SONGS NICHOLA.S MEDT'ne,R Henry S,, Drinker

for the

SONGS

o.£

NICHOLA.S MEDT'NE,R

Henry s,, Drinker NICHOLAS ·MEDT'NER By Alfred J. Swan· (Written by Professor Swan for the recital of Medtner's songs by Mme. Maria Kurenko and Paule Bailly at the Juilliard School on April 24, 1946) Nicholas Medtner was born in Moscow in January 1880. He tame from one of those Baltic families long settled in Central. Russia for purposes of· trade or business. Nothing seemed to predestine him to become a composer. Yet at the age of 12 music was already so living a force in his life that his parents transferred him from a regular Gymnasium to the famous Conservatory then directed by Safonoff. There was nothing spectacular about his musical endow ment, but step by step he proceeded to master the musical language, for he had definitely chosen it as a medium for the expression of his as yet undeveloped thoughts and emotions. After long years of hard work he graduated from Safonoff's class in piano. In presenting the customary medals and distinctions Safonoff turned to him say ing: "And to you I would give the ,diamond medal, but unfortunately this insti,. tution's highest award is only a gold medal." Safonoff inaugurated a concert tour for him abroad and insisted that he play everywhere the Hammerclavier Sonata of Beethoven. But he went only reluctantly, for he now wanted to de vote himself entirely to composition. Whether it· was now· that he became a pupil of Taneieff in counterpoint, or had studied. with him while learning the piano with Safonoff, is not quite clear. But it is immaterial. The important thing· is that he destroyed one completed work after the other (six sonatas), determined .to speak the language of music in his own particular way .before saying anything at all. So when his first works appeared. in the early years of this century their individuality was strongly marked. But since it was again devoid of any startling, spectacular features, it remained undetected for long. Safonoff was disgusted and sniffed at the. effusions of his pupil of whom he had been so proud as a pianist. . Medtrier betrays from the first an almost gigantic sweep of thought and emotions. The layout is symphonic, though confined to his own instrument and the voice (this, by the way, has remained the most serious handicap in the propagation of his art. The pianist who would play him, or the singer who would sing him were put before a task commensurate only with that of the con ductor of a symphony orchestra): sonatas, "novels", long fairy. tales, tragedy fragments, dithyrambs. ·Even the would-be miniatures are of soUd granite and belie their names of idyls and arabesques. Anyone wanting to come to a thor ough reckoning with his art must always bear in mind this will to exhaust dimen sions. Rachmaninoff, one of the first to understand hi1)1 and even at one time under his influence, could not take in those dimensions and always tried. to induce him to curtail his works. This shows a fundamental misconception. Cutting Medtner is like cutting essential psychological stages from the novels of Dostoyevsky. His idiom is grafted upon that of the 19th, not the 2oth century. Im pressionist and later formations are quite alien to him (a curious exception to this are the very occasional inroads into the harmonic domain that we associate with the middle-Poem of Extasy-period of Scriabin). He has been referred to as the Russian Brahms. Nothing could be more mistaken. The whole point of view, the whole approach to harmony and rhythm of these two composers is entirely different. · While Brahms, after stating an idea, is fond of halting on a diminished chord, Medtner characteristically dashes forward ( al rigore del tempo) until his whole exposition is complete. Where Brahms is content with the minimal proportions, Medtner's expositions are limitless tableaux, while his codas are always an intensification, a mustering of forces (all themes are drawn

