SUHKRKHtHJIOftl'lirtriUtiilltislittM:»;' -Ä 80TZ6S SF cmFm^mn ^^M^ SONGS OF TOIL BY CARMEN SYLVA, QUEEN OF RUMANIA TRANSLATED BY JOHN ELIOT BOWEN With an Introductory Sketch FOURTH EDITION NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1887, by The Indhpendkwt. Copyright, 1888, by John Eliot Bow«m. CONTENTS. Introductory Sketch The Scissors-Grinder's Song (£d)eerenfc^leiferUeb SJie^^erlteb The Butcher's Song gtmmermannSlieb The Carpenter's Song ^apicrinai^er . The Paper-Maker . HJIuUertteb . The Miller's Song ^eim (yiitterrt . Fodder-Time SScim SRolfen . IMilking-Time Slin ? A rendezvous that should appear accidental was ar- ranged at Cologne, and there, in October of 1869, Prince Charles and Princess Elizabeth met, fell in love, and became engaged all in the space of an afternoon. The engagement was a short one of necessity, and on the 15th of November the marriage was celebrated in Neu- wied with such pomp and circumstance as the quiet Rhenish town had never seen before. But it was all as nothing compared with the splendor of the reception in Rumania, and of the marriage ceremony according to the rites of the Greek Church. After her marriage, Elizabeth devoted herself at once to the study of the institutions of the country and of the language of the people, which, being a Latin and not a Slavic language, was easily acquired by her in consequence of her knowledge both of Latin and i8 SONGS OF TOIL. Italian. In September of 1870, the Princess became the mother of a daughter. For four years only did this child live, but those four years were the happiest Eliza- beth had known since her own childhood. The full, warm love of her nature she bestowed upon her little Marie. The child was one of hundreds of children to ■succumb to what seemed a plague of diphtheria, typhoid and scarlet fevers, which raged in Bucharest during the winter of 1873 and 1S74. Until April Marie withstood the diseases, but then scarlet fever, followed by diphthe- ria attacked her, and the slender body of the child had to yield. The deathbed scene was woefully pathetic. The mother watched hopeless and helpless above Marie till the last. The little one in her delirium started from her trundle-bed and would not lie down. "Oh, no, no!" she said in terror, "if I lie down I shall fall asleep and never wake up any more." And a;;ain she exclaimed : *' I want to go to Sinaia, and drink of the water of Pe- lesch." But when a glass was reached out to her, she shook her head and said, in English, "All is finished," and shortly after passed away in her English nurse's arms. The mother stood there immovable, without a tear and without a complaint ; she said, simply and reverently, "The good Lord loved my child more than I, and has taken her to him. I thank God he gave her to me." This loss was to Elizabeth like the end of life. She had, as we have seen, met death before. First her INTROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 19 brother, then her father, and one friend and relative after another had been taken from her. Her sorrow in each case was keen ; but now it was dull and heavy, and harder and enduring. It permeated her life ; and yet she did not wholly give up to it. It broadened her sym- pathies and increased her benevolences, and, indeed widened the scope of her life, and made her the "little mother" of her people. To them she had devoted her- self from the first. She had found that the jesting words of her maidenhood were true indeed : here, in Rumania, there was still a chance to accomplish some- thing. Her first work had been for the school-children. A poor-union was established to provide proper books for the education of the children. The Princess found that there were absolutely no school-books or popular works in the Rumanian language, and she set about translating at once the best French books for children. Her object was less to interest the young than to de- velop a strong national character, which she well knew could not exist without the basis of language. In other ways, too, she sought to strengthen Rumanian nation- ality. She encouraged the use of the national costume, and made the wearing of it obligatory at the public charity balls in Bucharest. She established a school of embroidery, which is one of the national industries, and a union called *' Concordia," whose purpose is to further the development of all national industries. She founded also an asylum for orphans and waifs. SONGS OF TOIL. in which between four and five hundred girls from five to twenty years of age are housed and educated in the practical affairs of life. We are told that the reputation of this home is so exceptional and wide-spread that the young men of Rumania think themselves lucky if they can choose a wife from among the industrious girls in the *' Asyle Helene." To sum up in the words of Miss Zimmern,* " She founded schools, hospitals, soup-kitchens, convalescent homes, cooking-schools, and creches; she encouraged popular lectures; she inculcated respect for sanitary laws, most needful in an eastern land ; she founded art galleries and art schools." Some of her charitable enterprises, not here enumerated, were described to me in a recent letter from the Queen's private secretary, Mr. Robert Scheffer, to whom I am indebted for many suggestions and kindnesses. Concluding his description, he says: "But as the Queen does not like her charitable works to be known, I shall only add that the quantity of good done by her Majesty in private is incalculable, and not one-tenth of it is known by the public." All this work, which she had begun while *' Itty," as her little daughter was endearingly called, was still alive, the childless mother found a sweet solace in the days of her great sorrow. A still greater comfort, how- ever, was found in an appeal to that talent which had been hers from childhood, but which had never been ♦ The Ceiitur>' Magazine, August, 1884. INTROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. cultivated. No one dreamed that the Princess Eliza- beth was a poet. But one day a native poet named Alexandri called upon her in Bucharest, and she said to him : " I would like to make a confession to you, but I have not the courage for it." After a long silence, however, and amid many blushes, she added : " I, too, make verses." At Alexandri's request she produced some of her songs, and the poet was warm in his praise of them. He urged her to continue writing, and in- dited many poems to her himself, which she translated from the Rumanian tongue into German. While at work upon these translations, she wrote : " The ^eatest possible change has come over my poet-life. I had no idea that poetizing is an art, or that one must learn how to be a poet. I had supposed that to learn to make poems would be like a man teaching a bird to sing. Verses and rhymes flowed from my pen more easily than prose. I feared, as soon as I attempted to bind myself to rules and methods, I should forfeit my talent as punishment of my empty conceit. In the terrible pain of the spring of 1874, songs were no longer a relief. Only the strain of exhausting toil could deaden it. And so I took to translating." She applied herself diligently to this work, and said soon after that she had learned more by translating than in any other way. She showed her work to another poet of local fame, whose advice and assistance she received. In the following summer, with her mother, she paid a visit to England, and spent two days with Max Müller at Oxford. She had with her a little book in the form of a missal, which she had prepared for her mother, and SONGS OF TOIL. which she called " My Journey through the World: a collection of Rhymes and Verses, dedicated to the Mother Heart." The book contained the poems that she had composed from her sixteenth to her thirtieth year. Scarcely one of these was known to her