Читать книгу The Trumpeter of Säkkingen: A Song from the Upper Rhine - Joseph Victor von Scheffel - Страница 5

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Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by

Since thou didst venture thy first course to run,

A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try,

But no great laurels so far hast thou won.

In circles of prosaic breathing mortals

No praise was given thee of any kind--

Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals,

Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find.

And in the coteries of hoops and laces

Few were the readers, fewer still the praises.

Not everything suits everyone: the hill

Grows different flowers than the vale and lea:

But here and there in German homes there will

Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee;

Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying

With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound;

Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying,

And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found,

And e'en of pastors it has been reported

To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted.

And many who have taken a young bride

To spend the honeymoon 'midst rural scenes,

Do like to read thee, sitting side by side;

Of happy hours thou often art the means.

Then Säkkingen, the fair Black Forest's treasure,

Which found at first in thee not much delight,

Has by degrees derived from thee great pleasure,

And to her heart with love has pressed thee tight.

Upon the whole, success outweighs detraction,

And thou canst view thy fate with satisfaction.

Now that thou wilt a second course begin,

I should for thee a better dress prepare,

With finer threads the verses' measure spin,

Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care,

I know it well, right often have I faltered,

Some of thy trochees sound a little lame;

But the old humour now, alas! is altered,

The mood which gave thee birth is not the same.

O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded,

Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded!

Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest,

And near me rush the healing waters out,

On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest,

And in the brook are sporting tiny trout.

From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending,

With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace,

And stately giant pines in rows unending,

Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace.

A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow,

And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow.

And yet--should I now try new songs to sing,

The old accustomed tone I could not find;

Too often grief my soul with pangs doth wring,

Instead of mirth, scorn filleth now my mind.

The world serves idols now, the good ignoring,

And truth is silent, beauty hides her face;

What is unnatural men are adoring,

God is forgotten. Mammon takes his place!

The Poet, now, should be a prophet warning,

Like those of old, reproving, praying, mourning!

'Tis not my sphere; a mighty stirring song

Requires another man, a different art;

But though so much prevails that's sad and wrong.

One may not quite disdain a merry heart.

Go forth, my song, then, as thou didst before,

A cheerful memory of life's fresh spring;

Cheer up those hearts, which grief made sad and sore,

And to friends far and near my greeting bring.

Whenever men to nobler aims aspire,

Then higher too will ring the poet's lyre.

Rippoldsau, September, 1858.