Da blieben sie lachend die Antwort schuldig.
“IM WUNDERSCHÖNEN MONAT MAI”
Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,
Als alle Knospen sprangen,
Da ist in meinem Herzen
Die Liebe aufgegangen.
Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,
Als alle Vögel sangen,
Da hab’ ich ihr gestanden
Mein Sehnen und Verlangen.
“WITH WITLESS GIRLS”
With witless girls, I have thought,
Nothing can be done with witless ones;
But when I approached the clever ones,
I fared even worse.
The clever ones were much too clever for me,
Their questions made me impatient,
And when I myself asked the most important thing,
They laughingly avoided an answer.
“IN THE WONDROUSLY BEAUTIFUL MONTH OF MAY”
In the wondrously beautiful month of May
When all the buds sprang open,
Then in my heart
Love sprouted.
In the wondrously beautiful month of May
When all the birds were singing,
Then I confessed to her
My longing and desire.
“ICH WOLLTE, MEINE LIEDER”
Ich wollte, meine Lieder
Das wären Blümelein:
Ich schickte sie zu riechen
Der Herzallerliebsten mein.
Ich wollte, meine Lieder
Das wären Küsse fein:
Ich schickt’ sie heimlich alle
Nach Liebchens Wängelein.
Ich wollte, meine Lieder
Das wären Erbsen klein:
Ich kocht’ eine Erbsensuppe,
Die sollte köstlich sein.
“I WISH THAT ALL MY SONGS”
I wish that all my songs
Were little flowers:
I would send them to be smelled
By the darling of my heart.
I wish that all my songs
Were delicate kisses:
I secretly would send them all
To my sweetheart’s little cheek.
I wish that all my songs
Were little peas:
I would cook a peasoup
Which would really be delicious.
August Graf von Platen
(1796-1835)
“In the future I shall use only the most stringent discipline in my work” and “Only a person who has become an absolute master of form and language may call himself an artist in every sense of the word.” Count von Platen sought to live up to these self-set canons by iron self-discipline and absolute devotion to his art. His Wille zur Form or will toward aesthetic form was in part a reaction to the prevailing Romantic Movement which he felt sacrificed, all too often, form to emotional impact. As a result Platen’s poems may at times lack depth of feeling but they reach unequaled perfection in form: no extra syllable mars the rhythm and no impure rhyme offends the ear.
The ballad Das Grab im Busento offers a glimpse into the methodology of a poet who strove for perfection and to whom intricate verse forms and complex rhyme schemes were a challenge rather than a deterrent. Platen was inspired to compose the ballad after reading Gibbon’s description in The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire of the grandiose burial of the Visigoth King Alaric (A.D. 410), whose valor the Goths celebrated not only with “mournful applause” but by forcing thousands of their Roman captives to divert the course of the river Busentinus in order to provide in the vacant bed a place for the royal sepulchre “adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome.” Then, as Gibbon relates, “the waters were restored to their natural channel; and the secret spot was forever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners.” This episode with its brutal ending would seem to offer scant material for a heroic ballad. But Platen shaped his material to his poetic purpose. He deleted the massacre of the prisoners and the “mournful applause” becomes a chant of glory. He invented details — such as the king being buried in his armor and high on horseback — which turn Gibbon’s prosaic account into a poetic vision through graphic and statuesque imagery. But even this was only the first step: once the first version was written, Platen recast the poem several times; he doubled the length of the lines over the original and tested every word for its aptness and effect. As a result, the long lines of the final version — with their eight accented syllables in perfect trochaic measure — suggest perfectly the mournful yet forceful march of the army’s funeral procession while the careful choice of sonorous and majestic words infuses a heroic spirit into every line.
DAS GRAB IM BUSENTO
Nächtlich am Busento lispeln bei Cosenza dumpfe
Lieder,
Aus den Wassern schallt es Antwort, und in Wirbeln klingt
es wider.
Und den Fluss hinauf, hinunter ziehn die
Schatten tapfrer Goten,
Die den Alarich beweinen, ihres Volkes besten
Toten.
Allzufrüh und fern der Heimat mussten hier sie
ihn begraben,
Während noch die Jugendlocken seine Schultern blond
umgaben.
Und am Ufer des Busento reihten sie sich um die
Wette,
Um die Strömung abzuleiten, gruben sie ein frisches Bette.
In der wogenleeren Höhlung wühlten sie empor
die Erde,
Senkten tief hinein den Leichnam, mit der Rüstung, auf
dem Pferde.