mother. Charles Kingsley was present when she surprised her mother with the gift. Elizabeth showed to them the four lines in which she prayed God to preserve her child from unhappiness, want, and sin; and as she pronounced the last line: „Xu tücißt e3 : 3cf) J)abe nur (Sines/' Kingsley's eyes filled with tears, and the mother wept for joy and pain. In January, 1875, Elizabeth wrote: "I am not trans- lating at all now, because I write so much myself." Her poetic activity was at its height when she was visiting Sinaia. This beautiful region was to Bucharest what Monrepos had been to Neuwied. Here again she found freedom and the forest. The beautiful stream of Pelesch dances down the rough side of the mountains and winds into the valley of Sinaia. It is shaded by primeval forests in which the nightingales sing and the wild-flowers bloom. There the sad mother-heart found rest even while her mind was inspired to activity. In this region of beautiful wildness she laid the corner- stone of her summer-house in August of 1875, ^^"^ the dancing stream, for whose water her child called in its last delirium, gave its name to the castle whose towers rise among the trees of the forest. The princess ly TRODUCTORY SKE TCH. a 3 watched the progress of the structure with the greatest possible interest, and with no little sympathy for the workmen whose polyglot of tongues — no less than twelve in number — made the silences about the for- est and the quarries ring with strange sounds. Had she not watched the toilers in the quarry near by, from which all the material for the castle was taken, she pro- babably would never have written the touching song of „etetm'djuciöcr," page 142. It was at the end of this summer that Elizabeth wrote the libretto for an operetta performed during the following winter in Bucharest. The work was a poeti- cal adaptation of an old Rumanian legend. When the princess had been working at her poetry zealously for more than two years, at such times and hours as freedom from official life permitted, and just at the time when she had sufficient material to lead her to think of publishing her work to the world, the Turko-Russian war broke out, and Rumania became the battle-ground of a terrible conflict. That was not a time for poetrv-, except of the heroic order. The poetry of words was forgotten in the poetry of deeds. Prince Charles of necessity took Russia's side, and became a gallant leader against the Turkish crescent. Princess Elizabeth followed the army, and sought to temper the misery of the battle-field. She was the Florence Night- ingale of the war. Her people called her " the mother of the wounded." Childless, she was always a mother. SONGS OF TOIL. She moved from bed to bed in the hospitals, and spoke words of comfort, nay almost of healing. She was worshipped by every sufferer. At the close of the war a marble statue was raised to her by the wives of the officers of the Rumanian army as a memorial of the merciful part played by her on the battle-field. Fol- lowing the war there was a rearrangement of boundary and territory between Russia and Rumania, which was ratified by the treaty of Berlin, which, at the same time, recognized the independence of Rumania as a kingdom, though providing that certain conditions should be ful- filled. These were carried out, and in March, i8Si, Prince Charles issued his royal proclamation. On the 22d of May he was crowned with a diadem made from cannon captured at Plevna, where he distinguished himself, as did his people, for bravery. At the same time a golden crown was placed upon the head of " the mother of the wounded." The ceremony was carried out with true royal magnificence, and the day and night were given up to festivities and rejoicing. It is only since the end of the Turko-Russian war that the Queen, as we must now call her, has appeared in literature. It was in 1880 that the first book was published, bearing on its title-page the name " Carmen Sylva" — an appropriate pen-name for one who loves the song and the forest as Elizabeth always has. This first book consists of translations into German of the Rximanian poems of Alexandri and others. At this same IN TROD UCTOR V SICE TCH. 35 time she wrote a French comedy for a company in Bu- charest, and a number of aphorisms in French, which were afterwards published in Paris under the title of " Pensees d'une Reine." * In 1881 the queen published her first book of original poems. The book is enti- tled „Stürme" and contains four poems: „SappIjO," „§ammerftein/' „Ueber beit SBaffern/' and ,/Scf)iff* bruc^.'" I cannot go into a criticism of these poems, which are of varying merit. Both Miss Zimmern t and Professor Boyesen t agree that „Sappl)0" is the best of the four. Of this Professor Boyesen says : — " Miss Zimmern has anticipated me in saying that " Sappho," the principal poem in this volume, is quite un-Greek. It is, in fact, both in form and conception, as Germanic as possible. It has none of the bright and unconscious sensuousness and heedless grace of Greek song. The fateful dream of Lais, the daughter of Sappho, with which the poem opens, bears some resemblance to the dream of ChriemhDd in the first canto of the " Niebelungen Lay," although butterflies are substituted for eagles. But apart from the moral ana- chronism which is implied in the domestic virtues and Teutonic con- scientiousness of the Lesbian poetess, there is much to admire. As a mere woman, without reference to age or nationality, Sappho is strongly and vividly delineated, and the songs which she sings, * That this work has a high standing in France may be judged from the fact that the French Academy, on April 25, 1S8S, voted to offer its author a medal of honor, devoting to this puq)ose a part of the accrued interest of the prize-fund established by Mrs. Vincengo Botta, of New York, for literarj' works composed by women. t The Century Magazine, August, 1884. % The Independent, November 24, 1887. 16 SO.VGS OF TOIL. though they have neither the Sapphic meter nor spirit, are lyrical gems which we could ill afford to miss. Thus the charming little lay : „SSeim tobt id) tuerbc fein," in the third canto, has an " un- premeditated art" which none but true singers attain. It expires like a sigh in the air, and is as eloquent of the emotion which prompted it. The hexameter in "Sappho "3s handled with much skill; but the perpetually occurring alliteration, to my mind, inter- feres with its melodious effect. As a metrical device alliteration is of Germanic origin, and seems alien to the spirit of Greek poetry. There is also a certain exasperating monotony in the constantly re- peated initial letters, which gives an air of artificiality even to the noblest verse." In 1882 appeared „S)ie §eje/' a collection of poems inspired by Carl Cauer's statue of '* The Witch." Of this book Miss Zimmern says : — " This work is very characteristic of the Queen's writings, in that she is apt to wTite too fast, so that excellent fundamental ideas are made abortive by inadequate execution. She does not observe the Horation ma5:im ; the impetuosity that is a part of her character is reflected in her work. She lacks patience. This fault is really to be deplored, and the more that the Queen has genuine poetical gifts, a fine fancy, a musical ear, fire, and grace. But her facility consti- tutes her weakness. Had she not been a royal author, had she had to do battle with the exigencies, caprices, uncertainties of publishers and editors, she would have received just that schooling which she lacks, and which hinders her from being a great poet, and confines her within the ranks of minor singers." I cannot find the evidences of haste that appear to Miss Zimmern. The portions of „2)ie §e^*e" that might have been hurriedly done are those written in an unrhymed trochaic tetrameter, but even these show no INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 27 carelessness in construction. And there are poems in the work which are as good in point of technique as anything the Queen has done. It is, moreover, hardly fair to charge with violation of the Horatian maxim one who kept the secret of her compositions to herself from her sixteenth to her thirtieth year, and only began to publish when she was nearly forty. The next poetical work of Carmen Sylva's that was published is entitled „3e{)00al}."' It describes the wan- derings of Ahasuerus in search of God. His journey begins with the scoffing assertion, „(S6 ift fctn ©Ott !" and ends with the acknowledgment, „@ott ifl eiüig ^Serben." The poem tells its story with force and fer- vor. "It would be vain," says Professor Boyesen, "to deny the exalted beauty and dignity of the verse in which the wrestlings of Ahasuerus with the infinite are depicted." The Queen's next volume of verse made its appearance in 1SS3, under the title of ,^3)Zeine ^Ru^." This is a collection of lyrics and songs — the kind of verse that shows Carmen Sylva to the best advantage. This was apparent even in „2appl)0/' the most beautiful parts of which are the songs, introduced in much the same way and to the same purpose as the interludes are intro- duced by Tennyson in the " Princess." The first poem of „9J?eine 9xul)" is called „Carmen" and the last, „®l)lDa." Between these boundaries the Queen has poured out her heart and made her appeals to and from nature, and written down her pretty conceits and a8 SONGS OF TOIL. the epigrams in which she delights. The first edition of „SJJeine 9?ul)" was quickly exhausted, and I have been unable to obtain a copy, much to my regret, as it con- tained the first series of „^anbirerfcrlieber" — "Songs of Toil." These were withheld by the Queen from the second edition in order that she might improve and enlarge the series, which has now been concluded, and comprises the poems originally published in „9Jfeine 9^11^/' and those now first gathered in this volume. The Queen will publish the entire collection in a vol- ume by itself, I am informed, some time during the coming winter. To a book of poems published in 1884 Carmen Sylva gave her whole heart; for this one is entitled „9Jieill 9i^ein \" Here she writes of the places she loves most, the spots dear to her ^ugenbjeit. „53ingen/' „IBorelei/' ,ßj\t 9J^ofeI/' „gjionrepoS/' „5(Itnjicb," are some of the titles of the thirty songs that make up this book. The songs are as sweet and simple as the twenty etchings that adorn the volume are beautiful. One more volume of poems has followed this. It is entitled „SJiein S3urf)/' and contains a collection of poems upon Egypt. I have not been able to secure the volume, and cannot speak of Jts merits. Of the Queen's recent prose works I have space to give little more than the titles. They comprise : „Sei-- ben§ ©rbenganc;" (1882), a collection of Rumanian le- gends; „5luö Carmen ®t)(oa'ö Ä'önigreid)" (1883), also IN TR OD UC TOR Y SKE TCH. 29 a collection of tales, which were revised in a new edition published last year; „Gin @ebet" (1883), a story; „%VL^ Sraei 233eltcu" (1885), a novel; „%\i'^^" (18S6), a novel; „(2§ tlopft" (1887), a story; and „gelbpofi" (1887), a novel. In the composition of „%Vii 3*oei SSelten," „^ftra," and „gelbpoft" as well as of a col- lection of tales called „3n ber "^xxt" the Queen had the collaboration of the Frau Dr. Kremnitz. In Au- gust of 1887 the Queen translated a novel by Pierre Loti in the space of fourteen days, and published the book under the title of „Sc^lanbfifdjer."' During this period of marvellous literary activity the Queen also revised and brought out a new edition of her " Les Pensees d'une Reine." She has had the satisfaction of seeing many of her songs set to music by Bungert, Reinecke, and other composers. Some are now in preparation by Madame Augusta Holmesand Charles Gounod; and Bungert, I am informed, is to set the „^aiibiuerferlieber" to music. It is now necessary that I speak in detail of these „^anbroerferlieber" or " Songs of Toil," to which I have several times alluded. The "Songs of Toil," which give this volume its name, have never been published in Germany or Ru- mania. Seventeen of these songs, in German and in English, were first published in The Indepeitdejit of New York, in November, 1S87. Six others were published in the same journal in July of the present year. The rest appear now for the first time. Early in the summer 30 SOiVGS OF TOIL. of 1887 I wrote to Carmen Sylva, in my capacity of edi- tor of the poetical department of The Independent, asking her to contribute to the columns of which I had charge. I received in reply seventeen " songs," together with the following note from the Queen's secretary : Castel Pelesch, August 21st, iSSj. Secretariat de S. M. La Reine de Roumanie . Editor of The Independent: Sir: — In answer to your honored of the i6th past, Her Majesty the Queen, breaking for once her rule of never gmng any of her productions to a periodical, charges me to send you the second series of „^attbiuerterlieber/' the first of which was published in Carman Sylva's „5Keiiie IRu^." The inclosed seventeen songs, being of quite recent date, have not yet appeared in print, and Her Majesty leaves it to your choice to publish them all or to make a selection of those most adapted to the American public. In case the peculiar and essentially German character of the poems should render a satisfactory translation in verse difficult, Her Majesty thinks it would suffice to give the German original, adding to it a good trans- lation in prose. As to the offered hotwrariiim. Her Majesty is pleased to accept it as a contribution to the sums produced by the sale of her other works, which form a special fund for needy authors; you will please send the money to me. I beg also that you will give me immediate notice on receipt of the manuscript, and I am, sir. Your obedient servant, Robert Scheffer, Private Secretary to Her Majesty the Queen of Rumania. After these poems had been published, the Queen herself wrote me the following note : INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. Sir : — Your translations of my songs are so very beautiful that I was quite surprised in reading them. There are very few little things you have perhaps misunderstood, but they are scarcely worth while talking of when it is all so very good. As I have translated a good deal myself, I know the difficulties ver>' well, and I admire your work in consequence. I am very happy to be brought in so beautiful a clothing before your American public, and I thank you kindly for all the pains you have taken. EUZABETH. With this note the Queen sent me „3nU/' page 62, and „®cf)eerenfc^teiferlieb/' page 38, and subsequently her secretary forwarded to me the twelve additional songs which are included in this volume. It is fortunate that the American public should first know the Queen as a poet through these „5)aubirerEer= lieber ;" for they are at once the index of her character and the illustration of her genius. I say genius, for certainly the chief attribute of genius is not wanting — originality. The „^nnbmerferlieber" in conception and expression are original. It is true that in some of them, in the „iBäcferlieb," page 92, and in „2)er @eigcn= jnad)er/' page 138, for example, there is a suggestion of Heine; but this is so slight that we may say that the Queen's songs are distinctively her own. And they are the index of her character. No one can read these songs and not know the Queen. She said herself, in one of her letters quoted by her biographer: "The pictures of my fantasy are seldom gay — they never were." Her life has been a sad one, and most of these SONGS OF TOIL. songs are sung in a minor key. But it is not a selfish sadness that the poems reveal. On the contrary, her boundless sympathy for the