There's no such
stirring
sound
Is heard the wide world round
As the drum that with its rattle
Echoes Freedom's call to battle!
Is heard the wide world round
As the drum that with its rattle
Echoes Freedom's call to battle!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 - Rab to Rus
Why can that life not come back to me again?
Why can I not go finish my days in the beloved island, never to
quit it, never again to see in it one dweller from the mainland,
to bring back to me the memory of all the woes of every sort
that they have delighted in heaping on my head for all these
long years? . . Freed from the earthly passions engendered
by the tumult of social life, my soul would many a time lift
itself above this atmosphere, and commune beforehand with the
heavenly intelligences, into whose number it trusts to be ere long
taken.
•
## p. 12457 (#515) ##########################################
12457
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
(1788-1866)
ÜCKERT was not only a great poet and fervid patriot, but a
man of wide learning and solid scholarly attainments. His
knowledge of languages was phenomenal, and his boast that
for him "every language written by men possessed life" was not a
gross exaggeration. His contributions to Oriental studies were volu-
minous and valuable, but they have inevitably been rendered obsolete
or obsolescent by the restless advance of German scholarship; it is
only in the inspired translations from Oriental literatures that we have
results of permanent value. The ultimate
analysis of Rückert's manifold life labors
reveals as the essential and indestructible
part, his poetry. The parallel with Uhland
is obvious. Both were scholars and pio-
neers in their chosen fields; both were act-
ive in the liberal movement in Germany;
both were poets of the first rank, and
have erected poetic monuments of enduring
worth. Uhland was more racy of the Ger-
man soil, and his ballads and lyrics have
the touch of the autochthonous folk-song;
his scholarship was Germanistic. Rückert's
studies were in Oriental fields, and in the
Orient he found much of his poetic mate-
rial; he was more exotic than Uhland, and yet he has left behind a
mass of true German poetry which has endeared him to the hearts
of German children. The still retiracy of wood and garden, nursery
and home, he has sung most movingly. The larger ambitions for a
united fatherland he has expressed most powerfully. That this poetic
productivity, which continued unimpaired to the end of his long life,
should have been but the lounging garment of the German professor
when his talar was laid aside, is a remarkable evidence of the depth
and strength and versatile beauty of Rückert's mind.
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
Friedrich Rückert was born at Schweinfurt on May 16th, 1788. It
was obvious at an early age that the study of philology and asthet-
ics was his vocation, and to these he devoted himself at the Univer-
sity of Würzburg. He became a private teacher, an official tutor, and
"
## p. 12458 (#516) ##########################################
12458
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
eventually a university professor. His life was that of the typical
German scholar; but he retained the freshness of the poet's heart,
and the expression quoted above-"Every language possesses life for
me».
- is characteristic: he infused vitality into all he taught.
-
All poets were patriots in the stirring first years of the nineteenth
century. Rückert's part in the national uprising is represented by
his vigorous 'Geharnischte Sonette' (Sonnets in Armor), and the mar-
tial songs entitled 'Spott- und Ehrenlieder' (Songs of Praise and
Derision). These were published in 'Deutsche Gedichte' (German
Poems) in 1814, under the pseudonym of Freimund Reimar. After
the declaration of peace, Rückert assumed the editorship of Cotta's
Morgenblatt in Stuttgart, and there formed the friendship of Uhland.
In the autumn of 1817 he went to Italy; but Rome did not throw
its powerful enchantment about him as it had around Goethe and
Platen. Rückert stayed but one year. On his return he stopped in
Vienna, where he received invaluable instruction in Persian from the
celebrated Orientalist, Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall. Thenceforth
the study of the Oriental languages and literatures became his chief
occupation and life task. In 1826 he accepted the Oriental chair at
Erlangen; and in 1841, shortly after the accession of Frederick Wil-
liam IV. , he was called to the University of Berlin. The Frankish
poet was never quite at home in the Prussian capital; but he held
his position till 1848, when he retired definitely to the happy life of
a gardener and scholar at Neuses, near Coburg. In this charming
retreat he had established his poet's-home shortly after his marriage
with Luise Fischer in 1821; there he spent almost without interrup-
tion the last eighteen years of his life, and there he died on January
31st, 1866.
The most important poetic yield of Rückert's Oriental studies was
the book of Oriental lyrics called 'Oestliche Rosen' (Roses of the
East), much admired by Goethe. His translations from the Indian,
Hebrew, Persian, Arabian, and Chinese are permanent enrichments of
the literature of Germany; the writings of Sa'di, Firdausī, and Kāli-
dāsa he has transformed into German classics: and in this sense he
is the greatest and worthiest successor of Herder and Goethe in their
strivings toward the ideal of a universal literature.
Rückert's resources seemed inexhaustible. Ripe wisdom, broad
knowledge, deep sympathy, strong imagination, and absolute mastery
of language and form, were all his. It was not unnatural that his
virtuosity should mislead his Muse into mediocrity at times, but he
says of himself:·
"Had I not written the verse you care nothing about,
The verses that really delight you had ne'er been thought out. "
## p. 12459 (#517) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12459
Several historical plays remain to show that the drama was not
his field. The lyric, the gnomic, the didactic, were his proper ele-
ment. The glowing, joyous love-songs to his fiancée, which he pub-
lished in the year of his marriage under the title of 'Liebesfrühling'
(Springtime of Love), display his lyric quality in its highest degree.
His pure and strong fancy enabled him to give poetic value to the
commonplace and unimportant. The popular 'Haus und Jahreslieder ›
(Songs of the House and Year) show how Rückert was able to bring
the most insignificant and unpromising subjects into poetic relations
with fair and lofty thoughts. The singable quality of his verse was
publicly praised by Goethe, and composers have borne frequent wit-
ness to their appreciation of it by setting the songs to music. Most
famous perhaps is the simple, compact, tender, and untranslatable
'Du bist die Ruh' of Schubert (Thou art Rest). Goethe on his
death-bed repeated Rückert's solemn lines, 'At Midnight. '
But the stores of wisdom and learning which filled the poet's
mind received artistic expression in the finest didactic poem of
German literature, 'Die Weisheit des Brahmanen' (The Brahman's
Wisdom). It contains a wealth of wisdom, wrought into finely fash-
ioned forms. With an artist's eye he could fathom the profound and
gaze at the sublime, and he was able to proclaim his vision with
the awing solemnity of an ancient prophet. With this poem Rückert
established himself permanently in the German heart, into which
he had first entered singing his lays of love and of war. He died
before his lifelong dream of a united Germany had been realized.
He had symbolized this dream in 'Barbarossa,' but had lost hope,
for the ravens of discord and distrust continued still to circle round
the mountain. It was only five years after Rückert's death that a
German emperor was crowned at Versailles.
THE HOUR-GLASS OF ASHES
HEN Torismund, for love of Rosalind,
Consumed to ashes in the flames he fanned,
She did not strew his ashes on the wind,
But gathered it all up with faithful hand;
WHE
And now he serves the child's inventive mind,
Within her hour-glass placed instead of sand:
Glad that through her, he still no peace doth find
In death, who found none in the living's land.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12460 (#518) ##########################################
12460
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
D
AMARYLLIS
O NOT bid me welcome, dearest;
Do not say to me, "Good-by! »
When I come, thy kisses, dearest;
When I go, then breathe a sigh.
Not when coming thou dost see me,
Do I come to thee, my dear:
Ever when I'm parted from thee
Stays my heart behind me here.