(iii) up for a parade before the listener). Compare this with the recoiling of Brahms, as in the. 2nd and 3rd symphonies. The same elemental strength as lies in his rhythms lies also in his harmonies and .there is nothing here of the harmonic hesitation of Brahms, his delicate wavering between major, minor, or mode. Only in their attitude to the invention of the thematic material and its subse quent treatment do they seem to be equally compelling, equally uncompromising. Nor is he in anyway connected with the Russian school, in which only Tschaikov sky might be looked upon as in some sort his spiritual ancestor, but only the greatest Tschaikovsky, not the singer and fosterer of despondent "week-day" moods. To Medtner art is the "holy of holies" of life. From the divine Muse-his teacher and counsellor-he draws all the wisdom, all the depth, all the intensity of living and creating. The insignificant is eliminated altogether from his frugal existence. In rigid discipline pass his uniform days in London, interrupted only by concert appearances and radio performances of his works. Work, like Schubert, from early morning till 2 P. M., a meal, a short period of rest, a walk, then tea, another short period of work and then friends and conversations about all the vital things of life around an endlessly drawn out supper. Going to a concert, or a movie, or the theatre, are rare and festal occasions, but a constant communion with a group of warmly devoted friends, an absolute, almost daily necessity. Here the foundations of his art are discussed, his attitude to modern phenomena, his utmost perplexity at them, in short all and more than has gone into his epoch-making book ''The Muse and the Fashion" which appeared in 1935 and has now at last been translated into English. The above routine of life has probably always prevailed. For about a decade, from 1909-19 he regularly ap peared before the musical public of Moscow and Petrograd, presenting his works, occasionally playing Beethoven, Chopin and Scarlatti, all of whom, espe cially Beethoven, he can interpret in an unforgettable way. These concerts of his music belong to the. high points of the very rich Russian musical life shortly before the Revolution. The outbreak of the first world war and his refusal to be drawn into the chauvinistic ideology and shouts of hatred and violence, resulted in a greater se clusion of him from public life. The revolution soon drove him out with the great stream of Russian emigration. He lived successively in Germany, France and England, but only .in England did .he find anything like a response to his ideals (as formerly in Russia). Twice he came to America-in. 1924 and 1929 -playing widely with orchestras and alone, but it cannot be said that there was a real understanding here of his mu$ic. People expected outward sensations and got none, they expected explosions of tonality and form, but they were con fronted by a vigorous affirmation of all that our musical heritage rests on. Now, in 1946, our public is appar~ntly tired of sensational inventions in musical speech and wants to return to a solid, wholesome diet. The second world war, with its increased destruction of things of beauty, has evidently awakened an intense thirst for what has as yet been preserved to us. To all this the recent concerts of Medtner's music at Swarthmore College and at the Juilliard School in New York eloquently testified. . · Medtner has completed 59 opuses which is a large output, considering the grandeur of his works and also the fact that whole groups of them are quite often united in one opus number. By the side of his piano music his songs ( 103 of them) occupy a most important place. He has set to music the poetry of Goethe, Nietzsche, Chamisso, Eichendorff, Heine among the Germans, and Pushkin, Tutcheff, Foeth and Lermontoff among the Russians. Only names of the first magnitude, none of the inferior poetry that we find in Schubert, Schu mann or Tschaikovsky. The poems continue their independent life, only en hanced by the greatness of .the music that surrounds them. In such songs as "To the Dreamer" of op. 32, or "The Muse" of op. 29, or "Sleepless Nights" of op. 37, we find the clue to his whole philosophy of life, which is very much akin to the Hellenic souls of Goethe and Pushkin and partly also to the singer of night and chaos ('Tutcheff). He has also used the voice as an instrument. (iv) The indication "vocalezzare" we find in many songs when the words have given out, yet the musical thought runs on. This "vocalezzare" has finally led to the Sonata and Suite Vocalise, op. 4I, where no words whatever are scored under the Hne of melody. A less important field is his violin music, while the orchestra figures only as the background to his three piano concerti.

THE ENGLISH TEXTS These translations of all the solo songs composed by Nicholas Medtner were made with a view to the possible publication by G. Schirmer, Inc., of about twenty-five of them, which project,, it is hoped will be consummated in the near future. Being made primarily to be sung with Medtner's music, they do not purport in all cases to be literal,.but rather endeavor to express in English, which is not just translated Russian or German, the basic thought and spirit of the originals. We often find, in poetry, words or phrases which have a peculiar significance and association which it is impossible to reproduce in another lan guage. To attempt to do so literally is not only awkward, but ,wholly fails to convey the poet's idea or picture. It is much better to attempt to reproduce the latter by reason of an indigenous phrase or figure. Occasionally in these translations there will be fot;tnd lines where the rhythm seems uncertain or faulty. These passages are all deliberate, to make the text fit the rhythm of the music; were the translations not for the music they could readily be smoothed out. Thus in No. 2 of Opus 59 I have considerably altered the rhythmic and rhyme structure of the poem, to fit the music. My Russian advisor having told me that no Russian could tell what Foeth really meant in Impromptu (Op. 37, No. 3), I felt at liberty to construct a theory of my own. Opus 3, No. 2, and Opus 29, No. 5 were composed by Medtner to the same poem by Pushkin. The differences in my texts follow the different music. I

HENRY s. DRINKER, 249 Merion Road, Merion, Penna.

(v) THE POETS of the MEDTNER SONGS

Brussov, Op. 28, No. 4 (I) Pushkin, Op. 3, No. 2; Op. I3, No. Byely, Op. I3, No. 2 (I) I; Op. 29, Nos. I-7; Op. Chamisso, Op. 46, Nos. 6 & 7 (2) 32, Nos. I-6; Op. 36, Eichendorff, Op. 46, Nos. 3-5 (3) Nos. I-6; Op. 45, Nos. ·Foeth, Op. 24, Nos. s-8; Op. 28, I-2; Op. 52, Nos. I-7; Nos. I-3; Op. 37, Nos. Op. so, Nos. I-2; Op. 3-4 (Io) 59, No. 2 (33) Goethe, Op. 3, No. 3; Op. 6, Nos. Tutschev, Op. 24, Nos. I-4; Op. 28, 1-9; Op. IS, Nos. I-IS; Nos. S-7; Op. 37, Nos. I, Op. I8, Nos. r-6; Op. 46, 2 & 5 ; Op. 45, Nos. 3 Nos. I-2 (30) & 4; Op. 59, No. I (13) Heine, Op. I2, Nos. I-3 (3) Lermontoff, Op. I, No. I; Op. 3, No. I (2) Total 103 Nietzsche, Op. I9, Nos. 1-3; Op. I9a, Nos. I-2 (5)

