Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 28

Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs mentioned a few pages back; I must inform my readers that all I know respecting the Water King (called in the German translation "Der Wa.s.ser-Mann") and the Erl-King (called in German Erlkonig) is gathered from the foregoing ballad and two others which I shall here insert.

With respect to the Fire King and the Cloud King, they are entirely of my own creation; but if my readers choose to ascribe their birth to the "Comte de Gabalis," they are very welcome.

_Weekly Mag._, III-92, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.

[J. G. Herder, _Der Wa.s.sermann_ in the Fourth Book (_Nordische Lieder_) of _Stimmen der Volker in Liedern_. Trans. from the German.

M. G. Lewis, _The Monk_ and _Tales of Wonder_. Cf. note to _The Erl-King_ in _Weekly Mag._, III-93, Aug. 18, 1798.]

WERTER'S FAREWELL TO CHARLOTTE.

"Sunt lacrimae rerum; et mentem mortalia tangunt."

Virg. Ae. I-466.

The conflict's o'er--ah! lovely maid, adieu!

Before these sad, these parting lines, you view; Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom, Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb: No more to view the beauties of the day, No more to listen to thy heavenly lay, To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk, Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk, Along the margin of the winding flood, Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood.

O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise, And wintry storms descending from the skies, The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below, And all around one dreary waste of snow; Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave, For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve, Recall the time when you so oft have seen Thy hapless lover on the verdant green, Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove, To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love, Gaze on thy angel form, for without she, The world appear'd a boundless blank to me.

As when to seamen, from the midnight skies The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise, To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain, Or land them on their native sh.o.r.es again; Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see, Than pa.s.s the vacant day, and gaze on thee, Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die, "And drink delicious poison from thine eye,"

As the lost insect round the taper flies, And courts the fatal flame by which it dies.

But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled, And Werter sinks among the silent dead From the bright hopes of life forever gone, His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown, The time shall come, when in the vacant mind, The fondest friend no trace of me shall find; When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear, And view my mould'ring grave without a tear, Think on the light impressions of the mind, Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind.

This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene, Each fertile valley, and each level green, Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood; And the wild winds disturb the silent wood.

Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright, Descend behind the western surge in night; While on the hill to see its beams, I stood, And view'd it sinking in the briny flood, I felt my heart with double sorrows prest, And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast; The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight, And all involv'd in one eternal night.

Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know, In these sad realms of misery and woe, Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd, For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind, Some winding valley, or some shady grove, Some blissful mansions in the realms above, Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet, Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete, In the bright regions of eternal light, Where all is perfect joy and pure delight.

When in the summer's eve you chance to stray Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway, Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees, You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze, Wave high the gra.s.s, in solitary gloom, Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb-- Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow, On him who could no greater blessing know Than pa.s.s the hour with fleeting joys with thee, Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye, Observe the beauteous image of thy mind, Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd, Or view thy distant form amidst the trees, And thy white tresses floating in the breeze; Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays, Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise; Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear, And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear.

Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see, And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 20, Nov. 24, 1798, [Phila.].

The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen with the gardener.

Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure: The mansion's crazy wainscots crack: The sun had sunk:--and all the moor, Like ev'ry other moor--was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire, The lovely Molly Dumpling sat, Much did she fear, and much admire, What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin, But, ah! no foot is heard to stir: He comes not, from the garden, in; Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee!

Flesh, both of cur and man, is gra.s.s!

And what's impossible, can't be; And never, never, comes to pa.s.s!

She paces through the hall antique, To call her Thomas from his toil; Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,-- Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall, She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bobtail did she call, Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said In answers can but ill succeed; And, dogs that hear when they are dead Are very cunning dogs, indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way, All, all was solitude around!

The candle shed a feeble ray-- Though a large mould of four to th' pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew; Adown her cheek a salt tear stole, When, lo! a coffin out there flew, And in her ap.r.o.n burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death watch tick'd; A certain sign that fate will frown; The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd; A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;-- Her shadow did the maid appal;-- She trembled at her lovely nose-- It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold, She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;-- Three stories high, long, dull and old-- As great lords' stories often are.

All Nature now appear'd to pause; And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"

No "curtain'd sleep" had she;--because She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay;--with iron din, The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide; When Thomas grimly glided in, With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size; Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks, Red, red as beet root, were his eyes; And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the spectre she espied, The fear struck damsel faintly said, "What would my Thomas?"--he replied, "O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."

"All in the flower of youth I fell, Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd; I was not ill--but in the well I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.

"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie; His faithful dog his fate doth share; We're friends;--this is not he and I; We are not here--for we are there.

"Yes;--two foul water fiends are we; Maid of the moor! attend us now!

Thy hour's at hand;--we come for thee!

The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"

"To wind her in her cold grave, A Holland sheet a maiden likes; A sheet of water thou shalt have; Such sheets there are in Holland d.y.k.es."

The fiends approach; the maid did shrink; Swift through the night's foul air they spin; They took her to the green well's brink, And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.

[The author evidently had Burger's _Lenore_ in mind when writing the above.]

[Burlesque on the Style, in which most of the German romantic Ballads are written.]

_Phil. Repos._, I-328, Aug. 22, 1801, Phila.

[Also in _Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.]

For the Port Folio.

AN AUTHOR'S EVENINGS.

From the shop of Messrs. Colon and Spondee.

Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, ent.i.tled "_Tales of Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "_The Monk_." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superst.i.tion, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "_Cloud Kings_," and "_Water Kings_," and "_Fire Kings_," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_"

undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoa.r.s.e caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amus.e.m.e.nt.