Transcriber's notes: Prepared from Web Archive text files (http://www.archive.org/stream/trumpeterskking00schegoog/trumpeterskking00schegoog_djvu.txt) and scans by Google (http://www.archive.org/details/trumpeterskking00schegoog)

THE TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN.

THE

THE TRUMPETER OF SÄKKINGEN

A Song from the Upper Rhine.

BY

JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

MRS. FRANCIS BRÜNNOW.

Translation authorised by the Poet.

London:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.

NEW YORK: SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO.
1877.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS.
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

O Song, at home well known to fame,

That German hearts hath deeply stirred

And long hath made of Scheffel's name

A dear and honoured household word,

Go forth in thy first foreign dress,

Go forth to Albion's noble land!

Will she not greetings kind express,

And warmly clasp the stranger's hand?

The Emerald Isle will surely give

A welcome neither cold nor faint;

For on thy pages still doth live

The name of Erin's ancient Saint.

Across the sea my country's shores

As Hope's bright star before me rise;

Will she not open wide her doors

To one who on her heart relies?

Farewell, oh work of vanished hours;

When suffering rent my weary heart,

Thy breath of fragrant woodland flowers

Did life renew, fresh strength impart.

Oh Scheffel! may thy years be long!

And may'st thou live to see the time,

When this thy genial Schwarzwald song

Will find a home in every clime.

Basel, June, 1877.

CONTENTS.

[DEDICATION.]

"Who is yonder light-haired stranger

Who there like a cat is roaming

O'er the roof of [Don Pagano]?"--

Thus asked many honest burghers,

Dwellers on the Isle of Capri,

When they from the market turning

Looked up at the palm-tree and the

Low-arched roof of moorish fashion.

And the worthy Don Pagano

Said: "That is a strange queer fellow,

And most strange his occupation.

Came here with but little luggage,

Lives here quite alone but happy,

Clambers up the steepest mountains,

Over cliffs, through surf is strolling,

Loves to steal along the sea-shore.

Also lately 'mid the ruins

Of the villa of Tiberius

With the hermits there caroused.

What's his business?--He's a German,

And who knows what they are doing?

But I saw upon his table

Heaps of paper written over,

Leaving very wasteful margins;

I believe he is half crazy,

I believe he's making verses."

Thus he spoke.--And I myself was

This queer stranger. Solitary

I had on this rocky island

Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.

I went as a wand'ring scholar

To far countries, to Italia;

With much art became acquainted,

Also with bad vetturinos,

And with many burning flea-bites;

But the sweet fruit of the lotus,

Which doth banish love of country

And the longing to return there,

I have never found here growing.

'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter

On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city:

Hard? for even Marcus Brutus

Would have caught a bad catarrh then;

And the rain seemed never-ending.

Like a dream then rose the vision

Of the Schwarzwald, and the story

Of the young musician Werner

And the lovely Margaretta.

In my youth I have stood often

By their graves close to the Rhine shore;

Many things which lie there buried

Are, however, long forgotten.

But like one to whom a sudden

Ringing in his ears betokens

That at home of him they're thinking,

So I heard young Werner's trumpet

Through the Roman Winter, through the

Carnival's gay flower-show--

Heard it from afar, then nearer,

Like the crystal which of vap'rous

Fine materials is condensing

And increases radiating;

So the figures of this song grew--

Even followed me to Naples.

In the halls of the Museum

Who should meet me but the Baron

Shaking his big cane and smiling,

And before Pompeii's gate sat

The black tom-cat [ Hiddigeigei].

Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study;

What is all this ancient rubbish,

E'en that dog there in mosaic

In the tragic Poet's dwelling,

In comparison with me--the

Epic type of all cat-nature?"

This I could no longer stand, so

Now began this ghost to banish.

From the brother of the lovely

Luisella, from the crooked

Cunning druggist of Sorrento

Quantities of ink I ordered,

And sailed o'er the bay to Capri.

Here began my exorcisms.

Many pale-gold coloured sea-fish,

Many lobsters, many oysters,

I ate up without compassion;

Drank the red wine like Tiberius,

Without mercy poetising;

On the roof went up and down till

All resounded metrically,

And the charm was then accomplished:

Chained up in four-measured trochees

Lay those figures which so long now

From my couch sweet sleep had banished.

'Twas high time, too; Spring already

Now gave signal of his coming--

Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees;

Shots were cracking, for with guns and

Nets they were the quails pursuing,

Who towards home their flight were taking;

And the minstrel was in peril

Then of seeing feathered colleagues

Set upon the table roasted.

This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand

Flew against the wall together.

Ready now and newly soled were

My strong boots which old Vesuvius

Had much damaged with his sulphur.

Farther now I journey onward.

Up, my good old Marinaro!

Off from land! the waves with pleasure

Bear light hearts and weightless freightage.