Deckten dann mit Erde wieder ihn und seine stolze
Habe,
Dass die hohen Stromgewächse wüchsen aus
dem Heldengrabe.
Abgelenkt zum zweiten Male, ward der Fluss
herbeigezogen:
Mächtig in ihr altes Bette schäumten die
Busentowogen.
THE GRAVE IN THE BUSENTO
At the shores of the Busento muffled songs are
whispered nightly near Cosenza;
From the waters rings forth answer and in the whirlpools
sounds an echo!
And stream-upward and stream-downward move
the shades of valiant Goths,
Who weep for Alaric, the best departed of their
people.
All too early, far from home, they were forced
to entomb him here,
While his curls, blond and youthful, still around
his shoulders fell.
And on the shores of the Busento they formed ranks,
each vied with each,
To divert the current a new river-bed they dug.
In the hollow, void of waves, they were turning up the
ground,
Into it they lowered deeply the dead body,
in its armor and on horseback.
Then they covered him again, him with his proud
possessions,
That the tall river plants might sprout from the hero’s
grave.
For the second time diverted, the river was drawn
near:
Mighty, the Busento waves foamed into their old
bed.
Und es sang ein Chor von Männern: “Schlaf in deinen
Heldenehren!
Keines Römers schnöde Habsucht soll dir je dein
Grab versehren!”
Sangen’s, und die Lobgesänge tönten fort im
Gotenheere;
Wälze sie, Busentowelle, wälze sie von Meer
zu Meerel
And a choir of men was singing: “Sleep upon your
hero’s honor!
Never shall your grave be despoiled by the vile greed of
a Roman!”
So they sang and the songs of Praise rang forth
in the Gothic ranks;
Roll them onward, Busento waves, roll them on from
sea to sea!
Friedrich Rückert
(1788-1866)
Like man
y of the writers and poets of the Romantic Period, Rückert was both a scholar and a poet. He taught Oriental languages, first at the University of Erlangen, later in Berlin. His interpretation of Oriental culture and literature and his translations from Arabic and Sanskrit won him wide acclaim. Goethe — who late in life had also been inspired by Oriental poetry, as exemplified in his West-Östlicher Divan — hailed Rückert as a worthy fellow-worker in the common task of stimulating their countrymen’s interest in world literature. As a poet Rückert, however, owes his reputation less to his virtuosity in imitating the intricate patterns of Oriental stanzas, such as the Persian gazel, than to his patriotic lyrics during the War of Liberation from Napoleon, poems such as the Geharnischte Sonette (Sonnets in Armor) and simpler folk lyrics, such as Liebesfrühling (Spring of Love) from which this selection is taken. The unaffected emotion and quiet serenity of this poem has been magically captured by Franz Schubert’s composition, Du bist die Ruh’. Many other of Rückert’s poems live on by virtue of the musical settings by Brahms, while his cycle of songs Kindertotenlieder (Songs on the Death of Children), written after the death of his two children, will survive in Gustav Mahler’s musical rendition.
KEHR’ EIN BEI MIR!
Du bist die Ruh’,
Der Friede mild,
Die Sehnsucht du
Und was sie stillt.
Ich weihe dir
Voll Lust und Schmerz
Zur Wohnung hier
Mein Aug’ und Herz.
Kehr’ ein bei mir,
Und schliesse du
Still hinter dir
Die Pforten zu.
Treib’ andern Schmerz
Aus dieser Brust!
Voll sei dies Herz
Von deiner Lust.
Dies Augenzelt
Von deinem Glanz
Allein erhellt,
O füll’ es ganz.
ALIGHT WITH ME
You are repose,
Tranquility mild,
You are longing
And what fulfills it.
To you I dedicate
Full of joy and sorrow
As dwelling place
My eyes and heart.
Alight with me
And then lock
Quietly behind you
The portals.
Drive other sorrow
From this breast,
Let this heart be filled
By your delights.
This canopy of my eyes
From your lustre
Alone lights up.
Oh, fill it completely.