(vii) ENGLISH TEXTS for Songs of NJ<;:HOLAS MEDTNER by Henry S. Drinker

Opus I, No. I Opus 3, No. 3 THE ANGEL ON THE LAKE Lermontoff Goethe At midnight an Angel flew over the sky, The air I breathe is in my blood, and softly was singing a song ; and tingles in my breast. the clouds and the moon and the planets on Ah, Mother Nature, sweet it is, high upon thy bosom to rest ! were listening all the night long. The rocking waves and dipping oars He sings of the souls that are free of all together waft our boat; wrong, while down the mountain dewy mists in Paradise blest and secure ; toward us gently float. of God in His Heaven he sings, and his song Look, 0 look, and cease your dreaming ; is noble and simple and pure. though your dreams be golden gleaming. Look not down, look but above, He bears a young soul in his arms thru the where are beauty, life and love. skies, away from this. Valley of Tears; In the waves the stars his song, although ended as onward he flies, in myriad particles glimmer; the soul that he carries still hears. ghosts of distant mountains loom thru the magical shimmer. And vainly on earth did this young spirit long Zephyrs bear the scent of orchard, for music as lovely as this, meadow and plain, but found it at last in the Angel's sweet song in the bay is mirrored gold of of heavenly beauty and bliss. ripening grain.

