Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By The Minstrels CurseLudwig Uhland (17871862)
I
It gleamed far over the country, unto the deep blue sea;
The gardens round were fragrant, in glowing bloom arrayed,
And glistening like the rainbow, the limpid fountains played.
He sat so pale and threatening upon his mighty throne.
For what he thinks is terror and what he sees is rage
And what he speaks is torture and blood his written page.
The one with locks of gold and the other grey of hair;
And with his harp the old man a comely charger rode.
While merrily beside him his young companion strode.
Our deepest songs remember, and strike thy note most rare.
With all thy might put sorrow and joy into thy tone!
To-day we both must conquer this monarch’s heart of stone.”
Upon the throne are sitting the monarch and his queen.
The king is fiercely splendid, like bloody northern light,
The queen is mild and lovely, like full moon in the night.
Chords fuller, ever fuller, were rising to the ear;
Then high the young man’s singing most heavenly limpid streamed,
The old man’s voice sonorous a ghostly chorus seemed.
Of freedom, manly honour, of faith and holiness.
They sing of all the sweetness that trembles through the breast,
They sing of all that’s lofty and fills the heart with zest.
Stern warriors before heaven all bow their knees in fear.
The queen in wistful gladness is overcome and throws
Down to the magic minstrels from her own breast a rose.
The king is shouting fiercely, and trembling in his spleen.
He throws his sword that flashing has pierced the young man’s heart:
Thence no more golden ballads, but sprays of lifeblood start.
The youth in throes is dying right in his master’s arm.
He wraps the mantle round him, then upright on his steed
Binds fast the youth and with him he leaves the hall in speed.
Stands still and there he seizes his harp, of harps the prize.
Against a marble pillar this noble harp he flings.
He calls; through halls and gardens his voice uncanny rings:
No harp-strings shall resound there, and no more golden song.
Nay! Only sighs and groaning and sneaking of the slave,
Till crushed by spirit of vengeance thou art a mouldy grave.
To you I show this dead boy’s white and distorted face,
That you henceforth shall wither, that every spring be dry,
That you all sere and barren in days to come shall lie.
Thy strife for bloodstained glory all times in vain shall be;
Thy name shall be forgotten, steeped in eternal night,
And, like a dying rattle, in empty air take flight!”
The pompous halls are ruins, low lies each mighty wall.
One lofty pillar only recalls the splendours past;
This pillar, cracked already, may fall to-night at last.
No branches shade to scatter, no spring to pierce the sand;
No songs, no book of heroes the monarch’s name rehearse;
Dissolved in night, forgotten! That is the minstrel’s curse.