Nor when going thou dost see me,
Do I leave the sacred spot:
Dearest, I remain there in the
Chamber, though thou know'st it not.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.
SAD SPRING
From the series of sonnets entitled In Memory of Agnes'
"S
WEET Spring is here," I heard men say and sing;
Then went I forth to seek where he might be:
I found the buds on every bush and tree,
But nowhere could I find my darling, Spring.
Birds sang, the bees they hummed, but everything
They sang or hummed was sad as sad could be;
Rills gushed, but all their waves were tears to me;
Suns laughed,—no joy to me their looks could bring.
Nor of my darling could I find a trace,
Till with my pilgrim staff I took my way
To a well-known but long-neglected place,
And there I found him, Spring: near where she lay,
He sate, a beauteous boy, with tearful face,
Like one who weeps above a mother's clay.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12461 (#519) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12461
THE SUN AND THE BROOK
HE Sun he spoke
THE
To the Meadow-Brook,
And said, "I sorely blame you;
Through every nook.
The wild-flower folk
You hunt, as naught could shame you.
What. but the light
Makes them so bright,-
The light from me they borrow?
Yet me you slight,
To get a sight
At them, and I must sorrow!
Ah! pity take
On me, and make
Your smooth breast stiller, clearer;
And as I wake
In the blue sky-lake,
Be thou, O Brook, my mirror! "
The Brook flowed on,
And said anon:
"Good Sun, it should not grieve you,
That as I run
I gaze upon
The motley flowers, and leave you.
You are so great
In your heavenly state,
And they so unpretending,
On you they wait,
And only get
The graces of your lending.
But when the sea
Receiveth me,
From them I must me sever:
I then shall be.
A glass to thee,
Reflecting thee forever. »
Translation of J. S. Dwight.
## p. 12462 (#520) ##########################################
12462
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE DYING FLOWER
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PASSENGER AND A FADING VIOLET
PASSENGER
D'
ROOP not, poor flower! - there's hope for thee:
The spring again will breathe and burn,
And glory robe the kingly tree,
Whose life is in the sun's return;
And once again its buds will chime
Their peal of joy from viewless bells,
Though all the long dark winter-time
They mourned within their dreary cells.
FLOWER
Alas! no kingly tree am I,
No marvel of a thousand years:
I cannot dream a winter by,
And wake with song when spring appears.
At best my life is kin to death;
My little all of being flows
From summer's kiss, from summer's breath,
And sleeps in summer's grave of snows.
PASSENGER
Yet grieve not! Summer may depart,
And beauty seek a brighter home;
But thou, thou bearest in thy heart
The germ of many a life to come.
Mayest lightly reck of autumn storms:
Whate'er thine individual doom,
Thine essence, blent with other forms,
Will still shine out in radiant bloom!
FLOWER
Yes! moons will wane, and bluer skies
Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree;
I know that while the unit dies,
The myriad live immortally:
But shall my soul survive in them?
Shall I be all I was before?
Vain dream! I wither, soul and stem;
I die, and know my place no more!
## p. 12463 (#521) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12463
The sun may lavish life on them;
His light, in summer morns and eves,
May color every dewy gem
That sparkles on their tender leaves:
But this will not avail the dead;
The glory of his wondrous face
Who now rains lustre on my head,
Can only mock my burial-place!
And woe to me, fond foolish one,
To tempt an all-consuming ray!
To think a flower could love the sun,
Nor feel her soul dissolve away!
Oh, could I be what once I was,
How should I shun his fatal beam!
Wrapt in myself, my life should pass
But as a still, dark, painless dream!
But vainly in my bitterness
I speak the language of despair:
In life, in death, I still must bless
The sun, the light, the cradling air!
Mine early love to them I gave;
And now that yon bright orb on high
Illumines but a wider grave,
For them I breathe my final sigh!
How often soared my soul aloft
In balmy bliss too deep to speak,
When Zephyr came and kissed with soft,
Sweet incense breath my blushing cheek!
When beauteous bees and butterflies
Flew round me in the summer beam,
Or when some virgin's glorious eyes
Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream!
Ah, yes! I know myself a birth
Of that All-wise, All-mighty Love,
Which made the flower to bloom on earth,
And sun and stars to burn above;
And if like them I fade and fail,
If I but share the common doom,
Let no lament of mine bewail
My dark descent to Hades's gloom!
Farewell, thou Lamp of this green globe!
Thy light is on my dying face;
## p. 12464 (#522) ##########################################
12464
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
Thy glory tints my faded robe,
And clasps me in a death embrace!
Farewell, thou balsam-dropping spring!
Farewell, ye skies that beam and weep!
Unhoping and unmurmuring,
I bow my head and sink to sleep!
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
I
NATURE MORE THAN SCIENCE
HAVE a thousand thousand lays,
Compact of myriad myriad words,
And so can sing a million ways,
Can play at pleasure on the chords
Of tunèd harp or heart;
Yet is there one sweet song
For which in vain I pine and long;
I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel art.
A shepherd sits within a dell,
O'er-canopied from rain and heat;
A shallow but pellucid well
Doth bubble at his feet.
His pipe is but a leaf,
Yet there, above that stream,
He plays and plays, as in a dream,
One air that steals away the senses like a thief.
A simple air it seems, in truth,
And who begins will end it soon;
Yet when that hidden shepherd-youth
So pours it in the ear of Noon,
Tears flow from those anear.
All songs of yours and mine
Condensed in one were less divine
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet air to hear!
'Twas yesternoon he played it last;
The hummings of a hundred bees
Were in mine ears, yet as I passed
I heard him through the myrtle-trees.
Stretched all along he lay,
'Mid foliage half decayed;
His lambs were feeding while he played,
And sleepily wore on the stilly summer day.
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
## p. 12465 (#523) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12465
GREEDINESS PUNISHED
T WAS the cloister Grabow, in the land of Usédom;
IT
For years had God's free goodness to fill its larder come:
They might have been contented!
Along the shore came swimming, to give the monks good cheer
Who dwelt within the cloister, two fishes every year:
They might have been contented!
Two sturgeons-two great fat ones and then this law was set,
That one of them should yearly be taken in a net:
They might have been contented!
The other swam away then until next year came round,
Then with a new companion he punctually was found:
They might have been contented!
So then again they caught one, and served him in the dish,
And regularly caught they, year in, year out, a fish:
They might have been contented!
One year, the time appointed two such great fishes brought,
The question was a hard one, which of them should be caught:
They might have been contented!
They caught them both together, but every greedy wight
Just spoiled his stomach by it; it served the gluttons right:
They might have been contented!
This was the least of sorrows: hear how the cup ran o'er!
Henceforward to the cloister no fish came swimming more:
They might have been contented!
So long had God supplied them of his free grace alone,
That now it is denied them, the fault is all their own:
They might have been contented!
XXI-780
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12466 (#524) ##########################################
12466
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE PATRIOT'S LAMENT
-
forgest, smith ? »
chains! "-
"We're forging chains; ay,
WHAT
"Alas! to chains yourselves degraded are! "
"What plowest, farmer ? "—"Fields their fruit must bear. ”.
"Yes, seed for foes: the burr for thee remains! "
"What aim'st at, sportsman ? "
"Yonder stag, so fat. ".
"To hunt you down, like stag and roe, they'll try. " -
"What snarest, fisher? " "Yonder fish so shy. ».