poor is the most striking disclosure of these " Songs of Toil." It is as special as it is comprehensive. In each case does she seem to have entered into the life, made up of trials, hope, pride, am- bition, discouragement, sorrow, or joy of the one whose song she is singing. No proud queen ever showed such touch of sympathy. She has the soul to feel and the gift to sing. Into the lives of others she pours her own heart-beats. How admirably in the „®ci)ifferUeb/' page 68, has she contrasted the two phases of the boatman's life, whose home is on the Danube. We see him one day sailing merrily down with the current, the picture of in- dolent ease and joy; and the next day we see him toiling along the sandy shore, towing his boat to the upper stream, his task severe, but his progress sure. Again, one is at a loss to fancy how so disagreeable a subject as the „yjle^ger" could have been treated better than in the grimly humorous way in which the Queen has set forth the „"uJiet^gerlteb/' page 40. In „2)er @ä= matin/' page 64, what a vivid glimpse of the farmer sowing his seed do the words „'^XC^tX ®d)ritte baiin bte §anbtiOÜ" present! Again there is genius in the co- quetry of the mill-stream; the pathos of the „3inimer= liiQiin^Ueb/' page 42, is as simple as it is sweet; „53etm güttern" page 52, and „33eim ÜJiolfeii/' page 56, carry the odor of clover with them ; and so on through the IN TROD UCTOR Y S/CE TCH. list we find that each has a charm or a piquancy of its own, until we come to the „@teinfd)neiber/' page 142, where we are forced to believe that the question of the concluding lines, with its inevitable answer "No!" ap- plies to the toiling poor of whatever trade or calling. In speaking of the „^atibtDerfetlieber/' I must not overlook their mechanism. The measures are chosen with an appreciation that is little short of inspiration. For example, wherever the trade of a songster is associ- ated with any kind of noise or motion, we have both sound and motion reproduced in the meter ; this onoma- topoeia is especially noticeable in the „ÜJJüUerlieb/' page 48; the „Söpferlieb" page 98; „^apiermad^er/' page 46; „Seirn Spinnen/' page 80; and „2)er Släfcr/' page 130. The Queen has an excellent musical ear; the numerous feminine endings and the double rhymes are sufficient proof of this. One is even inclined to ad- mit that her variation of the sonnet form is felicitous, as it appears in „2;er ^arbenreiber/' page 88; „2)er ^anbbrtefträger/' page 116; and „Ter »Sämann/' page 64. This substitution for the iambic pentameter of an iambic hexameter with extra syllables at the end of the third and sixth foot is a musical device of which the Hungarian poet Lenau has availed himself in at least one notable instance. It is quite possible that his poem, „2)er §erbftabenb/' may be a favorite with the Queen. In concluding this sketch of Carmen Sylva's life and SONGS OF TOIL. work, and in presenting the translations of her „§anb* irerfertieber/' I must urge that her graceful style is not to be judged by whatever harshness there may be in the English versions. Read the original, those who can; the translation, those who must ; read, and you will ac- cept the statement of the venerable poet Whittier, that the Queen of Rumania is " crowned not alone with a diadem and title, but with the laurel-wreaths of poetic genius." J. E. B. New York, August, 1888. SONGS OF TOIL. (35) SONGS OF TOIL. THE SCISSORS-GRINDER'S SONG. T~^ ETCH on your scissors, your slender blade — To make them brilliant and sharp's my trade; xo every door-step my grindstone comes, And on and ever it strolls and hums. I and my grindstone, we wander by, And no one asks me from whence come I ; How poor I am, no one cares to know, None care to hear of my spirit's woe. I'm ground by sorrow both day and night, And yet I never am polished bright ; I'm ground by hunger, and though it pales The face, to sharpen the wit it fails. ^anbvoevhvlkbcv. Sd?eerenfd}leifcrlte5. <^ ringt l^er tie ©c^eeren, bie ÄUngen fein, & 3cl) mod)' fie gtänjenb unb jd)arf iinb vein; Go {)arrt mein 9?äbci)en t>or jebcr S^^iir, Unb fd^nuiTt unb manbert fo für unb für. 3c^ unb mein 9läbd)en, mir ge^'n üorbei; e§ fragt mic^ deiner, mol)er ic^ fei ; SSill Ä'einer miffen mie arm ic^ bin, SSill Reiner ^ören mie me^ mein @inn. Tli6) fc^teift bie ©orge bei Sag unb '^Jladft, Unb f)at mic^ bennod) uici)t fein gemacht ; Tliä) f(f)Ieift ber junger, unb mac^t bod) nid)t S)en 2ßi^ mir fc^ärfer ein blanf @efid)t. 3Jlic^ fd)leift bic 5Reue, unb lößt mir boc^ 2)aS ^erje fd^artig unb roftig noc^. Xa^ 9?ab ift emfig unb rau^ ber @tein — iöringt l)er bie SUngen — id) mad)' fie fein? SONGS OF TOIL. I'm ground by grief, but the work is ill, For notched and rusty my heart is, still. The wheel is whirling, the stone has grit — Fetch on your steel — shall I sharpen it ? (\df bin ein genfer, ic^ jt^minge boS 53cU, ^ Uub men i^ treffe, mirb nirf)t me^r Ijeil; Unb roen i6) binbe fann nici)t me^r gel^'n ; 2öe§ ^opf id) faffe, tann nimmer fte^'n. 3c^ bin ein 3)ottor; brum fommt ju mirl ^d) ^eile jebeg @ebred)en l)icr; S)ie lüebenSmübigfeit ge^t fürba§ äJJit einem ein3igen Siberia^. 3rf) bin ein Söirtt) nnb mein SSein ifl rot^, Uub mit bcr Äreibe I)at'8 feine ^otlj; SBor meiner ®cf)cufe ge^t uic^t oorbci, 2)ie SRu^' ift fid^er, bie 3ec^e fret I THE BUTCHER'S SONG. T AM a headsman, the ax I swing, And if I strike that ends the thing ; And what I tie up cannot get loose — The head I grapple can't slip the noose. I am a doctor, so come to me ; Here heal I every infirmity ; The hypochondria is cured for good By only a single letting of blood. I am a landlord, my wine is red ; I chalk no slate when a man is fed ; Don't pass the inn that belongs to me; The rest is certain ; the score is free I 4X ^tmmermannsücb. 'ir ging e« gut, fo i\a6) unb nac^ ; 2)ie Äinber n)urben gro^ : Ttün eigen §au8 lüar unter 2)ac^ — (So fc^ön ttjar mir fein (Schloß ! Unb : „ 55ater ! " jagt fte, „SSeißt 2)u noc^ ? einft gab eS trocf en S3rob ! 3e^t ^ie^'n ins eigne §au8 tüir hod) !"— 2)ic 2JZutter, bie ift tobt ! 2)cr (Schreiner ^at i^r §au§ gebaut, Unb nid^t ber ^intmemiann ; @tatt meiner l^ot ber Pfarrer taut 2)en @egen§fpruc^ get^an. SJiit i^eierfang unb ©locfenüang, Unb 53Iumen bleu unb rot^, @tatt ©läferflang baä §ers mir jprang ; — S)ie SDZutter, bie ijl tobt ! THE CARPENTER'S SONG. MY lot grew lighter day by day; The children grew apace ; I built a little house last May — No palace like that place. And — "Father," said she, "sure you know That once we ate dr.- bread ? Into our own house now we go ! *' — The Mother, she is dead ! Her house the undertaker made, And not the carpenter; My grace unsaid, the pastor prayed In loud tones over her. The day that's spent with merriment, 'Mid blossoms blue and red, No music lent — my heart was rent ! — The mother, she is dead. 43 sojVgs of toil. 2öir I)atten'§ boc^ fo treit gebracf)t, 2Bir atteö i^ogelpoar ! 2Ber l)at an'§ ©terben au^ gebadjt, 2il8 man beifammen trar ! ÜSerrommelt ftnb bie g^enfter bid)t — 2)Qmit tiafg feine gfJotf) — 3?ertauft bag §ou§! 3d^ mag c8 nid^t- 2)ie abutter, bie ift tobt! soy CS OF TOIL. Vv''e pulled together many a year ; Like old bird-mates were we ; But who e'er thinks of dying here While both together be ? Fast barred is every window-blind — I care not what is said; Yes, sell the house ! I do not mind — The mother, she is dead ! Paptermad^er. ie alten Sappen mir jugefütirt ! w ^ 2)ie f(f)mu^'gen i?umpen l)ineingerü{)rt — 3um 53rei, gum 33rei, tt)ie baS SBettgerid)t ! ^iim S3rei, gum S3rei, mie ein lang @ebid)t ! S)ann fommt eä fd)neeig unb glatt ^erauS, ^Jlu§ Atollen unb 2öal5en unb 9iabgebrau8, 3n großen ^errn, mit ber f^räulein ^m ; 5^ür üeine 2)ici^ter, gum 9^ad)tgefc^mier ; 3n 3eitimg8j(^reibern mit ^ofteS^auct) ; {^ür !i!icbegbriefc^en mit >Sc^meirf)etrau(f) ; Unb gu ^Romanen, b'rin \ä)U(ijt ergä^lt, SESie fici) bic 2Jlenfd)^eit fo ttjeiter quält, 5luf gleid^en ge^en, in ben bereinft 2)ie S^ränen ftrömten, um bie bu meinjl ! 