Viktor von Scheffel
(1826-1886)
When Victor von Scheffel was a university student, he found the life of the Burschenschaften (German fraternities), with their zest for outings and lengthy drinking bouts, much more to his liking than the lectures at the university. Out of this rollicking period in his life came a collection of poems, significantly bearing the old Latin motto Gaudeamus (Let’s be merry), which are nearly as popular among students today as when Scheffel first wrote them about a hundred years ago. Sung to traditional tunes or to the melodies by various German composers, Scheffel’s early poetry has become part of the standard repertory of university song-fests. It is easy to understand why, for the poet extols the virtues of a free student life and satirizes professors and the various arts and sciences, from literature to geology. In the poem Altassyrisch cultural history serves as the butt of his joke. Here Scheffel uses one of his favorite devices; he carelessly mixes allusions to the distant past (the cuneiform characters) and allusions to biblical history (the story of Jonah and the whale) with unmistakable references to modern times (the clock which strikes the hour). The result is a very funny potpourri of anachronisms — and also tells a truth which students and other carousers have experienced throughout the ages.
ALTASSYRISCH
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Da trank ein Mann drei Tag’,
Bis dass er steif wie ein Besenstiel
Am Marmortische lag.
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Da sprach der Wirt: “Halt an!
Der trinkt von meinem Dattelsaft
Mehr als er zahlen kann.”
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Da bracht’ der Kellner Schar
In Keilschrift auf sechs Ziegelstein
Dem Gast die Rechnung dar.
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Da sprach der Gast: “O wehl
Mein bares Geld ging alles drauf
Im Lamm zu Niniveh!”
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Da schlug die Uhr halb vier,
Da warf der Hausknecht aus Nubierland
Den Fremden vor die Tür.
Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon
Wird kein Prophet geehrt,
Und wer vergnügt dort leben will,
Zahlt bar, was er verzehrt.
OLD ASSYRIAN
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
A man drank for three days
Until, as stiff as a broomstick,
He lay on the marble table.
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
The innkeeper said: “Enough!”
He’s drinking of my date juice
More than he can ever pay.”
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
A drove of waiters brought —
On six tiles in cuneiform —
The bill up to the guest.
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
The guest he said: “Alas!
All my cash went by the boards
At the Lamb in Niniveh!”
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
The clock was striking four,
Then the porter from Nubia threw
The stranger out the door.
At the Black Whale in Ascalon
No prophet is respected,
And who wants to live in pleasure there,
Pays cash for what he consumes.
Detlev von Liliencron
(1844-1909)
Liliencron turned poet at the age of forty, when he resigned from the German army because of severe injuries sustained in battle. The two poems below reflect, in a way, the career of this officer-turned-poet. As in many of his poems, he is able to convey a fleeting series of impressions, gathered during his military service. In Die Musik kommt he uses an impressionistically colorful sequence of pictures and a series of masterful onomatopoetic descriptions to make us both see and hear the military procession. We first hear the music approaching from the distance — then we hear windows and lanterns vibrate from the crescendo of the instruments and the pounding steps as the regiment passes right in front of us — and finally we listen to the sounds dying away in the distance. The entire village — and with it Liliencron — thrills with delight at the sight of the soldiers on parade. But Liliencron who had fought in the Austro-Prussian war of 1866 and the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-1871 was equally aware of the pall of suffering and death cast over a dashing parade of soldiers. Wer weiss wo is almost an anti-war poem. Suddenly the cheerful sounds of the peace-time parade are transmuted into sounds which “did not sound gay”: the grief of a father at the news of his youngster’s death.
DIE MUSIK KOMMT
Klingling, bumbum und tschingdada,
Zieht im Triumph der Perserschah?
Und um die Ecke brausend bricht’s
Wie Tubaton des Weltgerichts,
Voran der Schellenträger.
Brumbrum, das grosse Bombardon,
Der Beckenschlag, das Helikon,
Die Pikkolo, der Zinkenist,
Die Türkentrommel, der Flötist,
Und dann der Herre Hauptmann.
Der Hauptmann naht mit stolzem Sinn,
Die Schuppenketten unterm Kinn,
Die Schärpe schnürt den schlanken Leib,
Beim Zeus! Das ist kein Zeitvertreib;
Und dann die Herren Leutnants.
&nbs
p; Zwei Leutnants, rosenrot und braun,
Die Fahne schützen sie als Zaun;
Die Fahne kommt, den Hut nimm ab,
Der bleiben treu wir bis ans Grab!
Und dann die Grenadiere.
Die Grenadier im strammen Tritt,
In Schritt und Tritt und Tritt und Schritt,
Das stampft und dröhnt und klappt und flirrt,
Laternenglas und Fenster klirrt,
Und dann die kleinen Mädchen.
THE MUSIC’S COMING
Ding-dong, bang-bang, tshingdada,
Is it a procession triumphant of the Persian shah?
And around the corner it breaks forth with a roar
Like the tuba’s tone of the judgment day,
Introduction to German Poetry Page 6