"Who's there to save you from your fatal net? ”
-――――
"What art thou rocking, sleepless mother? ” — “Boys. ” —
"Yes: let them grow, and wound their country's fame,
Slaves to her foes, with parricidal arm! ”-
"What art thou writing, poet? " "Words of flame:
I mark my own, record my country's harm,
Whom thought of freedom never more employs. "
-
I blame them not, who with the foreign steel
Tear out our vitals, pierce our inmost heart;
For they are foes created for our smart,
And when they slay us, why they do it, feel.
But in these paths, ye seek what recompense?
For you what brilliant toys of fame are here,
Ye mongrel foes, who lift the sword and spear
Against your country, not for her defense?
Ye Franks, Bavarians, and ye Swabians, say—
Ye aliens, sold to bear the slavish name
What wages for your servitude they pay.
Your eagle may perchance redeem your fame;
More sure his robber train, ye birds of prey,
To coming ages shall prolong your shame!
Translation of C. C. Felton.
-
## p. 12467 (#525) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12467
BARBAROSSA
HE ancient Barbarossa
By magic spell is bound,-
Old Frederic the kaiser,
In castle underground.
THE
The kaiser hath not perished,-
He sleeps an iron sleep;
For in the castle hidden,
He's sunk in slumber deep.
With him the chiefest treasures
Of empire hath he ta'en,
Wherewith in fitting season
He shall appear again.
The kaiser he is sitting
Upon an ivory throne;
Of marble is the table
His head he resteth on.
His beard it is not flaxen:
Like living fire it shines,
And groweth through the table
Whereon his chin reclines.
As in a dream he noddeth;
Then wakes he, heavy-eyed,
And calls, with lifted finger,
A stripling to his side:-
"Dwarf, get thee to the gateway,
And tidings bring, if still
Their course the ancient ravens
Are wheeling round the hill.
"For if the ancient ravens
Are flying still around,
A hundred years to slumber
By magic spell I'm bound. "
Translation by H. W. Dulcken.
## p. 12468 (#526) ##########################################
12468
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE DRUM
OH,
H, THE drum - it rattles so loud!
When it calls me with its rattle
To the battle to the battle-
Sounds that once so charmed my ear
I no longer now can hear;
They are all an empty hum,
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
-
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
At the door with tearful eye,
Father, mother, to me cry; —
Father! mother! shut the door!
I can hear you now no more!
Ye might as well be dumb,
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
At the corner of the street,
Where so oft we used to meet,
Stands my bride, and cries, "Ah, woe!
My bridegroom, wilt thou go? »
Dearest bride, the hour is come!
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
My brother in the fight
Bids a last, a long good-night;
And the guns, with knell on knell,
Their tale of warning tell; —
But my ear to that is numb,
For the drum
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
There's no such stirring sound
Is heard the wide world round
As the drum that with its rattle
Echoes Freedom's call to battle!
I fear no martyrdom
While the drum
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12469 (#527) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12469
GONE IN THE WIND
SOL
OLOMON! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Like the swift shadows of noon, like the dreams of the blind,
Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind.
Man! canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy mind?
Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind;
Though there be thousand bright actions embalmed and enshrined,
Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind.
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind.
Say, what is pleasure? A phantom, a mask undefined.
Science? An almond, whereof we can pierce but the rind.
Honor and affluence? Firmans that Fortune hath signed
Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind.
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Who is the fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined!
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind!
Mortal! be careful with what thy best hopes are entwined.
Woe to the miners for truth-where the lampless have mined!
Woe to the seekers on earth for — what none ever find!
They and their trust shall be scattered like leaves on the wind.
-
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consigned
All earth's affections and longings and cares to the wind.
Pity thou, reader! the madness of poor human-kind,
Raving of knowledge- and Satan so busy to blind!
Raving of glory-like me;-for the garlands I bind
(Garlands of song) are but gathered, and-strewn in the wind!
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
I, Abul-Namez, must rest; for my fire hath declined,
And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind.
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
## p. 12470 (#528) ##########################################
12470
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
TOLD BY A BRAHMIN
GⓇ
OLD weighed 'gainst Honor is naught in the scale,-
Hear of an Arab the ancient tale:-
The eye of a robber was set on the steed
That was dearer to him than wife or than creed.
The steed was his joy both day and night,
Her course was as swift as an arrow in flight.
At night she was chained with a chain whose twist
Through the tent-walls went to his sleeping wrist.
But the robber-snake in the douar crept,
While he and the men of his tribe all slept.
He loosened the chain with which she was tied,
He sprang on the mare and loudly cried:-
"Wake, fool, and know that I have thine horse;
Race after, and take her back by force. "
-
The robbed and his tribe race hard behind,
As fast as the simoom's desert wind.
They are neck to croup - he will overtake! —
Like a flash came the thought, "Her fame is at stake.
"If I overtake her she's mine again;
If not, with her robber she will remain.
"Yet ten times rather lose her than she
Should be overmatched, were it even by me. "
To the robber he shouted loud and clear,
"Fool, press your mount in her pricked right ear! "
For that was the spot that he touched at need,—
The secret sign for the mare's full speed.
The robber obeyed, and swift with him
She vanished in dust o'er the desert's rim.
Each man of the tribe turned round to upbraid:-
"Thou hast thyself and thine horse betrayed.
"Thou hast lost the best steed man ever crossed. "
Said he, "Her honor remains unlost!
"Unconquered,-though lost for her honor's sake,
That triumph no robber from me can take. "
Translation of Elizabeth Craigmyle.
## p. 12471 (#529) ##########################################
12471
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
(1807-1881)
-
IOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI, conspirator, politician, patriot, is
remembered in none of these characters, - not rare in his
time and country,- but as a novelist; and especially as the
author of one book, 'Dr. Antonio,'—a lovely record of love, patriot-
ism, and despair.
His first story, 'Lorenzo Benoni,' purporting to be a novel, is
really an autobiography; a faithful transcript of his boyhood and life
in Italy between 1818 and 1833, when Piedmont was the stronghold
of despotism, and when Ruffini, who was educated at the university
(he was born in Genoa in 1807), was one of the band of high if tur-
bulent spirits-Mazzini the leader - who joined the "Young Italy»
movement and set up the national standard. 'Lorenzo' in one way
merited the attention accorded it in the first reviews of the day. It
fell at a lucky moment, and was filled with Italian politics, then at
their most interesting moment. To the modern reader its sole inter-
est is in one unique quality: the naïve expression of a conspirator's
life, its futility, its childishness, its splendid courage, its duplicity,
its high motives, and the stage tricks used to elevate it as the
author unconsciously betrays. The minute details of Italian school
life are faithful enough; but a pedagogue is a pedagogue the world
over, and his portrait can never be a novel one.
Ruffini fled to France in 1833, and afterwards to England, where
he studied the language with such assiduity that it is hard to believe
that the tongue in which he wrote is not his own. On the promul-
gation of the constitution of 1848 he re-entered Italian politics, and
was deputy from Taggia, the little Riviera town which was to achieve
romantic distinction as the scene of Dr. Antonio. ' Charles Albert
appointed him Sardinian minister to France; but the battle of Novara
having resulted in the abdication of the King and his own exile, he
returned to London, and wrote a series of novels depicting Italian
life during the revolutions of 1833 and 1848. Lavinia,' 'Paragreens,'
'Carlino,' and 'Vincenzo' have the single merit of so portraying
the fortunes of commonplace men and women, that the foreigner is
able to understand their temper and social opportunity. Between the
gloomy 'Lorenzo Benoni' and the other unremarkable stories that
## p. 12472 (#530) ##########################################
12472
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
follow, Dr. Antonio' shines out an almost flawless jewel among a
handful of smooth pebbles.