46 T THE PAPER-MAKER. HOSE pieces of rags be quick and bring! The dirty old shreds are just the thing — For pulp, for pulp to record life's wrong, For pulp, for pulp for a poet's song. It conies out smooth and glossy and thin, From rollers and wheels and cylinders' din, For lords and ladies their notes to indite ; For petty poets, who scrawl by night. And newspaper scribblers who bluster and blowj For little love-letters where compliments grow ; And stories in which the aftiictions of men Are wretchedly told by an unskilled pen On just such rags as once wiped away The tears whereat thou weepest to-day ! 47 müUerlteb. :^otrie üom SBaffer @o wirb Dom l?iebc^en 3Jiein 'Sinn gebre^t. es !o|^, es flreic^elt, (58 fd)ilt unb fprü^t, Unb Iad)t unb roenbct Tlix mein ®emüt^. Sie fteif id) tt)c^re, (Sie fpric^t fo fc^nell ; Unb brummenb menbet ©ic^ i^r ©efeH. Unb plappert Slntttjort, Unb ijl fo bumm, Unb gct)t nnb glaubt i^r - 2Bei§ ni(^t marum. 48 THE MILLER'S SONG. JUST as the water The mill-wheel twirls, My little sweetheart My senses whirls. She chats^caresses, And chides me ill, And laughs and changes My mood at will. And if I murmur, She talks so fast ; And her companion Gets cross at last. He rattles an answer, Some silly cry, And goes and believes her - He knows not why. 49 SOATGS OF TOIL. 2)od) fte ^üpft lüeitcr. 3)ee i?ebens fro^, Unb mac^t'8 bem 9?äc^|icn 2)Qnn lüieber fo. 2)er iBad) ift treulos, 2)a8 arjäöblein fdilec^t — O 9Kül^Ienräber ! O 9}iüücr'8 tnetfit I SONGS OF TOIL. But on she capers, Through life so gay, And treats the next one The selfsame way. The brook is faithless, The maiden coy — O whirling mill-wheel 1 O miller boy 1 Beim füttern. Jftic buftig riecf)t'S im @taE! S)ie Äül)c ftrecfcn '2-' 2)ie §älfe lang, mit ungebulb'gem 53rummen, S)en Älee begrüßenb mit sufriebnem ©ummen, Uiib tt)ie bie 9?afen fte jo glänjenb lecfen ! 2)ie ftf)önen 2:i)iere mit bem ©ammetfleibe, 3m golbiien 2ic!)t ber ©ommermorgenfonne, 2JJit quclienb unerfd)öpftem i^ebenSbronne, Tlit golbnen ©ammetaugen üoller $?eibe. Unb ftumm erbulben bann fie beim ©ebärcn S)er <2d)merjen ^ein. 2Bie fmb bie aub'ren tü^t SSoü 2JJitgefüt)l ! S)a^ fpärlic^ unb mit 2JJü^e @ie an bem Sage brummenb 2J^Ucf) gemä^ren. S)a8 Iierä'ge Äälbc^en mufe ic^ nun belügen; 2)ie §anb im (Eimer. 2JJeine ginger taugen ?lt§ Gntertrug. S)e6 jarten 2JJäuIrf)en§ Oaugcn p^l' i(^ fo marm mit innigem S5ergnügen. FODDER-TIME. TT ow sweet the manger smells ! The cows all listen With outstretched necks, and with impatient lowing ; They greet the clover, their content now showing — And how they lick their noses till they glisten ! The velvet-coated beauties do not languish Beneath the morning's golden light that's breaking, The unexhausted spring of life awaking, Their golden eyes of velvet full of anguish. They patiently endure their pains. Bestowing Their sympathy, the other cows are ruing Their unproductive udders and renewing At milking-time their labor and their lowing. And now I must deceive the darling bossy — With hand in milk must make it suck my finger. Its tender lips cling close like joys that linger, And feel so warm with dripping white and flossy. 54 SOJVGS OF TOIL. S)icfclbe §anb, tie mir bie $?eute fiiffeit S5oU 6l)rfurc^t, unb bie malt unb fpielt unb birfjtct — O ^ätt' id^ immer nur ben Alee gef(i)id)tet; 2)08 unfdiulbgöoüe ^n^finb nähren muffen ! SONGS OF TOIL. 55 This very hand my people with devotion Do kiss, which paints and plays and writes more- over — I would it had done naught but pile the clover To feed the kine tnat know no base emotion J § Beim IHoIfen. o! ®o! Siebe SSraune ! nun qieb fdiön kr! 2)ann !negt bein Äälbd^eu aud) um fo mel^r I Unb ta^ 3)u'§ treibt : üon bcn Äälbd)cii aT 3ft 2)eiu'!3 baö fd)önfte üom gauseii Stall! ®d)h)orjbrauii ift eg, mit tncifjem ®tern ! ©elt? ®u roillft'S ^aben, ®u lecfft fo gern? S)o! füfj S)ein ÄleineS! unb brumme nid)t 2)u! 3d) la^' es boc^ nic^t gum Srinfen gu ! Unf grau nennt'g ^oüuy; hai xväx' Latein, 3c3^ benf : auf S)eutfd) ft)irb'g iro^I SSuUod^S fein. MILKING-TIME. O o ! so ! pretty Brownie, come let it down ! ^^ I'll give the more milk to your bossy brown ! You know well enough in yonder stall Your bossy's the prettiest boss of them all, With its dark-brown coat and the star on its brow. What's this? You insist you must lick it now? There ! Kiss your little one ; now be still ! Not yet can the bossy drink its fill ! Madame calls it Pollux ; you know the name ; 'Tis the Latin for Bullock — it's all the same! 57 dm Pfluge. 4jjier ift ber Stcfergrunb fo tief unb fdjiuer; ^' 2td)t £d)feit sieljeu einen ^jl"9 »"t 2)M^e, Unb tüeiß gefleibet gel)'n in fü{)Ier j^rül^e, 3n Reißer ®Int^, ber 2JJann, bie ^van, baljer. Äein S)ung. @ie fü^rt, er brücft bie ^füigid)aar fe^r - Stuf ha^ au3 (Erbenfdjoofe it)r Äinb evblül^e, ©ebiert im ^elb fie, e^' ber Sag üerglüt)e, ^ommt barfuß mit bem Säugling bann bal)er. (ginft tvav bie S^ad^t gereift ic^, im ©eraälbe SSon S3aierlanb ermad^t, ber ^eimatt) su glog ic^ sum Üv^ein, gum 2)ZütterIein in S3älbe! ,,3)aB ic^ in 2)eutfc^Ianb bin, ®ott ! jeig' mir'S 2)u ! 3tt)ölf Häuflein 2)ung, auf tellergroßem gelbe, 3m Mittel, pflügt' ein 2Rann mit feiner Äul)! 58' THE PLOWING. THE soil is here so deep and hard, their might Eight oxen spend and strain beneath the plowing; And here at morn and when the sun is glowing, The farmer and his wife toil, clad in white. No dung. She guides, he holds the plow down tight — And there her baby, like some blossom grov.-ing From Mother Earth, is born. Barefoot and bowing Beneath its weight, she bears it home at night. One night, in the Bavarian forest waking, I journeyed homeward hasting to the Rhine, Myself to my sweet mother swift betaking. "That this my country is, God give the sign ! " Twelve heaps of dung, in frock a farmer breaking His tiny field with plow and cow in line. 59 3m Klee. •it rotten Xüdjlmi im rotI)en 3JJof)n, 3iir 3«ittagsnif), 3)a nieten fid^ fic^ernb im glüfterton ®rei SJiägblein gu. S)er ^urfd) bort brüben im anbern ^etb §at I)ergefel)'n, Unb bre^t nod) immer bie Slugen — gelt? 3m SBeitergetj'n. Unb fingt unb fc^Ienbert öon Ungefähr 9locl) 'mal öorbei, Unb \ä)ant öerfto^len fo mieber l)er: „'^loij immer S)rei!" S)ann fingt er lonter unb eitt babon: „3d) get)' jdjon, gef)' ! ©er i?u!u! I)oIe ben ganjen Ttoljn 3m jd}ijuen Älee !" 6o IN CLOVER. "1 1 riTH kerchiefs red where the poppies grow, In midday shades, Nod each to other and titter low Three little maids. The lad who yonder strays to and fro Here casts his eye, And ever he looks askance — oho ? — In passing by. And sings and saunters past as by chance Continually, And sees with every stolen glance : " Still ever three ! " Then louder he sings and away he goes, " I'll be a rover ! The devil take each poppy that grows In pretty clover! " 6x 3ult. 3j|ie SSIumen^äuptc^en begrüßen fic^ ^ 3n meinem ©arten unb niden; Unb buften erröt^enb unb muffen ftc^ 35iel ![!iebe«boten f^iden. S)ie armen S3Iumen! fte möd^ten gem (Sinanber ^järtlii^ umfc^lingen, S)rum fenben fie alfo ben 2)uft öon ^ern, ®ic^ ju auf ber $?üfte 8c^tt)ingen. 3n meinem ©arten ba fd)tt)ebt unb bebt ©in Söunberttjerben lebenbig; 3n meinem ©arten ha fpinnt unb tuebt S)er Siebe geben befiänbig. 62 JULY. Jl yi Y garden-flowers, in summer bloom, ■* *• With common greetings are bending ; And each to other, 'mid blushing perfume, Their bearers of love are sending. The poor, poor flowers ! they long to share With each their tender embraces ; So send from afar, on the wings of the air, Their scents through the garden spaces. There hovers and hangs, among the leaves,, A marvel that ceaseth never ; Among the leaves love spins and weaves The strands of life forever. 63 £)er Sämann. <\ uffaugt bic ®onne milbe ben 2)unfl bcr feuchten (Srbc, ^ 3)ie tief imb buftig tnartet aufs neue @aatemp= fangen; Äornfc^nitt unb ©toppelfeuer unb (Srnte ftnb oergan= gen; SSorbei bent Untergrunbe bes f(!