Opus 3, No. I '· Opus 6, No. I AT THE CLOISTER GATE WANDERER's NIGHT-SONG Lermontoff Goethe Before the holy cloister gate On the heights is all still as death, as death. a beggar stands in supplication; No air disturbs the tree-tops, not even a ill-nourished, feeble, pale and gaunt breath. from poverty and slow starvation. The birds in the forest are silent. Be patient, peace will soon come to you. He asks for but a bit of bread, with honey fingers eager reaching; Opus 6, No. 2 and in them someotte puts a stone, SPRING SoNG and scornful mocked his vain beseeching. Goethe "Sir, I had prayed that I be loved, In the barley and corn, in bitter agony befriended; thru the thicket and thorn, your scorn has mocked my purest hope, in the bushes and grass, my faith in love forever ended." 0 where are you, my sweet lass? My beloved is not at home; Opus 3, No. 2 in the meadow she must roam; ALAS, FOR I OUTLIVE MY YEARNr:i'fGS where the flow'rs are green and fair. Pushkin I will find my dearest there. Alas, for I outlive my yearnings, In the spring-time, in May, my dreams are gone, my hopes depart, where I kissed her that day, and naught is left to me but anguish, by the old apple tree, the fruit of emptiness of heart. I see something. Is it she? The storms of cruel fate assail me, Opus 6; No. 3 my wreath is dead, my limbs are numb; SONG OF THE ELVES alone in sorrow, what is left me? Goethe I wait the end, when will it come? At twelve o'clock, when the people are And thus, when autumn cold approaches, sleeping, and winds of winter blare and blow, when over us floats the moon, and all the · a leaf is clinging, sad and lonely, stars are out, and helpless, flutters to and fro. we sing and we dance and go roaming about. (ix) At twelve o'clock, when the people are how it hurt when I, perchance, sleeping, gave him not a tender glance. we gather in the meadow, under the starry gleam, Here before Thee, undisguised, and play in the moonlight, and dance a fairy Lord, by all the world despised. dream, we dance and we sing like the fairies in a Ah, and how I tortured him ! dream. Now his tender eyes are dim. Grief and torment, awful dread! Opus 6, No. 4 I have lost him! · He is dead! I ROAMED THE MEADOWS Hear me, Saviour, hear my cry, Goethe poor unworthy sinner I ! I roamed the meadows, thru wheat and rye, I knew not whither, I knew not why. Opus 6, No. 8 I found a flower, so fresh, so blue, FIRST LoVE the like I saw not my whole life thru. Goethe I stooped to pluck it, but quick it stopped me: Who, ah who can bring me back "My roots are buried deep down below me, the happy days of love's first rapture? and they are needed to feed and grow me ; Who, ah who is it can bring and that's the reason I stand so neatly, one blessed moment back again? and ev'ry season I bloom so sweetly. 0 do not pluck me, but just transplant me." Lonely mourn I for the 'hours that I never can recapture, I roamed the meadows, thru wheat and rye; mourn them here alone in vain. far on I wandered, and joyous pondered, so happy I. Who can bring me back my rapture, brin~ it back to me again? Opus 6, No. 5 Opus 6, No. 9 LOVELIEST LASS ROOTED FIRM Goethe (Epithalamion) Loveliest lass, can you not tell me, Goethe tell me now why I roamed the forest with naught in mind, souls are tormented, nor was I thinking what I might find; silent and shy, and in the shadow, to my surprise, self-discontented, I found a flower with starry eyes: ever are grieving, ever believing I almost plucked it, but heard it say: Lady Luck will be there where they are not. "Must I be broken, and wilt away?" Can you not tell me, loveliest lass ? I took it with me, its roots and all, to my pretty house by the garden wall ; Opus 6, No. 6 and there I set it with tender care, CONS,CIENCE and now it blooms again, all fresh and fair. Goethe Opus I2, No. I Conscience tormenting, never relenting, striving and strainirtg, never attaining, THE CARllENTER fighting and flying, living and dying, Heine earth is a Hell, ended, were well. 0 come, put your hand on my heart, my dear ; Earth is but Hell; ended 'twere well. just feel how it pounds and it thumps in here. A carpenter lives there, a bad man he; Opus 6, No. 7 a coffin there he is making me. HEAR ME, LoRD He knocks and he hammers all night and all Goethe day, Hear me, Lord, to Thee I cry, and drives ev'ry thought of sweet sleep away. poor unworthy sinner I ; So hasten you, make my coffin strong, woe and. anguish, grief and care, for there I'll sleep for 0 so long! fill my heart with dark despair. Opus I2, No. 2 Here before Thee, undisguised, LYRICAL INTERMEZZO Lord, by all the world despised. Ah, we were so young and free, Heine ah, so dear and good was he ! A lonely fir-tree towers Ah, he loved me faithfully ! fa·r north on a barren height. Ah, he suffered so for me·! It slumbers beneath its mantle of snow and ice, cold and white. Hear me, Lord, to Thee I cry, poor unworthy sinner I ! It dreams and sees a palm-tree, far off where hot suns blaze, . I had heard his silent plea facing, alone and silent, knew his faith and hope in me, the pitiless scorching rays. Cx) Opus I2, N 9· 3 heaven and earth I measured but how to live not at all. THE VoicE oF THE MouNTAIN Heine Despise not the poet who lies here, A knight is riding thru the wood, but gladden his grave with flowers; absorbed and wrapped in gloom : for my porcelain wreath is crumbling, "Ah ! do I go now to my true love?" from the frost and the mid-summer showers. And answer the mountain gave: "To find your grave." All mouldy is the ikon and the flow'rs decay; As on he rides he.heaves a sigh, the grave-stones are heavy, his heart is sore distressed : ah come and lift them away! "Must I so soon in the grave then lie? Yet in the grave is rest." I loved the peace of the sunset, "There" said the voice, "is peace, and the bell, there care will cease-" and ah, then, why must I suffer? None can ever tell. Then down the cheek of the gallant knight a tear of sorrow fell : Oh take pity upon me, "And if in the grave there is peace for my my faded wreath calls to you, soul, and implores you to love me, to be in the grave is well." for my soul has not perished, The voice, with hollow knell but yet will be born anew. replied: " 'Tis well." Opus IS, No. I Opus I3, No. I WANDERER's NIGHT-SONG WINTER EVENING Goethe Pushkin Thou from. whom all blessings flow, Whirling winter snow and vapor ev'ry grief and anguish stillest; drive in clouds across the sky, him who suffers double woe, like a moaning creature calling, Thou with double comfort fillest. like a weeping infant's cry. Ip. our thatch of straw they rustle, Tired am I of rush an'd riot ! round our crumbling roof they roar, Ah, why all this joy and pain? now they knock upon our windows, Peace and quiet, now they rattle at ?ur door. come, ah come to me again ! Come, ah come to me again ! Our old hut is dark and dreary, and the fire is burning low, Opus IS, No. 2 as you sit there old and silent, gently rocking to and fro. THE BEGGAR Goethe· You are drowsy from the droning of the spinning-wheel, no doubt, As from door to door I wander, and are weary from the raging shy and silent I will stand, of the winter storm without. asking bread to bear me yonder, given me by loving hand. Let us drink, my good companion, to the days when we. were young ; Ev'ry-one will greet me gladly, drink in ~arrow, drink to cheer us, when before him I appear; sing the songs we both have sung ; then, with moistened eyes and sadly; sing the song of how the tit-mouse yet I know not why the tear. lived so happy in the dell, how the maiden, in the morning, Opus IS, No. 3 fetched the water .from the well. SELF-DEcEiT Whirling snow and clouds of vapor Goethe drive in clouds across the sky, She moves tbe curtain to and fro, like a moaning creature calling, she whom I hold most dear; like a wailing infant's cry. I think she listens, seeks to know Let us drink, my good companion, if I am really here, grief is futile, sorrow vain; fill the flagon, drain it empty, and wonders if the jealous rage it will make us glad again. still rankles in my breast, that no mere smiling can assuage; Opus I3, No. 2 or set my soul at rest. EPITAPH Byely Alas, alas, my Lady Fair had no such thoughts as these ; I aspired to soar in sun-light, the hand that moved the curtain there its arrows of fire made me fall; was but the ev'ning breeze!