Ruffini spent his peaceful age in Taggia, and died there in 1881.
'Dr. Antonio,' published in 1855, is written in a style as far as
possible from the modern manner. The author does not fill his can-
vas with figures, and then stand off, a dispassionate observer, to see
how they look and move. He is frankly the partisan, the protector,
of his hero and heroine; and prodigal in gifts to them of beauty,
character, and charm. He crowns his Lucy with golden hair, his
Antonio with dark curls, the one the complement of the other. His
language is old-fashioned; and through his limpid sentences walk
"Lucy the fair," "Antonio the noble. » The story rests on supports
which, though firm, are slender. Lucy Davenne, a young English
girl, accompanied by her father, an insular, prejudiced, wealthy baro-
net, traveling by carriage along the Cornice road, is overturned at a
dangerous pass and seriously injured. The parish doctor of the little
town of Taggia happens to rescue her, carries her to an inn, and
afterward attends her with patience and skill through a long invalid-
ism. The romance which grows softly, sweetly, daily, before our eyes,
is revealed by no gesture, no sound. Not a whisper, even to the
reader, breaks the silence of perfect reserve, entire reticence. The
unspoken love has a larger life, and permeates the atmosphere; it is
a part of the fragrance of the flowers; it is breathed in the cool
wind, tremulous with feeling. And perfect art leaves it so,-un-
analyzed, undefined.
Long and lovely are their days in the little osteria on the olive-
crowned height, the rainbow-colored Mediterranean at their feet, and
the snow mountains piercing the northern horizon. Pleasant the
hours when they drive along the silvery tract of road that undulates
among palms and olives, from the bending coast to frowning hills,
whose outlines are veiled in mists of mother-of-pearl. But when they
wake from their day-dream, and Lucy is forced to return to England,
the reader, with Dr. Antonio, can only submit. Parental authority is
supreme in Italian eyes; and Antonio, poet and dreamer, has the
practicality of his race and station.
After the lapse of years, Lucy, now the widow of an English lord,
returns to Italy, with the unconfessed purpose of seeing Antonio
again. He has thrown himself into politics, and become an author-
ity in the Liberal party. They meet, but scarcely an hour of inter-
course is vouchsafed them; for a crisis has come in the affairs of the
country. The battle of Novara is fought and lost; and Antonio is
captured, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life on the gloomy
promontory which overlooks Ischia. The calamity which befalls her
lover makes of the timid Lucy a very Machiavelli. With what art the
## p. 12473 (#531) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12473
author shows the change! how prodigal of self, of money, of charm
to win her way! And finally it is done. The boat which is to res-
cue him passes under the prison walls, hands are stretched out to
save him, he has but to leap into the soft darkness of the Italian
night; but he does not come. The astonished, the indignant messen.
gers bring back to Lucy a little note, the letters formed by holes
pierced in the paper.
"There are five here besides myself: all noble fellows, the least
of them worth ten of me. I cannot desert them. You cannot save
us all; leave me to my fate. Providence has assigned me my place
among the sufferers. Perhaps our trials will be reckoned to our
country. Pray that it may be so. Pray for Italy.
Your own A-. »
God bless you.
The unuttered romance ends in failure and death. Does the sen-
timentalist protest that the real Antonio would not have submitted to
fate, or taken his country for a mistress when love failed? Antonio
was a character called out of the unordered individualities of Italian
life, and patriotism with him might well have been the absorbing
passion. And what of the vain sacrifice, the immolation to an idea,
which bound him to his chains when his duty was to love? For
Antonio there was no choice. The high resolve, the senseless, noble,
quixotic action, was but the expression of his ideal.
Ruffini was a man of one book; a dignified and interesting figure.
THE IDYL AT A CLOSE
From Dr. Antonio'
IT
IT WAS one of those hot sultry days in the month of August, so
trying to the nerves of sensitive people, and during which
Nature, as it were, herself exhausted, seems to come to a
standstill. Shooting through a thin veil of white clouds, as
through a burning-glass, the rays of the sun poured down upon
the earth volumes of heavy malignant heat. No leaf stirred,
no bird was singing; the very cicadas had suspended their shrill
chirp. The only sound that occasionally broke the ominous still-
ness was the plaintive cry of the cuckoo calling to its mate.
Lucy had tried drawing, gardening, practicing, sleeping, all
with no success; and now lay panting on a sofa. "Here you are
at last! " said she, as Dr. Antonio walked in: "I have been long-
ing for you these two hours. I feel so ill. "
"Indeed! " exclaimed Antonio, turning white: "what is the
matter with you? I met Sir John on his way to the count's not
## p. 12474 (#532) ##########################################
12474
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
an hour ago, and he never breathed a syllable about your being
unwell. "
"I said nothing about the matter to papa," answered Lucy:
"he is uneasy enough already at not having heard from Aubrey. "
"You mean your brother? "
"Yes: Aubrey was to write by the Indian mail, which we see
has arrived, and without bringing any letter from him. "
"I am very sorry for that," said Antonio. "But tell me all
about yourself. You have not been coughing, have you? "
"No, but I feel very uncomfortable: so faint—so oppressed-
so hot. "
"No wonder. Everybody suffers more or less from this
weather. Let me feel your pulse. -There is no fever. It is
this confounded sirocco that tells on your nerves. Now just lie
down again quietly," — and he arranged the pillows under her
head,- «<
Miss
and I will try to make you more comfortable.
Hutchins," he added, walking away, "will you make a glass of
strong lemonade for Miss Davenne? the juice of two lemons in
half a tumbler of water-lukewarm water, if you please. "
"Yes, sir," answered the lady's-maid, in the most mellifluous
voice at her command. Miss Hutchins, be it known, was quite
conquered: a hard conquest, but Antonio had achieved it. The
once stiff abigail now courted his notice, and prided herself in
carrying out his directions.
-
Presently Antonio reappeared, followed by Speranza, both of
them looking like Jacks-in-the-green on a May morning, or like a
bit of Birnam Wood, from the quantity of cut boughs they were
carrying. They spread them all over the floor; then, Rosa bring-
ing in a watering-pot, the doctor watered the branches several
times, saying, "This will soon cool us, provided we let in no
air from the furnace without. " He shut up the glass door, and
let down the green curtain over it so as to create a twilight.
"Do you like your lemonade? " he asked, as Lucy put down her
glass.
"Very much it is so refreshing. "
"Do you feel inclined to go to sleep? "
"No," said Lucy: "are you going? "
"Not unless you feel sleepy. You do not? Very well. Shall
I read to you? " continued Antonio, going to the book-shelves
near the piano, and coming back with a book; "shall I read you
something from your favorite poet, Giusti ? "
## p. 12475 (#533) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12475
"What a clever man you are! " said Lucy, instead of answer-
ing the question. "I feel better already. What is to become of
me when you are no long-” The rest of the phrase was lost
in a burst of tears.
Poor Antonio stood still, with the book in his hand and large
tears in his eyes,- within an ace of crying also. Fortunately
for him, something stuck in his throat at this moment and neces-
sitated his clearing it violently. Having by this means recov-
ered his voice, he said, "See how nervous you are: you weep
without the least cause, as if you were going away to-morrow.
Don't you know the Italian proverb, 'Prendi tempo e camperai'? "
His tone was that of a mother chiding her pet child. There
ensued a pause, during which Lucy by degrees recovered from
her emotion.