^orfen 'ipflugö 53efc^njcrbe. 2)er ©äntann jd^reitet einfam unb ernft anf brauner (Srbe — 3tt)ei ^(^ritte, bann bie §onböolt. .Sein Räubern unb !ein 33angen; S)ie fleinen SSi3geI folgen unb ^3icfen boH 3>ertongen. (grftreut; bod^®ottc§@onnemu^gnäbig rufen: „SSerbe!" Unb ob ber groft fie tobtet, ob 2)ürre fte »eruiertet, 3m ^rül)ting§tt)inbe n^iegenb bie §alme auferftc^en, Unb in bem näöiften §erbfte ber törner @oIb erfc^ic^tet. 64 THE SOWER. BENEATH the mild sun vanish the vapor's last wet traces, And for the autumn sowing the mellow soil lies steeping ; The stubble fires have faded and ended is the reaping ; The piercing plow has leveled the rough resisting places. The solitary sower along the brown field paces — Two steps and then a handful, a rhythmic motion keeping ; The eager sparrows follow, now pecking and now peeping. He sows; but all the increase accomplished by God's grace is. And whether frost be fatal or drought be devastating, The blades rise green and slender for spring-time winds to flutter, As time of golden harvest the coming fall awaiting. 65 SONGS OF TOIL. (gs fte^t tie fragen Äeiner, bic auf ben Sippen flehen, 2)te bangenbcn ©ebanten, bie fc^tnere (gorge bici)tet. Wlit fejler §anb mu§ jcf)tt)eigenb burc^'8 gelb ber Sä= mann ge^en. SO.VGS OF TOIL. 67 None see the silent yearnings the sower's lips half utter, The carping care he suffers, distressing thoughts cre- ating. With steady hand he paces afield without a mutter. Sd^ifferlieb. I ergunter ge^t'8 im 2)ionbUd&t, 53ergauf im ©ounenbranb; S3ergunter auf ben Söeüen, SSergauf im tiefen @anb. S3ergunter frei am ©teuer, 2)aS ^feifd^en glimmt im aJJunb; 53ergauf ba jiel)t, al8 @oumt^ier, Man S3ruft unb Reuben munb. 2Öa8 t)ilft mir'8, menu ic^ ^eutc 2)eg Stromes ^önig bin, (Bd\\tiä)' morgen 16) at§ ^Bettler SSeroc^tet an i^m ^in? Um meine 2uftfa^rt fdjUeßt ftc^ gurd)Io8 bie 2ßafferftur; 35om !euc^enb tiefen ©freiten S3teibt long im @anb bie @pur, 6S THE BOATMAN'S SONG. "pNOWN stream 'tis all by moonlight j •^■^^ Up stream at blazing noon, Down stream upon the ripples, Up stream through sandy dune. Down stream, the helm held loosely, A pipe between the lips ; Up stream, like beast one straineth And galls the breast and hips. What boots it that I seem like The river's king to-day, If to-morrow like a beggar. Despised, I tug away ? My pleasuring leaves no furrow Upon the water-plam; The marks of struggling footsteps Long in the sand remain. 69 <\n ^oHaub mar's, orau toft bic 0ec, ^ ®rau war ber ^immel brob tierljangcn, Orautnei^ ber (Stranb trie §erbfie8Wc^, 2)cr SBinb, bie SBeEen fangen. 2)ort !ommt e8 btutrot^, fern Ijeran/ (Sin @eget! Sluf! bie ^if'^^^' z^raura 2Bie 3)^0 men fiürmen t)er ; mer !ann 2öol)I feine ^inf erfc^auen! 3luftau(^en mie bie glottc bic^t g?un 33oot an 35oot öor SBottenbaHen, 2Rit §offnung€angfl im Slngefic^t §eran bie ^ranen mallen. 3n meinen Rauben fJe^n fie ba, 3u ^unberten qerei^t am ^5tronbe> ma Älnbern^— Scr ben fatten fa^? 2Ber auSblieb ? SSel^er lanbe ? THE FISHERMAN. T N Holland 'twas. The sea was gray, And gray the heavy hanging heaven ; Gray-white the shore with autumn spray, The wind and waves gray even. Afar a blood- red cloud streams out — A sail ! The fishing trip is over ! Like gulls the women flock about : Who can her boat discover! Sail after sail from out the gloom Before the flaming cloud now passes ; Near rush the wan-faced women whom An anxious hope harasses. With children, and with hooded head In hundreds on the shore they're standing : Who saw her spouse .-* Which one is dead .* Which one will now be landing ? 72 SO.VGS OF TOIL. ein 3leiter jagt im ©(^aum ba^cr, @ein (Schimmel gleicht bem Oifc^t bcr SScUe, 3fl jattcllos, ba§ §aupt ifl tecr, Unb barfuß ber Oejeüe. e« trieft üon SBaffer fein ©etüanb, Sr fängt im Söurf bie fd)rt)eren (Seile, Unb trägt fie üon be3 ©c^iffeS 9tanb, 3um Uferfonb, in ßile. er jagt — i^m fliegt fein blonbeS §aar — 3m (Sturm s" att ^cn braunen ^infcn, Unb jcigt bcn ^arrenben — 'S ift Ilar! — 9Kit einem rafc^en Söinfen. @ic fd^rci'n bie 3a^l öom ©c^iff ^inab, er ^ebt bie ginger, unb bie 2Bogcn SBom ®aule fpülen i^n l^erab, er f(^tt)ingt fic^ auf im Sogen. SONGS OF TOIL. A rider through the foam hastes there; His steed is flecked with white and yellow, His saddle's gone, his head is bare, And bare-foot is the fellow. With water all his clothing drips ; He casts the rope where he would fain land In haste to drag them from the ship's Deck forth upon the mainland. With streaming hair he presses near Where all the other boats are beating; And to those waiting signs — 'tis clear! — His one quick nod repeating. They shriek the number of his ship ; He becks and 'neath the billows, flinging Him from his racer, seems to dip, Then on the crest goes swinging. SONGS OF TOIL. „@(^on siranjig 2Bo(^cn/' jprad) ein 2Bci5, ,,3ft fern mein Oattc bort im 2JJcere." S)ic abutter nicft — ,,3tm $?eben bleib' 3(^, bis er njieberfe^re." @iii ©d^iffS^err auf ben Sfiacfcn tä§t 2)em iungen 2JIann ftc^ bis sum Stranbc ; @cin SBeib umjd)Ungt i^n iaud)5enb fett; @ein Äinb tanjt auf bem (5onbe, — Unb I)aut, »or ^^rcube migerügt, 2)eu 5?atcr in bic berben S3eine, !J)er fii^It eS nid)t, erja^It öergnügt, 2)em 9l!^ebcr oon ber l!eine. S)ic (Sbbc föEt, ba8 leljtc S3oot Äann tro^ ber (Sile nic^t me^r tonben. «3o/' fpric^t ba§ SBeib, „(Sn für * @tücf iBwb- Unb fd^eitern ober j^ranben!" (Jn für = ein fauer. SOXGS OF TOIL. 75 "These twenty weeks," so spake a wife, " Far off my spouse has sailed the ocean." His mother nods: "I'll cling to life Till he's here, with devotion." The owner of the ship at last Bears the young man safe to the strand there; His wife shrieks out and holds him fast; His child skips o'er the sand there. He lets it pelt his legs with shells, Unchided though behaving badly, Nor does he feel it as he tells About the rope so gladly. The tide recedes, the last crew fail, In spite of haste, at landing. "Yes," speaks the wife ; " His bread is stale, His fate — shipwrecked or stranding I" SOJVGS OF TOIL. 2)en ©äugltng an ber S3ruft, fo fte^t Unb l)aiTt bort (Sine, fd^arf öom Söinbc Umflattert. SBte fie forgfam bre^t, 3um @cf)ul5 bem tieincn Äinbe! 2Kittcibig fprad) ic^ : „§abt 3^r nocf) 2)er Äinbletn me^r, luie biejeS fdjönc?" ,,2«ei)r?" rief fie ftolj unb ftrecft' fic^ ^oc^: „arjit bem ^ab' id) etlf ®üt)ne ! " „(Silf @ö^nc!" SSie ein (gc^rci entflo^'n Sar neiboott mir 'ii^^ SSort üom 9JJunbe; ®ie ttjanbten jtd) nad) jenem Son Unb bvängten in bie 9?unbe. ein ©U^ern in ber Singen ®rau, ^rug mid) ba6 SSeib, bag Äinb am ^erjcn: ,,2Bie oiele l)abt benn 3^r, me * ^rau ?" §oc^mütI)ig Hong's, mie ©emergen. ♦ mc = meine. SONGS OF TOIL. With babe at breast where winds sweep wild. There stands and waits and stares another. How turns to shield her little child That anxious loving mother ! " Pray hast thou " — spake in pity I — " More children sweet as this one even ? " "More?" called she proud, her head raised high: "Of sons I have eleven." •'Eleven Sons!" I shrieked the word In envy ; how it did astound me I They turned then who my cry had heard And gathered close around me. She asked — her eyes were gleaming gray, Upon her heart her babe was resting : "How many, lady, hast thou pray?" — It sounded like gay jesting. SONGS OF TOIL. SBie üicl? @ie faV« mic^ an, S^erfauf Unb SKcer öergeffcnb, (Sbb' unb ©d^immcl— 3d^ j^wicg, ^ob einen ginger ouf Unb beutete 'gen §immel. SO.VGS OF TOIL. 79 How many ? Staring they forget the sea And trade and tide and foam-horse even : I raised one finger silently And pointed up toward heaven. Beim Spinnen. Ätin 2JJögblein fcfitücbt bat)in burc^'3 ^elb, S)en grünen Ärug anf'ö §aupt geficüt, 2)ie rotl)e g^Zeir im rott)en 2JJunb, 2)cr ?eib fo fd)Ian!, bie SSrufl fo runb; ®ejd)ür5t eilt jte üon Rinnen, S3cim ©Pinnen. 