The bell now ceas'd as bell to ring,Roused by the mother's twaddle;But soon ensued a dreadful thing!--The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
The child, with trembling wonder, Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last,And straightway nimbly rushes To church, to chapel, hastening fastThrough pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well,His late disaster heeds he;The moment that he bears the bell,No other summons needs he.
1813.
FAITHFUL ECKART,"OH, would we were further! Oh, would we were home, The phantoms of night tow'rd us hastily come,The band of the Sorceress sisters.
They hitherward speed, and on finding us here, They'll drink, though with toil we have fetch'd it, the beer,And leave us the pitchers all empty."Thus speaking, the children with fear take to flight, When sudden an old man appears in their sight:
"Be quiet, child! children, be quiet!
From hunting they come, and their thirst they would still, So leave them to swallow as much as they will,And the Evil Ones then will be gracious."As said, so 'twas done! and the phantoms draw near, And shadowlike seem they, and grey they appear,~Yet blithely they sip and they revel The beer has all vanish'd, the pitchers are void;With cries and with shouts the wild hunters, o'erjoy'd,Speed onward o'er vale and o'er mountain.
The children in terror fly nimbly tow'rd home, And with them the kind one is careful to come:
"My darlings, oh, be not so mournful!--"They'll blame us and beat us, until we are dead."--"No, no! ye will find that all goes well," he said;"Be silent as mice, then, and listen!
"And he by whose counsels thus wisely ye're taught, Is he who with children loves ever to sport.
The trusty and faithful old Eckart.
Ye have heard of the wonder for many a day, But ne'er had a proof of the marvellous lay,--Your hands hold a proof most convincing."They arrive at their home, and their pitchers they place By the side of their parents, with fear on their face,Awaiting a beating and scolding.
But see what they're tasting: the choicest of beer!
Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheerThe pitchers remain still unemptied.
The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day;All people who hear of it doubtless will say:
"What happen'd at length to the pitchers?"In secret the children they smile, as they wait;At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate,And straightway the pitchers were empty.
And if, children, with kindness address'd ye may be, Whether father, or master, or alderman he,Obey him, and follow his bidding!
And if 'tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue, Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young--And then will the beer fill your pitchers!
1813.
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide, And women and men stepping forth are descried,In cerements snow-white and trailing.
In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,And whirl round in dances so gay;The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,But the cerements stand in their way;And as modesty cannot avail them aught here, They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appearScatter'd over the tombs in confusion.
Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,As the troop with strange gestures advance, And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,As of one beating time to the dance.
The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer, When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:
"Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!"Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fledBehind the church-door with all speed;The moon still continues her clear light to shedOn the dance that they fearfully lead.
But the dancers at length disappear one by one, And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,And under the turf all is quiet.
But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,And gropes at the graves in despair;Yet 'tis by no comrade he's treated so illThe shroud he soon scents in the air.
So he rattles the door--for the warder 'tis well That 'tis bless'd, and so able the foe to repel,All cover'd with crosses in metal.
The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,There remains for reflection no time;On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,And from point on to point hastes to climb.
Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!
Like a long-legged spider, with ne'er-changing speed,Advances the dreaded pursuer.
The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,The shroud to restore fain had sought;When the end,--now can nothing to save him avail,--In a tooth formed of iron is caught.
With vanishing lustre the moon's race is run, When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,And the skeleton fails, crush'd to atoms.
1813.
THE PUPIL IN MAGIC.
I AM now,--what joy to hear it!--Of the old magician rid;
And henceforth shall ev'ry spiritDo whate'er by me is bid;I have watch'd with rigourAll he used to do,And will now with vigourWork my wonders too.
Wander, wanderOnward lightly,So that rightlyFlow the torrent,And with teeming waters yonderIn the bath discharge its current!
And now come, thou well-worn broom,And thy wretched form bestir;Thou hast ever served as groom,So fulfil my pleasure, sir!
On two legs now stand,With a head on top;Waterpail in hand,Haste, and do not stop!
Wander, wanderOnward lightly,So that rightlyFlow the torrent,And with teeming waters yonderIn the bath discharge its current!
See! he's running to the shore,And has now attain'd the pool, And with lightning speed once moreComes here, with his bucket full!
Back he then repairs;
See how swells the tide!
How each pail he bearsStraightway is supplied!
Stop, for, lo!
All the measureOf thy treasureNow is right!--Ah, I see it! woe, oh woe!
I forget the word of might.