(xi) Opus IS, No. 4 Opus IS, No. 8 SHE LOVES ME! HAPPY VOYAGE Goethe Goethe She loves me, she loves me ! The fog-bank has lightened, What fantasies teeming! the heavens have brightened, Am I alive now, and Aeolus loosens the reins in his hand. or am I dreaming? The tackles are whirring, ( the canvas is stirring ! She loves me, she loves me ! Up anchor! Alive all! Now nothiJ1g matters! The white-caps are foaming, Is this the sun-light? we're back from our roaming, Is that my cottage? , Look! There is the land! How can you bear it, rapturous heart? She loves me, she loves me ! Opus IS, No. 9 Opus IS, No. S NEAR THE BELOVED So DANCE YE · Goethe Go ethe I think of thee when shafts of sunlight shimmer So skip ye, and dance ye, across the sea ; you girl and you boy, and when the pool mirrors the moon's bright for dancing is seemly glimmer, for youth to enjoy. I think of thee. I think of thee when in the distance yonder To sit at the distaff, the dust ascends, to work all the day, and when at night on alien paths I wander, makes anyone sleepy, afar from friends. so up and away! I hear thy voice, there where the clear brooks glisten, Our dancing gives faint love on rocky hill ; a fresh and new start ; and when in silent wood ·I pause to listen, it heightens the courage, where all is still ; and gladdens the heart. far tho I be, of thee alone am thinking, for thou art near, forever near. Opus IS, No.·6 The sun has set, and myriad stars are blinking. BEFORE THE COURT Would thou wert here ! ' Goethe From whom I have it, this child that I bear, Opus rs, No. ro no one shall ever know. "Fie! Spit her out! The harlot there!" THE FA'ITHLESS LAD Nay, for I am not so. Goethe A lad there was, a faithless knave, With whom I was wedded I never will tell ; with varlets he consorted. my man is true and good, He wooed a maid with phrases brave, be he one who wears a chain of gold, and her with ardor courted. be he one whose shoes are of wood. She gave her all at his behest; alas, 'twas but a cruel jest, If shame and scorn must needs be borne, for with her he but sported. they shall be mine to bear. I know him well, he knows me well, And when the lad returned no more, and God is everywhere. she well-nigh lost her reason; she laughed and wept and prayed and swore, I pray ye, Mister Judge and Priest, and cursed his shameless treason. I pray ye now let me go ! When in her grave the maiden lay, My child it is, and will remain; the lad in terror rode away, come tell me, is this not so ? with all that he could seize on. Opus IS, No. 7 With whip and spur, in deadly dread, SEA CALM his aimless way he wended ; uphill and then down he pressed ahead, Go et he' his fear would not be ended. Brooding stillness on the water, Six days and nights, on, on he dashed; not a ripple, not a sound, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed, while the anxious sailor wonders the rain in floods descended. at the quiet all around. ' And as he rode 'mid crash and din, Neither air nor life nor motion, he found a little shelter; utter silence, still as death, he tied his horse and crept within, over an the mighty ocean, to come from out the welter ; not a murmur, not a breath. and as he felt his way around,

