, _A Sonnet_, by Jacobi, in _Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.]

I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this _chef d'oeuvre_ of the German poet.

THE WILD HUNTER.

Loud, loud the baron winds his horn; And, see, a lordly train On horse, on foot, with deafening din, Comes scouring o'er the plain.

O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack Dash swift, from couples freed; O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track, Loud neighs the fiery steed.

And now the Sabbath's holy dawn Beam'd high with purple ray, And bright each hallowed temple's dome Reflected back the day.

Now deep and clear the pealing bells Struck on the list'ning ear, And heaven-ward rose from many a voice The hymn of praise and prayer.

Swift, swift along the crossway, still They speed with eager cry: See! right and left, two hors.e.m.e.n strange Their rapid coursers ply.

Who were the hors.e.m.e.n right and left?

That may I guess full well: Who were the hors.e.m.e.n right and left?

That may I never tell.

The right, of fair and beauteous mien, A milk-white steed bestrode; Mild as the vernal skies, his face With heavenly radiance glow'd.

The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb, Red as the furnace flame; Sullen he loured, and from his eyes The death-like lightning came.

'Right welcome to our n.o.ble sport;'

The baron greets them fair; 'For well I wot ye hold it good To banish moping care.

'No pleasure equal to the chase, Or earth, or heaven can yield;'

He spoke,--he waved his cap in air, And foremost rushed afield.

'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries; 'Turn thee from horns and hounds!

Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire, Mingle their sacred sounds?