"Doctor," said she all at once, "do you believe in presenti-
ments? "
"Not a bit," replied Antonio briskly; "I believe in the si-
rocco.
Why can I not go finish my days in the beloved island, never to
quit it, never again to see in it one dweller from the mainland,
to bring back to me the memory of all the woes of every sort
that they have delighted in heaping on my head for all these
long years? . . Freed from the earthly passions engendered
by the tumult of social life, my soul would many a time lift
itself above this atmosphere, and commune beforehand with the
heavenly intelligences, into whose number it trusts to be ere long
taken.
•
## p. 12457 (#515) ##########################################
12457
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
(1788-1866)
ÜCKERT was not only a great poet and fervid patriot, but a
man of wide learning and solid scholarly attainments. His
knowledge of languages was phenomenal, and his boast that
for him "every language written by men possessed life" was not a
gross exaggeration. His contributions to Oriental studies were volu-
minous and valuable, but they have inevitably been rendered obsolete
or obsolescent by the restless advance of German scholarship; it is
only in the inspired translations from Oriental literatures that we have
results of permanent value. The ultimate
analysis of Rückert's manifold life labors
reveals as the essential and indestructible
part, his poetry. The parallel with Uhland
is obvious. Both were scholars and pio-
neers in their chosen fields; both were act-
ive in the liberal movement in Germany;
both were poets of the first rank, and
have erected poetic monuments of enduring
worth. Uhland was more racy of the Ger-
man soil, and his ballads and lyrics have
the touch of the autochthonous folk-song;
his scholarship was Germanistic. Rückert's
studies were in Oriental fields, and in the
Orient he found much of his poetic mate-
rial; he was more exotic than Uhland, and yet he has left behind a
mass of true German poetry which has endeared him to the hearts
of German children. The still retiracy of wood and garden, nursery
and home, he has sung most movingly. The larger ambitions for a
united fatherland he has expressed most powerfully. That this poetic
productivity, which continued unimpaired to the end of his long life,
should have been but the lounging garment of the German professor
when his talar was laid aside, is a remarkable evidence of the depth
and strength and versatile beauty of Rückert's mind.
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
Friedrich Rückert was born at Schweinfurt on May 16th, 1788. It
was obvious at an early age that the study of philology and asthet-
ics was his vocation, and to these he devoted himself at the Univer-
sity of Würzburg. He became a private teacher, an official tutor, and
"
## p. 12458 (#516) ##########################################
12458
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
eventually a university professor. His life was that of the typical
German scholar; but he retained the freshness of the poet's heart,
and the expression quoted above-"Every language possesses life for
me».
- is characteristic: he infused vitality into all he taught.
-
All poets were patriots in the stirring first years of the nineteenth
century. Rückert's part in the national uprising is represented by
his vigorous 'Geharnischte Sonette' (Sonnets in Armor), and the mar-
tial songs entitled 'Spott- und Ehrenlieder' (Songs of Praise and
Derision). These were published in 'Deutsche Gedichte' (German
Poems) in 1814, under the pseudonym of Freimund Reimar. After
the declaration of peace, Rückert assumed the editorship of Cotta's
Morgenblatt in Stuttgart, and there formed the friendship of Uhland.
In the autumn of 1817 he went to Italy; but Rome did not throw
its powerful enchantment about him as it had around Goethe and
Platen. Rückert stayed but one year. On his return he stopped in
Vienna, where he received invaluable instruction in Persian from the
celebrated Orientalist, Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall. Thenceforth
the study of the Oriental languages and literatures became his chief
occupation and life task. In 1826 he accepted the Oriental chair at
Erlangen; and in 1841, shortly after the accession of Frederick Wil-
liam IV. , he was called to the University of Berlin. The Frankish
poet was never quite at home in the Prussian capital; but he held
his position till 1848, when he retired definitely to the happy life of
a gardener and scholar at Neuses, near Coburg. In this charming
retreat he had established his poet's-home shortly after his marriage
with Luise Fischer in 1821; there he spent almost without interrup-
tion the last eighteen years of his life, and there he died on January
31st, 1866.
The most important poetic yield of Rückert's Oriental studies was
the book of Oriental lyrics called 'Oestliche Rosen' (Roses of the
East), much admired by Goethe. His translations from the Indian,
Hebrew, Persian, Arabian, and Chinese are permanent enrichments of
the literature of Germany; the writings of Sa'di, Firdausī, and Kāli-
dāsa he has transformed into German classics: and in this sense he
is the greatest and worthiest successor of Herder and Goethe in their
strivings toward the ideal of a universal literature.
Rückert's resources seemed inexhaustible. Ripe wisdom, broad
knowledge, deep sympathy, strong imagination, and absolute mastery
of language and form, were all his. It was not unnatural that his
virtuosity should mislead his Muse into mediocrity at times, but he
says of himself:·
"Had I not written the verse you care nothing about,
The verses that really delight you had ne'er been thought out. "
## p. 12459 (#517) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12459
Several historical plays remain to show that the drama was not
his field. The lyric, the gnomic, the didactic, were his proper ele-
ment. The glowing, joyous love-songs to his fiancée, which he pub-
lished in the year of his marriage under the title of 'Liebesfrühling'
(Springtime of Love), display his lyric quality in its highest degree.
His pure and strong fancy enabled him to give poetic value to the
commonplace and unimportant. The popular 'Haus und Jahreslieder ›
(Songs of the House and Year) show how Rückert was able to bring
the most insignificant and unpromising subjects into poetic relations
with fair and lofty thoughts. The singable quality of his verse was
publicly praised by Goethe, and composers have borne frequent wit-
ness to their appreciation of it by setting the songs to music. Most
famous perhaps is the simple, compact, tender, and untranslatable
'Du bist die Ruh' of Schubert (Thou art Rest). Goethe on his
death-bed repeated Rückert's solemn lines, 'At Midnight. '
But the stores of wisdom and learning which filled the poet's
mind received artistic expression in the finest didactic poem of
German literature, 'Die Weisheit des Brahmanen' (The Brahman's
Wisdom). It contains a wealth of wisdom, wrought into finely fash-
ioned forms. With an artist's eye he could fathom the profound and
gaze at the sublime, and he was able to proclaim his vision with
the awing solemnity of an ancient prophet. With this poem Rückert
established himself permanently in the German heart, into which
he had first entered singing his lays of love and of war. He died
before his lifelong dream of a united Germany had been realized.
He had symbolized this dream in 'Barbarossa,' but had lost hope,
for the ravens of discord and distrust continued still to circle round
the mountain. It was only five years after Rückert's death that a
German emperor was crowned at Versailles.
THE HOUR-GLASS OF ASHES
HEN Torismund, for love of Rosalind,
Consumed to ashes in the flames he fanned,
She did not strew his ashes on the wind,
But gathered it all up with faithful hand;
WHE
And now he serves the child's inventive mind,
Within her hour-glass placed instead of sand:
Glad that through her, he still no peace doth find
In death, who found none in the living's land.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12460 (#518) ##########################################
12460
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
D
AMARYLLIS
O NOT bid me welcome, dearest;
Do not say to me, "Good-by! »
When I come, thy kisses, dearest;
When I go, then breathe a sigh.
Not when coming thou dost see me,
Do I come to thee, my dear:
Ever when I'm parted from thee
Stays my heart behind me here.
Nor when going thou dost see me,
Do I leave the sacred spot:
Dearest, I remain there in the
Chamber, though thou know'st it not.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.