(xii) a fissure opened in the ground. Damon played his flute so sweetly, He fell in, helter-skelter ! sweet its echo, clear and gay. A hundred fathoms down he dropped In his arms he took me and kissed me, thru endless spaces sinking· ' ah, so dear, so tender he ! but when at _last. his fa~! wa~ stopped, And I told him : "Play forever." he saw a famt light blmking. And the dear boy played for me ! He followed it for miles and miles Peace of mind I can hope for never thru mouldy rooms with bones in piles, all my little joys have flown; ' and cellars, foul and stinking ! in my ears is the echo ever of the, flute's pervading tone. A banquet-hall at length he spies a hundred grinning devils ! ' Opus IS, No. 3 They look at him with empty eyes SOLITUDE and bid him join their revels. ' And there among them is the maid Goethe ·· in winding-sheet of white arrayed. Ye who dwell 'mid the rocks and the trees SHE SCORNS RIM! benign forest maidens, ' give ye freely to each Opus I5, No. II what each in secret desires : comfort to him who is sad, LIKE TO LIKE to them who waver give courage; Go ethe grant to lovers to find A little sr!ow-drop, quite early in May, the bliss that lovers so crave. sprang up and blossomed, one lovely spring To you has been given day. what gods denied unto mortals : A bee came buzzing, and sipped its dew. verily, to help and comfort 'You must have been made for each other, all them whose trust is in you. you two! Opus r8, No. 4 MIGNON Opus IS, No. I2 Goethe THE SPIRIT's GRt:ETING None but an aching heart Goethe can know my anguish; High on the ancient turret's tip, alone, from joys apart, the Hero's spirit stands. I grieve and languish. He bids God-speed to ev'ry ship The spacious firmament, that sails to foreign lands. relentless turning, "Lo, for my sinews were so tough knows how my days are spent my blood so hardly spilled ' in hopeless yearning. my limbs and bones such ~turdy stuff My very soul is rent, my cup was brimming filled." ' my heart is burning. "I spent my life 'mid storm and strife None but an aching heart in days now past and gone ; ' can know my anguish ; and thou, 0 little ship of man alone, from joys apart, sail ever, ever on t:' ' ) grieve and languish. Opus IS, No. 5 Opus 18, No. I TRE VIOLET THE FLIRT Goethe Goethe A violet in the meadow grew, Once at dawn in 'lovely spring-time, among the leaves; and hid from view; came a shepherdess and sang ; it was a lovely flower. young and fair and so light-hearted, A shepherdess fair there came along, sweet and clear her carol rang. with nimble step and merry song, to cross the meadow from beyond the stile. !hen.said Thyrsis : "Will you kiss me, 4 If I grve you lamb-kins twain?" "Ah," thought the violet, "were but I Coy, she looked at him a moment, the fairest flow'r beneath the sky, laughed and sang and laughed again. if only for an hour ! • she'd pluck me then, this lass so fair, l And another offered ribbons, and pin me on her heart to wear, and a third would give his heart ! ah me! ah me! just for a little while!" But she laughed at all their offers with a song bade all depart. ' But ah, alas ! her careless tread. unheeding passed the violet-bed. and crushed the little flower. Opus r8, No. 2 It sank and died, but happy said: CONQUERED "Tho die I must, I gladly die, I die beneath her feet, by her, Goethe at her dear feet I lie; In the glow of the ev'ning sun-set tho die I must, I gladly die, by her, thru the wood I made my way ; by her, by her and at her feet to lie." (xiii) Opus I8, No. 6 They say that nothing, ever, HuNTER's EvEN-SONG on earth here is secure. Goethe Comforts that we obtain Afar I wander, still' and free, are momentary flashes ; and hold my flint-lock tight. -we all are sprung from ashes, Your image fair appears .to me, soon turn to ashes again. so tender, sweet and bright. And so the bells up yonder You walk, I doubt not, fancy-free, bid me no longer roam; thru meadows dear to you ; the goal to which we wander and ah ! do you not sometimes see is our eternal home. my fleeting image too ? Happy indeed is he, Here am I, who' am doomed to roam who, scorning earthly pleasures, unhappy, sick at heart, regards alone the treasures from East to West, far away from home, of that Eternity. I, who from you must part. Opus I9a, No. I Your image, cool and calm I see, RETURNING HoME calm as the moon on high ; and sudden peace comes over me, Nietzsche nor can I tell you why. The day of my departure was one of bitter pain; Opus I9, No. my heart was far, far sadder GREETING when I came back again. Goethe The hopes that I had cherished, Ye birds, aloft in tree-tops, at one blow all dashed away! go sing ye loud and clear, 0 hapless, hapless hour, to greet my home of child-hood, 0 thrice unhappy day! my birth-place,-ah, so dear! Before my father's grave-stone Ye Jarks, come take these blossoms, I often stood and wept, and with them fly away; and. there in bitter sorrow, to drop them on my father's house, a lonely vigil kept. my home of yesterday. With all so dull and cheerless, so dreary there at home, You nightingale, 0 hear me, I sometimes sought the forest, where on the branch you wave; within its shade to roam.. come bear for mt: this rose-bud, to my dear· father's grave. And there, amid the shadows, my dreariness would cease; Opus I9, No. 2 sweet dreams would come to cheer me, my heart would be at peace. LITTLE OLD. MoTHER The joy of youth, the lark's song, Nietzsche roses and humming bees, The noon-day sun shines down upon appeared to me, as dozing, the alms-house in the square. I lay there beneath the trees. A little mother, frail and wan, is at the window there. Opus 19a; No. 2 DESPAIR Her eyes are dull, her hair· snow-white, her bodice fresh and neat; Nietzsche she seems content, and smiles to see To tolling bells depress me so, the sun-shine, warm and sweet. the night, so sultry, hastens on. What I should do, I do not know, Beside her window blooms a rose, my heart is sad, my joy is gone. the bees are swarming round ; nay, it disturbs her not at all, The hours fly, like ghosts they pass, this busy humming sound. far off the world, its pomp and show; I know not what to do, alas ! She gazes on the sunny scene, My joy is gone, my heart sinks low. so peaceful, bright and clear. In Heaven 'twill be fairer still, So dank the night, so death-like, too, 0 little mother dear ! the moon-light's ghostly rays appear; I know not what, indeed, to do ? Opus I9, No.. 3 Wild roars the storm; no sound I hear. LONGING FOR · HOME Nietzsche I have no peace, I have no rest, but wander, silent, sore, depressed, The bells of ev'ning pealing, among the graves along the shore. echo over the moor. My heart is sad, my joy no more. (xiv) Opus 24, N~. I Opus 24, No. 5 DAY AND NIGHT HUMBLE YET VALIANT Tutschev Foeth Above the gulf that has no name, Humble am I when thunder roars, the vast expanse where spirits hover, when down the crag the torrent pours, the gods have spread a golden cover; when in the night the lightning flashes; by their command it thus became. in awe, when on a rocky shore, untiring, and with ceaseless roar, Life once it gave to what was clay; untamed, the mighty ocean dashes, life now it gives to sick and ailing, the friend of mortals, never failing, , Radiant and mute am I that hour, glorious mantle;-'tis the Day ! possessed by strange, unearthly power, when your bright angel, near me soaring, But darkness comes to hide the day, is whisp'ring words, as in a dream, our comfort and our consolation; that thru my being glow and gleam, night, from its gloomy nether station, my weary soul with life restoring. has seized and torn the veil away! I am on fire, and madly burn, The chasm gapes, a fearful sight, I strive and struggle, soar and yearn, mist-covered, horrible, portentous ! the clouds of Heay'n beneath me treading. 'Til dawn no bar from it is sent us. Yea, in a moment, I will fly, So mortals ever dread the night. in very truth to Heaven· High, on sprouting pinions, soon outspreading. Opus 24, No. 2 Opus 24, No. 6 THE WILLOW Tutsche,v BEAUTY Foeth Why, 0 willow, are you bending, ever stooping over so ? When your glances, enchanting, you fling, Are your drooping leaves intending loving smile with another returning, thus to take a sip by blending of your beauty it is that I sing, with the cooling stream below? not at all of my love and my yearning. But the brook, in sun-light speeding, When I sing of the blossoming rose, hurries onward to the bay, and its fragrance perfuming the morning, all unconscious, all unheeding tho I love it, the song I compose of the thirsty branches pleading, is of beauty, the garden adorning. ripples laughing ~m its way. Beauty gladdens us all our life long, Opus 24, No. 3 lucky they on whom gods may bestow it; although beauty be needed for song, W A~S AND THOUGHTS beauty never has need for a poet; Tutschev no poet. Wave follows wave as does thought follow thought, Opus 24, No. 7 both of identical elements wrought; DAWN IN THE GARDEN thoughts in the heart, ever restless, in motion, Foeth waves in the boundless .expanse of the ocean. Ceaseless the flood and the ebb of the tides ; Whisp'ring, timid, softly breathing, all evanesceqt, with naught that abides. trills the nightingale. Silver brooklet, lazy weaving, Opus 24, No. 4 ripples thru the vale; flick'ring visions, gleams of beauty, TWILIGHT fantasies of grace; Tutschev magic changes,. gone, returning, Dark, grey twilight comes descending, in a loving face ; thru the world its shadows creep, purple shadows, smoothly stealing, changing colors, moving, blending, creep across the lawn, bid all nature fall asleep. tears and laughter, sighs and kisses, Moths, unseen, are faintly whirring, and the dawn, the dawn! soft the fading shadows fall ; sweetest pain within me stirring, Opus 24, No. 8 all is in me, I in all. GREETING Foeth Come, 0 twilight, sleep-compelling, pour thy balm across my soul ; Love I come today to tender, with thy breath, of nectar smelling, for the morning breeze is blowing, cover me and make me whole. and the sun, in all its splendor, Let me taste thy consolation, on the trembling leaves is glowing. petty thoughts and motives purge; make me one with all creation, Ev'ry bud, to blossom bursting, in the Infinite to merge. all awakened, new awakened;

