Lines Written In The Album At Elbingerode, In The Hartz Forest
I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound; And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct From many a note of many a waterfall, And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on In low and languid mood: for I had found That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Their finer influence from the Life within; Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, O dear, dear England! how my longing eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!
My native Land! Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who framed Mankind to be one mighty family, Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
Love
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve !
She leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she know, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined : and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,--
There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land!
And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; And how she tended him in vain-- And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;--
And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;--
His dying words--but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faultering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin-shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped-- The suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
Love's Apparition and Evanishment: An Allegoric Romance
Like a lone Arab, old and blind, Some caravan had left behind, Who sits beside a ruin'd well, Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant, And listens for a human sound--in vain! And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;-- Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, I sate upon the couch of camomile; And--whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, Flitted across the idle brain, the while I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance, Turn'd my eye inward--thee, O genial Hope, Love's elder sister! thee did I behold Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, Lie lifeless at my feet! And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, And stood beside my seat; She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, As she was wont to do;-- Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath Woke just enough of life in death To make Hope die anew.