But the song, which with such happy

Spring-born feelings from my heart welled,

Bears my greetings to my country

And to you, my honoured parents.

Many faults are in it, truly:

Tragic pathos may be wanting,

And a racy tendance; also,

As in [Amaranth], the fragrant

Incense of a pious soul, its

Sober but pretentious colouring.

Take him, as he is, this ruddy.

Rough, uncouth son of the mountains,

With a pine branch on his straw hat.

What he's wanting in, pray, cover

With the veil of kind indulgence.

Take him not as thanks, for always

In your Book of Love I'm debtor,

But as greeting and as witness,

That a man whom worldly fortune

Has not placed 'mid smiling verdure,

Yet can, happy as a lark pour

Out his song on leafless branches.

Capri, May 1st, 1853.

PREFACE

[TO THE SECOND EDITION.]

Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by

Since thou didst venture thy first course to run,

A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try,

But no great laurels so far hast thou won.

In circles of prosaic breathing mortals

No praise was given thee of any kind--

Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals,

Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find.

And in the coteries of hoops and laces

Few were the readers, fewer still the praises.

Not everything suits everyone: the hill

Grows different flowers than the vale and lea:

But here and there in German homes there will

Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee;

Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying

With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound;

Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying,

And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found,

And e'en of pastors it has been reported

To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted.

And many who have taken a young bride

To spend the honeymoon 'midst rural scenes,

Do like to read thee, sitting side by side;

Of happy hours thou often art the means.

Then Säkkingen, the fair Black Forest's treasure,

Which found at first in thee not much delight,

Has by degrees derived from thee great pleasure,

And to her heart with love has pressed thee tight.

Upon the whole, success outweighs detraction,

And thou canst view thy fate with satisfaction.

Now that thou wilt a second course begin,

I should for thee a better dress prepare,

With finer threads the verses' measure spin,

Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care,

I know it well, right often have I faltered,

Some of thy trochees sound a little lame;

But the old humour now, alas! is altered,

The mood which gave thee birth is not the same.

O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded,

Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded!

Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest,

And near me rush the healing waters out,

On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest,

And in the brook are sporting tiny trout.

From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending,

With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace,

And stately giant pines in rows unending,

Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace.

A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow,

And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow.

And yet--should I now try new songs to sing,

The old accustomed tone I could not find;

Too often grief my soul with pangs doth wring,

Instead of mirth, scorn filleth now my mind.

The world serves idols now, the good ignoring,

And truth is silent, beauty hides her face;

What is unnatural men are adoring,

God is forgotten. Mammon takes his place!

The Poet, now, should be a prophet warning,

Like those of old, reproving, praying, mourning!

'Tis not my sphere; a mighty stirring song

Requires another man, a different art;

But though so much prevails that's sad and wrong.

One may not quite disdain a merry heart.

Go forth, my song, then, as thou didst before,

A cheerful memory of life's fresh spring;

Cheer up those hearts, which grief made sad and sore,

And to friends far and near my greeting bring.

Whenever men to nobler aims aspire,

Then higher too will ring the poet's lyre.

Rippoldsau, September, 1858.

PREFACE

[TO THE THIRD EDITION.]

Hiddigeigei, his opinion:

"Strange, perverse, are all mankind,

Who, when discord holds dominion,

In such ditties pleasure find....

Questions which the world are shaking,

Now the thinker's mind assail,

And no light as yet is breaking,

Which solution shall prevail.

"Yet our song unto perdition

Has not been condemned, I hear--

What a marvel!--an edition

For the third time will appear.

Which in new dress, not inferior

(Of the old nought has been spared),

And, with quite unchanged interior,

For its third trip is prepared.

"I regret that I'm declining,

And I fear I have the mange;

And I show now, by my whining,

When the wind and weather change.

Coming storms, when brewing, ever

My keen senses do betray;

And the atmosphere was never

Sultry as it is to-day.

"Doubly thus I feel this parting,

But thy course must onward lead;

Take my blessing, song, on starting,

And the cat's well-meant good speed!

The green Rhine, the Schwarzwald breezes,

Bring with them health, peace, and rest;

Such a merry fellow pleases,

And is hailed a welcome guest.

"Golden Spring, thee still I'm praising;

When the trumpet-notes rang out,

Then my bristling fur seemed blazing,

And bright sparks flew all about;

And the trumpet with my growling

Then defied Fate's evil doom;

Gentle is to-day my howling

O'er the hidden future's gloom."

Summer, 1862.

PREFACE

TO THE [FOURTH EDITION.]

[The Boezberg] for the Rhine I have been leaving,

A home-sick longing stirred my heart within,

Once more that fragrant air I would be breathing

Again would see the town of Fridolin,

As if at my return with joy elated,

She lay there basking in the autumn sun,