(xv) with the spring, alive is thirsting, Opus 28, No. 4 on the dew its thirst has slakened. IN THE CHURCH-YARD I have come to love and serve you, Brussov with the same devotion ever; that I may in truth deserve you, Blank and dull the dingy, 'heavy stone; is my hope and my endeavor. he beneath it is unknown; gone the name-plate, withered is the moss, I have' come, my greetings bringing, bent and mouldering the cross, filled with mirth and joy and singing, and this little daisy, pale and wan with the nfu;ic of the growing song, . by tomorrow will be gone. that in my heart is. ringing. At the seat the weeping willow grieves, Opus 28, No. I bending down its trembling leaves, seeks to whisper to the passer-by : PRAYER FOR RAIN "One day you yours~lf must die." Foeth Yonder where the silver lichen grows, silver-white the river flows. Ye vapors, rain-clouds, hear ye me, There the .church's steeple rises tall, for all the earth is scorched and drying. with its time-encrusted wall. What winged angel may it be that wafts you where the fields are dying? And the breeze that dying softly waves Ah, pity· now this thirsty land, grasses on the silent graves, that blazing, cruel sun is parching ! whispers, as the shadows slowly creep; Soon may the kindly rain-bow stand, "Storms there were, but sleep has come, so above us mercifully arching. sleep." Be humble, 0 presumptions bard, Opus 28, No. 5 the living water, soul-regaling, .ELEGY is but a blessing undeserved, thru Heaven's bounty, never-failing. Tutschev 0, not with cold earth, alas, cover me over I All I can do alone in vain, 0, not with raw earth, alas, cover me over I 'tis He who sends the rain to nourish Bury me warm in the grass, the field, the grass, the vine .and grain, deep in the clover ! that man and beast may grow and flourish. The gentle breeze from out the trees, softly· stirs the grasses. Opus 28, No. 2 The shepherd's pipe is heard afar, SERENADE and calm the cloud, the quiet star, that over me passes. Foeth All the little birds I see that flutter, Opus 28, No. 6 send a flutter deep within my heart, and the sigh I cannot help but utter, DEJECTION tells you more than words could e'er impart. Ttttschev I sit dejected and apart, Calm and placid there you .stand before me, and watch with tears and heavy heart neither blush nor pallor on your cheek; the fire die out. how it pains that you can ignore me, The past I see before me there; see me not nor hear me when I speak. words fail to tell of my despair, my dreary doubt. In your triumph, radiantly victorious, Will what is past return again? you must bear with me, 0 Lady Mine; Will that that is in truth remain, radiant' dawn could never be. so glorious, forever here? had the sun no cloud on which to shine. Or will it pass, as all has passed, down time's dark corridor at last, Opus 28, No. 3 and disappear? THE BUTTERFLY Year after year, span after span, Foeth what is this earthly thing called man, ' that strives in vain? You're right, whatever of me charms and He withers quickly, quickly, yea ! pleases, Yet all the world, another day, are airy things. will live again ; These velvet pennons, flutt'ring in the breezes the leaf, the golden-rod, the grain, are my two wings. the thistle, too. Ask not from where I come in such a hurry, But, little flower, here on earth, or where I go ; this changeless cycle, this rebirth, here on this flow'r I settle, free from worry, is not for you. no care I know. · I plucked and pinned you next my heart, Do you suppose that aimless here I'll flitter with what sweet bliss, what cruel smart, the whole long day? God only knows ; ] ust wait, and soon my spreading wings will so stay you here upon my breast, glitter, 'til my last sigh has gone to rest, I'll fly a way ! · my little rose !

