their lauds on every side;And the name their voices uttered
Was the name of Vogelweid. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our tasting brotherhood."
Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.
Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.
105
Time has long effaced the inscriptions
On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us
Where repose the poet's bones. But around the vast cathedral,
By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid. DRINKING SONG
INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER
Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs;
On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters.
Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses.
Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations,
Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. Judged by no o'erzealous rigor,
Much this mystic throng expresses: Bacchus was the type of vigor,
And Silenus of excesses. These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken;
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers;
Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-- Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. Claudius, though he sang of flagons
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons
Never would his own replenish. Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies.
Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer
Light upon Lucullus' tables.
Come, old friend, sit down and listen
As it passes thus between us,
106
How its wavelets laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus!
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS
L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours!
jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE.
Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"
Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-- "Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-- "Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-- "Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,-- "Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a Miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- "Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below,
107
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,--
"Forever--never! Never--forever!"
All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain. "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,-- Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"
THE ARROW AND THE SONG
I shot an arrow into the air,
