Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By The VigilStefan George (1868–1933)
W
And there the page his vigil keeps alone
Before the altar’s threshold all the night.
“I shall partake when morning dawneth bright
Of all that solemn glory yet unknown,
My childhood longing hushed, I shall not swerve
From deeds of rigour; with my spurs and might
Devoted in the good war I will serve.
The consecration of my sword unstained
Before God’s altar and the symbol there,
The testimony of high worth attained.”
Reposed and slender vaults rose overhead.
Trustfully clasped, his hands lay stony cold;
Upon his breast there was a banner spread.
A cherub spreading wide his pinions pale
Holds over him his shield with coat of mail:
Upon an azure field the flaming blade.
And breaks the narrow bounds of prayer with feeling,
His hands devoutly clasped as he is kneeling.
Then slowly into thoughts of pious love
An earthly image unawares is stealing.
She was much less a maiden than a child.
Upon her gown were broidered starry showers,
About her golden hair the sun-flecks smiled.
To flee the vision that he deems a snare;
His hands he buries in his curly hair
And makes the sign that lets no evil stay.
The candle flames shoot lightnings in his face.
But now he sees the Lady Mother meek,
Upon her lap the Saviour giving grace.
And all my life no other aim will seek,
And from Thy high commandment never swerve.
Forgive if for the last time I was weak.”
A swarm of little angels’ faces flew,
And as the organ’s sacred murmur grew,
The Valiant’s innocence, the Dead’s deep rest
With tranquil clearness soared the whole house through.