SAD SPRING
From the series of sonnets entitled In Memory of Agnes'
"S
WEET Spring is here," I heard men say and sing;
Then went I forth to seek where he might be:
I found the buds on every bush and tree,
But nowhere could I find my darling, Spring.
Birds sang, the bees they hummed, but everything
They sang or hummed was sad as sad could be;
Rills gushed, but all their waves were tears to me;
Suns laughed,—no joy to me their looks could bring.
Nor of my darling could I find a trace,
Till with my pilgrim staff I took my way
To a well-known but long-neglected place,
And there I found him, Spring: near where she lay,
He sate, a beauteous boy, with tearful face,
Like one who weeps above a mother's clay.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12461 (#519) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12461
THE SUN AND THE BROOK
HE Sun he spoke
THE
To the Meadow-Brook,
And said, "I sorely blame you;
Through every nook.
The wild-flower folk
You hunt, as naught could shame you.
What. but the light
Makes them so bright,-
The light from me they borrow?
Yet me you slight,
To get a sight
At them, and I must sorrow!
Ah! pity take
On me, and make
Your smooth breast stiller, clearer;
And as I wake
In the blue sky-lake,
Be thou, O Brook, my mirror! "
The Brook flowed on,
And said anon:
"Good Sun, it should not grieve you,
That as I run
I gaze upon
The motley flowers, and leave you.
You are so great
In your heavenly state,
And they so unpretending,
On you they wait,
And only get
The graces of your lending.
But when the sea
Receiveth me,
From them I must me sever:
I then shall be.
A glass to thee,
Reflecting thee forever. »
Translation of J. S. Dwight.
## p. 12462 (#520) ##########################################
12462
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE DYING FLOWER
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PASSENGER AND A FADING VIOLET
PASSENGER
D'
ROOP not, poor flower! - there's hope for thee:
The spring again will breathe and burn,
And glory robe the kingly tree,
Whose life is in the sun's return;
And once again its buds will chime
Their peal of joy from viewless bells,
Though all the long dark winter-time
They mourned within their dreary cells.
FLOWER
Alas! no kingly tree am I,
No marvel of a thousand years:
I cannot dream a winter by,
And wake with song when spring appears.
At best my life is kin to death;
My little all of being flows
From summer's kiss, from summer's breath,
And sleeps in summer's grave of snows.
PASSENGER
Yet grieve not! Summer may depart,
And beauty seek a brighter home;
But thou, thou bearest in thy heart
The germ of many a life to come.
Mayest lightly reck of autumn storms:
Whate'er thine individual doom,
Thine essence, blent with other forms,
Will still shine out in radiant bloom!
FLOWER
Yes! moons will wane, and bluer skies
Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree;
I know that while the unit dies,
The myriad live immortally:
But shall my soul survive in them?
Shall I be all I was before?
Vain dream! I wither, soul and stem;
I die, and know my place no more!
## p. 12463 (#521) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12463
The sun may lavish life on them;
His light, in summer morns and eves,
May color every dewy gem
That sparkles on their tender leaves:
But this will not avail the dead;
The glory of his wondrous face
Who now rains lustre on my head,
Can only mock my burial-place!
And woe to me, fond foolish one,
To tempt an all-consuming ray!
To think a flower could love the sun,
Nor feel her soul dissolve away!
Oh, could I be what once I was,
How should I shun his fatal beam!
Wrapt in myself, my life should pass
But as a still, dark, painless dream!
But vainly in my bitterness
I speak the language of despair:
In life, in death, I still must bless
The sun, the light, the cradling air!
Mine early love to them I gave;
And now that yon bright orb on high
Illumines but a wider grave,
For them I breathe my final sigh!
How often soared my soul aloft
In balmy bliss too deep to speak,
When Zephyr came and kissed with soft,
Sweet incense breath my blushing cheek!
When beauteous bees and butterflies
Flew round me in the summer beam,
Or when some virgin's glorious eyes
Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream!
Ah, yes! I know myself a birth
Of that All-wise, All-mighty Love,
Which made the flower to bloom on earth,
And sun and stars to burn above;
And if like them I fade and fail,
If I but share the common doom,
Let no lament of mine bewail
My dark descent to Hades's gloom!
Farewell, thou Lamp of this green globe!
Thy light is on my dying face;
## p. 12464 (#522) ##########################################
12464
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
Thy glory tints my faded robe,
And clasps me in a death embrace!
Farewell, thou balsam-dropping spring!
Farewell, ye skies that beam and weep!
Unhoping and unmurmuring,
I bow my head and sink to sleep!
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
I
NATURE MORE THAN SCIENCE
HAVE a thousand thousand lays,
Compact of myriad myriad words,
And so can sing a million ways,
Can play at pleasure on the chords
Of tunèd harp or heart;
Yet is there one sweet song
For which in vain I pine and long;
I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel art.
A shepherd sits within a dell,
O'er-canopied from rain and heat;
A shallow but pellucid well
Doth bubble at his feet.
His pipe is but a leaf,
Yet there, above that stream,
He plays and plays, as in a dream,
One air that steals away the senses like a thief.
A simple air it seems, in truth,
And who begins will end it soon;
Yet when that hidden shepherd-youth
So pours it in the ear of Noon,
Tears flow from those anear.
All songs of yours and mine
Condensed in one were less divine
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet air to hear!
'Twas yesternoon he played it last;
The hummings of a hundred bees
Were in mine ears, yet as I passed
I heard him through the myrtle-trees.
Stretched all along he lay,
'Mid foliage half decayed;
His lambs were feeding while he played,
And sleepily wore on the stilly summer day.
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
## p. 12465 (#523) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12465
GREEDINESS PUNISHED
T WAS the cloister Grabow, in the land of Usédom;
IT
For years had God's free goodness to fill its larder come:
They might have been contented!
Along the shore came swimming, to give the monks good cheer
Who dwelt within the cloister, two fishes every year:
They might have been contented!
Two sturgeons-two great fat ones and then this law was set,
That one of them should yearly be taken in a net:
They might have been contented!
The other swam away then until next year came round,
Then with a new companion he punctually was found:
They might have been contented!
So then again they caught one, and served him in the dish,
And regularly caught they, year in, year out, a fish:
They might have been contented!
One year, the time appointed two such great fishes brought,
The question was a hard one, which of them should be caught:
They might have been contented!
They caught them both together, but every greedy wight
Just spoiled his stomach by it; it served the gluttons right:
They might have been contented!
This was the least of sorrows: hear how the cup ran o'er!
Henceforward to the cloister no fish came swimming more:
They might have been contented!
So long had God supplied them of his free grace alone,
That now it is denied them, the fault is all their own:
They might have been contented!
XXI-780
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 12466 (#524) ##########################################
12466
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE PATRIOT'S LAMENT
-
forgest, smith ? »
chains! "-
"We're forging chains; ay,
WHAT
"Alas! to chains yourselves degraded are! "
"What plowest, farmer ? "—"Fields their fruit must bear. ”.
"Yes, seed for foes: the burr for thee remains! "
"What aim'st at, sportsman ? "
"Yonder stag, so fat. ".
"To hunt you down, like stag and roe, they'll try. " -
"What snarest, fisher? " "Yonder fish so shy. ».
"Who's there to save you from your fatal net? ”
-――――
"What art thou rocking, sleepless mother? ” — “Boys. ” —
"Yes: let them grow, and wound their country's fame,
Slaves to her foes, with parricidal arm! ”-
"What art thou writing, poet? " "Words of flame:
I mark my own, record my country's harm,
Whom thought of freedom never more employs. "
-
I blame them not, who with the foreign steel
Tear out our vitals, pierce our inmost heart;
For they are foes created for our smart,
And when they slay us, why they do it, feel.
