cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar,The damsel paces along the shore; 25
The billows they tumble with might, with might;
And she flings out her voice to the darksome night;
Her bosom is swelling with sorrow;
The world it is empty, the heart will die,
There’s nothing to wish for beneath the sky: 30
Thou Holy One, call thy child away!
I’ve lived and loved, and that was to-day —
Make ready my grave-clothes tomorrow.
LITERAL TRANSLATION.
Thekla (plays and sings).
The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to and fro
on the green of the shore; the wave breaks with might, with might, and
she sings out into the dark night, her eye discoloured with weeping: the
heart is dead, the world is empty, and further gives it nothing more to
the wish. Thou Holy One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the
happiness of this world, I have lived and have loved.
I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which the author
of The Tale of Rosamond Gray and Blind Margaret has favoured me, and
which appears to me to have caught the happiest manner of our old
ballads.
The clouds are black’ning, the storms threat’ning,
The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
Billows are breaking, the damsel’s heart aching,
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
Her eye upward roving:
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss;
To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one,
I have partaken of all earth’s bliss,
Both living and loving.
The text of Lamb’s version as printed in Works, 1818, i. 42 is as
follows:
BALLAD.
FROM THE GERMAN.
The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
And ever the forest maketh a moan:
Billows are breaking, the damsel’s heart aching,
Thus by herself she singeth alone,
Weeping right plenteously.
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
I have had earnest of all earth’s bliss
Living most lovingly.
Spring, 1800.
The latest, &c. [They not appearing to attend to what she says,
she steps between them.
1800, 1828, 1829.
SCENE VII
COUNTESS (returns), THEKLA.
Countess. Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him,
Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
And so must be flung after him! For you,
Duke Friedland’s only child, I should have thought
It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself 5
More chary of your person.
Thekla. And what mean you?
Countess. I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurred to you.
Thekla. What then?
Countess. That you’re the daughter of the Prince-Duke Friedland. 10
Thekla. Well — and what farther?
Countess. What? a pretty question!
Thekla. He was born that which we have but become.
He’s of an ancient Lombard family,
Son of a reigning princess.
Countess. Are you dreaming?
Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth! 15
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
To honour with his hand the richest heiress
In Europe.
Thekla. That will not be necessary.
Countess. Methinks ‘twere well though not to run the hazard.
Thekla. His father loves him, Count Octavio 20
Will interpose no difficulty ——
Countess. His!
His father! his! But yours, niece, what of yours?
Thekla. Why I begin to think you fear his father,
So anxiously you hide it from the man!
His father, his, I mean.
Countess (looks at her). Niece, you are false. 25
Thekla. Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!
Countess. You hold your game for won already. Do not
Triumph too soon! —
Thekla. Nay now, be friends with me.
Countess.
