Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Germany: Vols. XVII–XVIII. 1876–79.
Elegy Written in the Ruins of an Old Castle
By Friedrich von Matthisson (1761–1831)S
Rests the plain; the woodland song is still,
Save that here, amid these mouldering ruins,
Chirps a cricket mournfully and shrill.
Silence sinks from skies without a shadow,
Slowly wind the herds from field and meadow,
And the weary hind to the repose
Of his father’s lowly cottage goes.
Mid the ruins of departed days,
By the awful shapes of Eld surrounded,
Sadness! unto thee my song I raise!
Sadly think I what in gray old ages
Were these wrecks of lordly heritages:
A majestic castle, like a crown,
Placed upon the mountain’s brow of stone.
Sadly whispering, clings the ivy green,
And the evening twilight’s mournful shimmer
Blinks the empty window-space between,
Blessed, perhaps, a father’s tearful eye
Once the noblest son of Germany;
One whose heart, with high ambition rife,
Warmly swelled to meet the coming strife.
As he girded on his sword of fame;
“Come not back again, or come as victor:
O, be worthy of thy father’s name!”
And the noble youth’s bright eyes were throwing
Deadly flashes forth; his cheeks were glowing,
As with full-blown branches the red rose
In the purple light of morning glows.
Even as Richard Lion-Heart, to fight;
Like a wood of pines in storm and tempest,
Bowed before his path the hostile might.
Gently, as a brook through flowers descendeth,
Homeward to the castle-crag he wendeth,—
To his father’s glad, yet tearful face,—
To the modest maiden’s chaste embrace.
From her turret down the valley drear!
Shield and breast-plate glow in gold of evening,
Steeds fly forward, the beloved draws near!
Him the faithful right hand mute extending,
Stands she, pallid looks with blushes blending.
O, but what that soft, soft eye doth say,
Sings not Petrarch’s, nor e’en Sappho’s lay!
Where the rank grass, waving in the gale,
O’er the nests of owls is blackly spreading,
Till the silver glance of stars grew pale.
Tales of hard-won battle fought afar,
Wild adventures in the Holy War,
Wakened in the breast of hardy knight
The remembrance of his fierce delight.
Now the scene of all that proud array;
Winds of evening, full of sadness, whisper,
Where the strong ones revelled and were gay;
Thistles lonely nod, in places seated
Where for shield and spear the boy entreated,
When aloud the war-horn’s summons rang,
And to horse in speed the father sprang.
Deep they lie within earth’s gloomy breast;
Hardly the half-sunken funeral tablets
Now point out the places where they rest!
Many to the winds were long since scattered,—
Like their tombs, their memories sunk and shattered!
O’er the brilliant deeds of ages gone
Sweep the cloud-folds of Oblivion!
Thus flit by the visions of vain might!
Thus sinks, in the rapid lapse of ages,
All that earth doth bear, to empty night!
Laurels, that the victor’s brow encircle,
High deeds, that in brass and marble sparkle,
Urns devoted unto Memory,
And the songs of Immortality!
Here on earth a noble heart doth warm,
Vanishes like sunshine in the autumn,
When the horizon’s verge is veiled in storm.
Friends at evening part with warm embraces,—
Morning looks upon the death-pale faces;
Even the joys that love and friendship find
Leave on earth no lasting trace behind.