But in these paths, ye seek what recompense?
For you what brilliant toys of fame are here,
Ye mongrel foes, who lift the sword and spear
Against your country, not for her defense?
Ye Franks, Bavarians, and ye Swabians, say—
Ye aliens, sold to bear the slavish name
What wages for your servitude they pay.
Your eagle may perchance redeem your fame;
More sure his robber train, ye birds of prey,
To coming ages shall prolong your shame!
Translation of C. C. Felton.
-
## p. 12467 (#525) ##########################################
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12467
BARBAROSSA
HE ancient Barbarossa
By magic spell is bound,-
Old Frederic the kaiser,
In castle underground.
THE
The kaiser hath not perished,-
He sleeps an iron sleep;
For in the castle hidden,
He's sunk in slumber deep.
With him the chiefest treasures
Of empire hath he ta'en,
Wherewith in fitting season
He shall appear again.
The kaiser he is sitting
Upon an ivory throne;
Of marble is the table
His head he resteth on.
His beard it is not flaxen:
Like living fire it shines,
And groweth through the table
Whereon his chin reclines.
As in a dream he noddeth;
Then wakes he, heavy-eyed,
And calls, with lifted finger,
A stripling to his side:-
"Dwarf, get thee to the gateway,
And tidings bring, if still
Their course the ancient ravens
Are wheeling round the hill.
"For if the ancient ravens
Are flying still around,
A hundred years to slumber
By magic spell I'm bound. "
Translation by H. W. Dulcken.
## p. 12468 (#526) ##########################################
12468
FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
THE DRUM
OH,
H, THE drum - it rattles so loud!
When it calls me with its rattle
To the battle to the battle-
Sounds that once so charmed my ear
I no longer now can hear;
They are all an empty hum,
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
-
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
At the door with tearful eye,
Father, mother, to me cry; —
Father! mother! shut the door!
I can hear you now no more!
Ye might as well be dumb,
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
At the corner of the street,
Where so oft we used to meet,
Stands my bride, and cries, "Ah, woe!
My bridegroom, wilt thou go? »
Dearest bride, the hour is come!
For the drum —
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
My brother in the fight
Bids a last, a long good-night;
And the guns, with knell on knell,
Their tale of warning tell; —
But my ear to that is numb,
For the drum
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
There's no such stirring sound
Is heard the wide world round
As the drum that with its rattle
Echoes Freedom's call to battle!
I fear no martyrdom
While the drum
Oh, the drum-it rattles so loud!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
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FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
12469
GONE IN THE WIND
SOL
OLOMON! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Like the swift shadows of noon, like the dreams of the blind,
Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind.
Man! canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy mind?
Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind;
Though there be thousand bright actions embalmed and enshrined,
Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind.
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind.
Say, what is pleasure? A phantom, a mask undefined.
Science? An almond, whereof we can pierce but the rind.
Honor and affluence? Firmans that Fortune hath signed
Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind.
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Who is the fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined!
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind!
Mortal! be careful with what thy best hopes are entwined.
Woe to the miners for truth-where the lampless have mined!
Woe to the seekers on earth for — what none ever find!
They and their trust shall be scattered like leaves on the wind.
-
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consigned
All earth's affections and longings and cares to the wind.
Pity thou, reader! the madness of poor human-kind,
Raving of knowledge- and Satan so busy to blind!
Raving of glory-like me;-for the garlands I bind
(Garlands of song) are but gathered, and-strewn in the wind!
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
I, Abul-Namez, must rest; for my fire hath declined,
And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind.
Translation of James Clarence Mangan.
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FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT
TOLD BY A BRAHMIN
GⓇ
OLD weighed 'gainst Honor is naught in the scale,-
Hear of an Arab the ancient tale:-
The eye of a robber was set on the steed
That was dearer to him than wife or than creed.
The steed was his joy both day and night,
Her course was as swift as an arrow in flight.
At night she was chained with a chain whose twist
Through the tent-walls went to his sleeping wrist.
But the robber-snake in the douar crept,
While he and the men of his tribe all slept.
He loosened the chain with which she was tied,
He sprang on the mare and loudly cried:-
"Wake, fool, and know that I have thine horse;
Race after, and take her back by force. "
-
The robbed and his tribe race hard behind,
As fast as the simoom's desert wind.
They are neck to croup - he will overtake! —
Like a flash came the thought, "Her fame is at stake.
"If I overtake her she's mine again;
If not, with her robber she will remain.
"Yet ten times rather lose her than she
Should be overmatched, were it even by me. "
To the robber he shouted loud and clear,
"Fool, press your mount in her pricked right ear! "
For that was the spot that he touched at need,—
The secret sign for the mare's full speed.
The robber obeyed, and swift with him
She vanished in dust o'er the desert's rim.
Each man of the tribe turned round to upbraid:-
"Thou hast thyself and thine horse betrayed.
"Thou hast lost the best steed man ever crossed. "
Said he, "Her honor remains unlost!
"Unconquered,-though lost for her honor's sake,
That triumph no robber from me can take. "
Translation of Elizabeth Craigmyle.
## p. 12471 (#529) ##########################################
12471
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
(1807-1881)
-
IOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI, conspirator, politician, patriot, is
remembered in none of these characters, - not rare in his
time and country,- but as a novelist; and especially as the
author of one book, 'Dr. Antonio,'—a lovely record of love, patriot-
ism, and despair.
His first story, 'Lorenzo Benoni,' purporting to be a novel, is
really an autobiography; a faithful transcript of his boyhood and life
in Italy between 1818 and 1833, when Piedmont was the stronghold
of despotism, and when Ruffini, who was educated at the university
(he was born in Genoa in 1807), was one of the band of high if tur-
bulent spirits-Mazzini the leader - who joined the "Young Italy»
movement and set up the national standard. 'Lorenzo' in one way
merited the attention accorded it in the first reviews of the day. It
fell at a lucky moment, and was filled with Italian politics, then at
their most interesting moment. To the modern reader its sole inter-
est is in one unique quality: the naïve expression of a conspirator's
life, its futility, its childishness, its splendid courage, its duplicity,
its high motives, and the stage tricks used to elevate it as the
author unconsciously betrays. The minute details of Italian school
life are faithful enough; but a pedagogue is a pedagogue the world
over, and his portrait can never be a novel one.
Ruffini fled to France in 1833, and afterwards to England, where
he studied the language with such assiduity that it is hard to believe
that the tongue in which he wrote is not his own. On the promul-
gation of the constitution of 1848 he re-entered Italian politics, and
was deputy from Taggia, the little Riviera town which was to achieve
romantic distinction as the scene of Dr. Antonio. ' Charles Albert
appointed him Sardinian minister to France; but the battle of Novara
having resulted in the abdication of the King and his own exile, he
returned to London, and wrote a series of novels depicting Italian
life during the revolutions of 1833 and 1848. Lavinia,' 'Paragreens,'
'Carlino,' and 'Vincenzo' have the single merit of so portraying
the fortunes of commonplace men and women, that the foreigner is
able to understand their temper and social opportunity. Between the
gloomy 'Lorenzo Benoni' and the other unremarkable stories that
## p. 12472 (#530) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
follow, Dr. Antonio' shines out an almost flawless jewel among a
handful of smooth pebbles.