2)ic Äunfel i^r im ©ürtct ftedt, 2öic nieblid) fie baS §änbc^cn recft, SDie ©pinbel tangt unb fommt unb fliet)t; ®ie I)ord)t Quf'g SSogelmoienUeb, tluf QÜer 53ärf)Iein Spinnen, S3eim ®pinnen» Km ??ußbaum bei bem S5runnen fle^t 2)er f(i)lan!e SSurfd), unb tjarrt unb fpö^t, 80 SPINNING SONG. nPHROUGH yonder field there fares a maid, A water-jar upon her head, A pink between her rosy lips ; Her form is lithe, and light she trips ; She hastes away so winning. While spinning. Her distaff from her belt depends — How simply she her hand extends ! The dancing spindle flies along; She listens to the May-bird's song, Or brooklets gaily dinning, While spinning. Beneath the tree the brook runs by A tall lad stands and waits to spy; SONGS OF TOIL. 2)er ®urt fo breit, 'to.i ^ernbe xoi\% 2)a« ^aar ifi fc^n)Qrs, baS Slugc \^t\% — iG3a§ lüirb fie mm beginnen S5eim ©Rinnen? „Se^t lauf mir nici)t öorbei jo toll! §aft teine ^anb, ber Ärug ift öoU; S)ie D^elfe fle^I' id) mir juerjl, Unb ob 2)u 2)ic^ auc^ bicgft unb me^rfl, 2)en ^uß n)ill id) geminnen 53eim ®pinnen!" ®ie fommt üou unter'm S3aum ^erauS, Unb fte^t mir fo üeränbert aus — gort ift ber ^inberübermut^, 2)a§ ^uge blicft öoU tiefer @Iut^, 3n traumoerlornem ©innen, 55eim ©pinnenl SONGS OF TOIL. 83 His chest is broad, his blouse is white, His hair is black, his eyes are bright, — But what is she beginning While spinning? **Now pass not by so quick and coy; The jar and flax your hands employ; So first I'll steal the pink away. Though in defence you stand at bay, A kiss you'll find me winning While spinning." She comes forth from beneath the tree, And she appears so changed to me — Her childish confidence is dead, Her eye is full of passion, fed By thoughts and dreams beginning While spinning. JMlr Ijl e« wie unjcrm ^crrgott fa^ ^"" 3n aU bem $Räbergetriebc, 3(^ ^ab' an bem 3cug fo tneinc ?ujl Unb meinc Siebe I ©e^elmnißöoH ifl jufammengertci^t/ Wtit ©d^rauben unb feilen unb ©(Steifen, (Sin ©tog I 2)ann ge^t es auf einmal nic^t, Unb tt)itt nid)t greifen I Unb mü^üoU fmnt man bei 2;ag unb 9Zac^t, SSärc gem öor Merger geftorbcn, 2)a ^at ein Xölpd 'ttjaS b'ran gemotzt, Unb MeS öorborben! ®er Uljrmod^er broben ^at'ö gut gefügt, Unb fauber gef(f)raubt unb öerjleret; S)ie 2D^enf(f)en ^aben nur, jliUöergnügt, (59 ftrocfs ruiniret. 84 THE CLOCKMAKER'S SONG. T SEEM like the Lord himself in the cogs, In the wheel, the spring and the lever; My heart beats with it as on it jogs, And will forever, 'Tis made by a wondrous process in shops, With screws and filing and rasping. A shock ! — Then on the second it stops, The cogs not clasping. The careworn maker thinks night and day He's ready to die of vexation, Because some young blockhead accomplished in plaj Its ruination. The Clock-man above is a master-hand; His work's well fitted and polished ; But mortals delight to see what's planned At once demolished! 8s 86 SONGS OF TOIL. 2)ann lommt ber 2Jieiftcr unb mac^t'g jurec^t; ^vl6) fd)mer3t baS ^^eiten unb Raffen ; 3^r fd^rcit unb jammert, baS 2Bcr! fci Wt^i, S)cr ©c^tag jum Raffen I 2)o(^ ttjenn ba« U^rwer! ju ^nbc gc'^t, 2)ann rcoUt 3^r öor Sangen öcrjagen; S)ann fdiiebt 3f)r ben feiger: „9fJo(^ me^rP — gu fpöt: @6 ^at eu(!^ am fragen ! SONGS OF TOIL. Then the maker comes and repairs it again; You're pained by the filing and fitting; The work is miserably done, you complain ; You hate the hitting. "When the clock's worn out, as decreed by fate, You'll hear the dreaded *"Tis time!" You'll push the hands : " Go on ! " Too late 1 It's got you this time I Der ^arbenretber. Jler f leine garbenreiber oermißt fxdf, o^ne B^txtn, ^ 'an feiner 2Jicifier SSilbern bic gel)ler \6)ax^ ju rügen, „^ier alte Sorben, 3unge! 3)u foüfl un8 jum 35cr» gnügen SfJun jelber etiro« malen, fiatt nn§ ju critiftren." Unb heftig tl)ut bie Scintranb ber Änabe grau öer« fd^mieren: ,M'm X^urm im Siebet i|l bas, in unbejiimmten 3ügen!" ^o^n lad^t er : „Ofjne Sifen !ann fc^merüc^ einer ^pgen, „3d^ tüitt mit fd)lec!^tem SBerfjeug nidjt meine ^üt tierliereu !" THE COLOR-GRINDER. T^HE little color-grinder full wantonly was sneering At all his master's pictures, their errors sharp upbraiding. "Take these old colors, youngster; your smartness cease parading; Do you yourself paint something, and be not over- bearing." The ardent boy his canvass with gray begins a- smearing : "A tower that is, but misty, with outlines dim and fading." He scoffs : " One must have iron for ploughing and for spading ; 1 will not waste my vigor with good-for-nothing gearing." 89 90 SO/iGS OF TOIL. t,^\tx ^aft 3)u gute ^infel unb garben ; boc^ nun jclge 3um legten SfJal 2)cm können." — S)a tt)irb bcr Äünfiler ujqc^ : @r matt brei fleinc «Sparen, im @(^nee auf bürrcm Biücige. 2)ic SRatcr tommen fiauncnb : „2)a8 mac^t i^m Äcincr nacl) !" ?für @oIb iüarb'8 gleich er^anbett, fein kümmern ging 3ur Steige: ffi« warb bcr üeinc Se^rling bcr große Stc^enbac^. SONGS OF TOIL. "Take these new paints and brushes, and once for all redouble Your efforts." Lo, the artist now first is animate: He paints three little sparrows, in snow, above the stubble. ' The painters are dumbfounded: "Him none can imitate ? " It brought him gold directly, and banished all his trouble : That small apprentice lad became Achenbach the great. 23ä(fcrlteb. •er njoüte tioc^ leben, SBenn'ö iBrob nic^t \mx% 2)eit Ärug noc^ ^eben? 3^n freut'8 nic^t nte^rl S)ag gleifdö trär' fabe, Äein ÜBein trär' fü§, Tliv irär'S nid^t fcf)abe UmS ^arabieöl S)ort giebt'8 fein ^euer Äein Dfen nid^t, S)a fal^r' ic^ treuer 3ur ^öUe f(^Ud^t, Unb Ijole täglich Tlnn S3rob ^erauS. ©8 fiel)t boc^ fläglid^ 3m ^immcl au§! THE BAKER'S SONG. WHO'D live on with pleasure That had no bread? Or drain his measure? His joy'd be dead 1 There'd be no savor In meat or wine; I'd scorn the flavor Of things divine. No fire's up yonder, No oven for dough, So quick I'd wander To hell below. And daily I"d fetch it — My batch of bread — My outlook how wretched In Heaven instead! 93 SONGS OF TOIL. Unb ptt' eine Äronc Unb ©cepter id), Unb gäb'8 auf bcm S^rone Äeiit 35rob für micf) — 3fc^ ging als Söanb'rec 2)aoon, allein; (58 fott ein 2tnbrer $ier Äönig fein! SSie buftet'8 eben — 3^r SBangen rot^! 2)08 S3rob joE leben, 2)a8 liebe Srobl SONGS OF TOIL. 95 Were crown to me given, And scepter beside. Were a throne mine, even, And bread denied, I'd flee, ever straying Afar, alone. Another here swaying Upon my throne. The sweet smell of thee I Thy cheeks how red ! O Bread, I love thee! So, long live Bread! Sctlerltcb. fie'« ©pinnlein nel)m' id^ oom Scibc 2)en §anf f)erau8, Xoij mein ©efc^äft ic^ betreibe mt Sffobgcbraug. 2Bie @pinmreb* foHen bic ©cite '®en ^immel fte^'n, S)oc^ joHen in @turme8eite 2)'rauf 2}ienfd^en ge^'n. S)'ran foUen fte fdjroeben unb fangen, S}om 2J?eer bebrol)t; S)'ran follen fte beten unb bangen, 3n 2^obegnot^. 2)ort werben fie Iad)en unb pfeifen 2)em Ccean, 2)a §uugerid)recfeu mic^ greifen— 'JlRidi armen 2)^annl 96 THE ROPE-MAKER'S SONG. T LIKE the spiders a spinning, ? My hemp play out ; But I work with the dinning Of wheels about. My cords, like webs toward Heaven, Shall stand sublime; Yet there in tempests even Shall sailors climb. And there they'll hover and quiver, Nor mind the roar; And there they'll pray and shiver By death's cold shore. They'll laugh and scoff at the booming Made by the sea, The dread of hunger consuming Poor wretched me! 97 tTöpferltcb. ^d^hJirr ®u im Greife I ^ (Swig bie Steife, 2)re^ bod^! Stimmer gu raften, ewig gu l^afien— ®e^ bod|I Unten I)in tret' id^, Oben I)in fnet' ic^ 2)rel) 2)oc^! 5ßic borffl 2)n matt fein, SRic barffl !J)n jatt fein— @e^ bod)I 2öa8 hjir aud^ lod^en, Solb h)irb'« jerbroc^en — 2)rc^ boc^ ! Srinfen hjirb's nimmer, ©urpen nur fd^timmcr— @e^ bod^I 98 THE POTTER'S SONG. T^ OUND thou art wendingi ^ Never an ending! Twirl on! No time wasting, Ever hasting, Whirl on! Under treading, Over kneading — Twirl on ! Never dare weary, Always be cheery. Whirl on! Though we may make it, Some one will break it — Twirl on ! Though it drinks never, Thirsteth it ever — Whirl on! 49 SONGS OF TOIL. S)idj joE fie jd)near Strogen gur CueHc — 2)re^ bocf)! 