Ruffini spent his peaceful age in Taggia, and died there in 1881.
'Dr. Antonio,' published in 1855, is written in a style as far as
possible from the modern manner. The author does not fill his can-
vas with figures, and then stand off, a dispassionate observer, to see
how they look and move. He is frankly the partisan, the protector,
of his hero and heroine; and prodigal in gifts to them of beauty,
character, and charm. He crowns his Lucy with golden hair, his
Antonio with dark curls, the one the complement of the other. His
language is old-fashioned; and through his limpid sentences walk
"Lucy the fair," "Antonio the noble. » The story rests on supports
which, though firm, are slender. Lucy Davenne, a young English
girl, accompanied by her father, an insular, prejudiced, wealthy baro-
net, traveling by carriage along the Cornice road, is overturned at a
dangerous pass and seriously injured. The parish doctor of the little
town of Taggia happens to rescue her, carries her to an inn, and
afterward attends her with patience and skill through a long invalid-
ism. The romance which grows softly, sweetly, daily, before our eyes,
is revealed by no gesture, no sound. Not a whisper, even to the
reader, breaks the silence of perfect reserve, entire reticence. The
unspoken love has a larger life, and permeates the atmosphere; it is
a part of the fragrance of the flowers; it is breathed in the cool
wind, tremulous with feeling. And perfect art leaves it so,-un-
analyzed, undefined.
Long and lovely are their days in the little osteria on the olive-
crowned height, the rainbow-colored Mediterranean at their feet, and
the snow mountains piercing the northern horizon. Pleasant the
hours when they drive along the silvery tract of road that undulates
among palms and olives, from the bending coast to frowning hills,
whose outlines are veiled in mists of mother-of-pearl. But when they
wake from their day-dream, and Lucy is forced to return to England,
the reader, with Dr. Antonio, can only submit. Parental authority is
supreme in Italian eyes; and Antonio, poet and dreamer, has the
practicality of his race and station.
After the lapse of years, Lucy, now the widow of an English lord,
returns to Italy, with the unconfessed purpose of seeing Antonio
again. He has thrown himself into politics, and become an author-
ity in the Liberal party. They meet, but scarcely an hour of inter-
course is vouchsafed them; for a crisis has come in the affairs of the
country. The battle of Novara is fought and lost; and Antonio is
captured, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life on the gloomy
promontory which overlooks Ischia. The calamity which befalls her
lover makes of the timid Lucy a very Machiavelli. With what art the
## p. 12473 (#531) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12473
author shows the change! how prodigal of self, of money, of charm
to win her way! And finally it is done. The boat which is to res-
cue him passes under the prison walls, hands are stretched out to
save him, he has but to leap into the soft darkness of the Italian
night; but he does not come. The astonished, the indignant messen.
gers bring back to Lucy a little note, the letters formed by holes
pierced in the paper.
"There are five here besides myself: all noble fellows, the least
of them worth ten of me. I cannot desert them. You cannot save
us all; leave me to my fate. Providence has assigned me my place
among the sufferers. Perhaps our trials will be reckoned to our
country. Pray that it may be so. Pray for Italy.
Your own A-. »
God bless you.
The unuttered romance ends in failure and death. Does the sen-
timentalist protest that the real Antonio would not have submitted to
fate, or taken his country for a mistress when love failed? Antonio
was a character called out of the unordered individualities of Italian
life, and patriotism with him might well have been the absorbing
passion. And what of the vain sacrifice, the immolation to an idea,
which bound him to his chains when his duty was to love? For
Antonio there was no choice. The high resolve, the senseless, noble,
quixotic action, was but the expression of his ideal.
Ruffini was a man of one book; a dignified and interesting figure.
THE IDYL AT A CLOSE
From Dr. Antonio'
IT
IT WAS one of those hot sultry days in the month of August, so
trying to the nerves of sensitive people, and during which
Nature, as it were, herself exhausted, seems to come to a
standstill. Shooting through a thin veil of white clouds, as
through a burning-glass, the rays of the sun poured down upon
the earth volumes of heavy malignant heat. No leaf stirred,
no bird was singing; the very cicadas had suspended their shrill
chirp. The only sound that occasionally broke the ominous still-
ness was the plaintive cry of the cuckoo calling to its mate.
Lucy had tried drawing, gardening, practicing, sleeping, all
with no success; and now lay panting on a sofa. "Here you are
at last! " said she, as Dr. Antonio walked in: "I have been long-
ing for you these two hours. I feel so ill. "
"Indeed! " exclaimed Antonio, turning white: "what is the
matter with you? I met Sir John on his way to the count's not
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12474
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
an hour ago, and he never breathed a syllable about your being
unwell. "
"I said nothing about the matter to papa," answered Lucy:
"he is uneasy enough already at not having heard from Aubrey. "
"You mean your brother? "
"Yes: Aubrey was to write by the Indian mail, which we see
has arrived, and without bringing any letter from him. "
"I am very sorry for that," said Antonio. "But tell me all
about yourself. You have not been coughing, have you? "
"No, but I feel very uncomfortable: so faint—so oppressed-
so hot. "
"No wonder. Everybody suffers more or less from this
weather. Let me feel your pulse. -There is no fever. It is
this confounded sirocco that tells on your nerves. Now just lie
down again quietly," — and he arranged the pillows under her
head,- «<
Miss
and I will try to make you more comfortable.
Hutchins," he added, walking away, "will you make a glass of
strong lemonade for Miss Davenne? the juice of two lemons in
half a tumbler of water-lukewarm water, if you please. "
"Yes, sir," answered the lady's-maid, in the most mellifluous
voice at her command. Miss Hutchins, be it known, was quite
conquered: a hard conquest, but Antonio had achieved it. The
once stiff abigail now courted his notice, and prided herself in
carrying out his directions.
-
Presently Antonio reappeared, followed by Speranza, both of
them looking like Jacks-in-the-green on a May morning, or like a
bit of Birnam Wood, from the quantity of cut boughs they were
carrying. They spread them all over the floor; then, Rosa bring-
ing in a watering-pot, the doctor watered the branches several
times, saying, "This will soon cool us, provided we let in no
air from the furnace without. " He shut up the glass door, and
let down the green curtain over it so as to create a twilight.
"Do you like your lemonade? " he asked, as Lucy put down her
glass.
"Very much it is so refreshing. "
"Do you feel inclined to go to sleep? "
"No," said Lucy: "are you going? "
"Not unless you feel sleepy. You do not? Very well. Shall
I read to you? " continued Antonio, going to the book-shelves
near the piano, and coming back with a book; "shall I read you
something from your favorite poet, Giusti ? "
## p. 12475 (#533) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12475
"What a clever man you are! " said Lucy, instead of answer-
ing the question. "I feel better already. What is to become of
me when you are no long-” The rest of the phrase was lost
in a burst of tears.
Poor Antonio stood still, with the book in his hand and large
tears in his eyes,- within an ace of crying also. Fortunately
for him, something stuck in his throat at this moment and neces-
sitated his clearing it violently. Having by this means recov-
ered his voice, he said, "See how nervous you are: you weep
without the least cause, as if you were going away to-morrow.
Don't you know the Italian proverb, 'Prendi tempo e camperai'? "
His tone was that of a mother chiding her pet child. There
ensued a pause, during which Lucy by degrees recovered from
her emotion.
"Doctor," said she all at once, "do you believe in presenti-
ments? "
"Not a bit," replied Antonio briskly; "I believe in the si-
rocco.