2)ir öon 3Jiunb nippen SBillige lOippen — ©el^ boc^l 2)q9 man tie Ärügc 5iae serfcfilugc ! 2)rel^ bod)! SBoüt i^r ben §aufen einzeln öerfaufenl ®e^ bod)! 2)ie8 für ein Äü^c^en, 2)rei für bie güBd)en — S)re^ boc^! Unb für bie 2)ictcn SJiufet fie erftid en ! @e^ bod^! SOiVGS OF TOIL. Thee shall she carry Springward, and tarry ^ Twirl on ! Lipping with kisses Ware such as this is — Whirl on! Till we just take it. Jealous, and break it. Twirl on ! Gladly we'd sell her All and then tell her — Whirl on! This for a kiss, now, Those three for this, now, Twirl on ! And for this other Must she just smother — Whirl on! Xrtofatk. cncbig träumt. 2)ic 2Karfu«ftrd^c breitet 2)te golb'nc jDämm'rung über 2ßunber|d)Q^c; 2ll8 ob er fid) an joöiel ®^ön^eit te^e, ®tiel)lt ftc^ ein @onnenftraI)I l)erab unb gleitet S)ort S^rifti §aupt entlang, unb bebt unb fc^veitet §in, ob bem SSoben, in bie alten ^lö^e, 2)a8 S^orftnl^I^oIj öergolbenb, b'rein fic^ je^e 2)er Reiten SJJojeftät, öon ©Ott geleitet. Unb aW bie ^rac^t lommt au8 ber fc^maten Äammer; S)arein ein äJJenfd^ ber farb'gen ©pUtter ©leiten 2)^üt)jam äufommentegt mit ming'ger Älommer, S)er grüne @d^irm becft unterm §aar, bem meinen, 2)er Singen fd^minbenb ?ic^t. 2BaS tl)ut ber Kammer? 2)08 SBerl ift en^ig — ®ott ^at'8 gut geheißen ! MOSAIC. 'T^HE island city sleeps. The twilight rideth Gold-shod above San Marco's treasure-plunder; As if it would enjoy this golden wonder, A sunbeam stealeth in and softly glideth Along Christ's head and trembleth there and strideth To earth where columns cut the light asunder ; It gildeth, sent of God, the choir, where, under The dome, the glory of the ages bideth. High in an attic room this decoration In splendor wakens, where a man, deft-handed, Sets tiny bits of bright illumination — To shield his fading sight, his white locks banded With a green shade. — What profits lamentation? The work's eternal — God hath so commanded ! 103 Cape5tcrer. (Srumm^or.) Jlen SUiunb ooU S^äget ^ 2Bie fingt man ba? 3n @toff öergraben 2Bie flingt c8 ba? SSalb na^ ber Secfc, ©ebiicft auf Anten, S3ie reicfjt ber Xcppic^, SSerrüdt gu siel)n. 3)en fc^önen S)amen, @o reif unb jart, 3ft gutes ^otftcr 9^ur fteif unb l)art. Unb tief oerliängen 2)er @rf)cibe l?ic^t, SD^ian jeigt fein 5lntU^ ^ei Seibe nid)t ! THE UPHOLSTERER. (A Muttering Chorus.) -I T 7HO could, his mouth full "^ Of tac s, still sing? Thus deep in drapery A bell couldn't ring! It almost reaches; Come, kneel, my lad And stretch the carpet; Now tug like mad! Fastidious ladies Declare the stuff On this fine cushion Too stiff and rough. These window-hangings Come down so far They let no passer See who you are. 105 io6 SONGS OF TOIL. SSSäft 3f)r noc^ toiler SBon ßitelfeit, S)a8 mac^t bem ^anbtrerf S)en SSeutcl hjcit. SBottt 3^r oer^üüen 2)en «Serein ber 3a^r, 2)a8 giebt mir Äleiber 2)er fleinen @c^aar. Unb ireil 3^r ru^et ®o iDcic^ unb hjarm, @inb SBänf in ©c^uleu gür 9lei(^ unb %xm\ SONGS OF TOIL. Were you still wilder With vanity, 'Twould fill the pockets Of such as we. If asked to refurbish The wear of years, It gives me clothes for My little dears. Eecause you're resting At ease, secure, We have school-benches For rich and poor. Pergolber. 3[|Q fe^t mir nur bie Seute an — ^ SSie unban!bar! 2)cr SRcmbranbt h)ar ein braöer Tlann, 2)ag ift h)o^t toaljxl !J)er SRubcnS njar ja ouc^ nic^t faul — S)ic 3cit bcbacf)t ! Unb 2Boun)en?iann ^at mancten (Saul 3?ecl^t bra» gcmad)t! ©ana fauber ^at 3iJ2uriUo ja Unb 9ieufd) gemalt; 2)0(^ rt)enn man 2J?atart'S greife fa^~ ^tiit \diUd)t bejat)!!! — 2)od^ fagt: So blieb end) ber effeft? 3cl^ mein ben ^cf)arm! 2)cr ift im 3?oI)meu b'rin berf^ccft, Sm ©olbton »arm. io8 THE GILDER. TUST look now at the public once — A thankless crew! That Rembrandt was no simple dunce. Indeed is true. And Rubens painted far from ill — For that dull age! And Wouwermann's fine horses still Are quite the rage. Murin o painted soberly And Reusch as well; But if you Makart's prices see — How poor they sell ! — You say: Wherein lies your effect? The charm alone Is in the frame with which it's decked - Its warm gold tone. 109 SONGS OF TOIL. 2)ic gangen SD^ater fmb crji 'raoS, S5in ic^ babeil 2)em 9iap^aet ginget, o^ne ®pa§, 3^r !alt öorbei, §ielt cr ni^t jc^ijn im $Ra^men jtc^ ! Hn ®oIb gebricfjt'g: 2)ic größten ^ünf^Ier o^ne ntic^ ©inb atte 3^ic^t8! SOXGS OF TOIL. If aught of any painter 's heard, Lo, there am I! You'd pass — this is no idle word- The Raphaels by, Unless they were set off by me In frames like these ; The greatest artists else would be Nonentities ! ^ gimmermaler. 18 ttjcnn jic mir angemac^fen hJör', ®o tranbr ic^ mit meiner Mter einher, Unb ftnge! Unb maV (Sud) reid^e färben hinein, iKit fatten ®d^atten unb ©olbton fein, Unb ftngc! S)a« fliegt mir 5lUe8 fo au8 ber §anb, 5tn .^'o^sgctäfel, Stltjambramanb, S3eim @ingen! ®a§ Jnirb gang fiinftlerifd^ fein geftimmt, §ier ctroag fälter, ba^ bort c8 glimmt, SSeim (Singen! S)ie ^raftifc^en I)aben gefdjimpft, gelocht, ©efenfst, ta^ 2uju8 inS $?eben gebracht — S)rum ftng ic^! A THE PAINTER. S though to my back it had chanced to grow, I carry my ladder wherever I go, And sing ! I paint for you colors as rich as made, With a fine gold tone and just the right shade, And sing ! With a twist of the wrist I accomplish it all — A wainscoting or an Alhambra wall — While singing ! 'Twill be well toned and artistic, you know. Here a little bit cold, so that there it may glow While I sing! The Old School has scoffed and sighed at the thought That luxury into life has been brought — I sing ! SONGS OF TOIL. SSicr !al)Ic Sßänbe unb b'rin ein 2od^ 3ii auc^ ein 3ittTmer unb cinfacf) bod^ 3um 33rummen! SONGS OF TOIL. Four naked walls with a hole for a door Make a room, 'tis true; and simple, what's more — For growling ! Der Canbbriefträger» i|t8 tl)out. 2)er ©c^nee baut braun ftc^ auf ©robcti, %t\b unb Sßegen, es trieft bie SSogelbeere, ber «Sd^tamm ift tief unb treid^, 3)ic SBoIfen Rängen bleiern, ber 2lbenbf(^ein ift bleich, ©8 glänjt h)ie S3o(^e§bettc boS i?ic^t auf allen ©tegen. Unb einfam auf ber ©trage ftapft bort ein mü^fam Siegen, (S8 ^inft ber SSote frierenb, bie Xa]dft ft^eint nid^t reic^ — (Sin armer ißrief an Slrme, öerfrumpelt, alt — ganj gtei4 gr muß an'8 i^itl 2)er SBote ^inft müb' bem S)orf entgegen- er ^od^t. S)a öffnet jd^üd^tern ein IKütterc^en: „5m ?eben xi6 THE COUNTRY LETTER-CARRIER. TT thaws. On field and roadway the packing drifts have faded; The service-berry drips and the slush is deep and stale ; The clouds hang low and leaden ; the evening glow is pale; The paths gleam like a brooklet whose bed is all unshaded. Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided He limps and halts and shivers ; his bag holds little mail — A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail — He must push on ; the village he nears now, lame and jaded. He knocks. A timid woman admits him: "Till now. never H7 SONGS OF TOIL. ®d)reibt Reiner mir? O ^immeU 9}Jein @o!^u! ®ieb eilcnb« !^cr! er !ommt! UnS ifl geholfen!" 2)ie alten §änbe beben — „2)u ©ottegbote ! nä^er, fc^' S)ic^ gur ^^i^tt^inc ^cr, 3d) ttitU bon meinem Sieic^t^um 2)ir 2)einen Hnt^cil geben." 2)cr arme $?anbbricfträger ^at warm unb ^in!t n\6)t me^r. SOA'GS OF TOIL. 119 Had I a letter 1 Heavens! My boy! Quick, give it here! He's coming! Now we're happy!" Her aged muscles quiver — "God sent you here. Be seated and warm your- self: Come near; A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever." The postman limps no longer, warmed by the woman's cheer. Der Sanbträgcr. ]^Qnb! ®anb! @anb! @anb! ^ 3^ bin jo müb', 3t)r $!eut! ^at deiner ©onb geftreut S)en gansen, langen, falten 2;ag, S)a froftjitternb ic^ ftanb Unb $'aften trag'!