(xvi:) Opus 28, No. 7 And have you met him in the darkling wood? this singer from the grave, alone, despairing, THE PAUPER and seen the tears, the smile that none is Tutschev sharing, Vouch-safe, 0 Lord, to bless the pauper, his silent look of sorrow understood? who, in the scorching summer he.at, -have met him there? is straggling on, past lovely gardens, along the swelt'ring city street. And when you heard the singer, did you sigh? Thru gates forbidden stealthy gazing, -his song of love, his song of love despair- the luscious verdure there he sees, ing, the meadow where the sheep are grazing, -the voice of sorrow far beyond all bearing, the welcome shade of fragrant trees. -this youth who gazes out from empty eye? -and did you sigh? 'Tis mlt"for him the trees are throwing this cool and hospitable shade. Opus 29, No. 3 'Tis not for him the fountains, flowing, spread clouds of mist thruout the glade. SLEEPLESS Pushkin The azure grotto, mist-embowered, All is darkness, naught I see; in vain invites his ling' ring look; in the silence, lying weary, nor will there on his head be showered, hearing but the clock that near me, the fountain's spray, the limpid brook. ticks endingly at me. Ah, pity, Lord, that sorry mortal, I can seem to hear the mutter him fated all his life to stand that the Spinning Sisters utter; in futile gaze, out-side the portal, teeming life, with restless sound, nor ever gain the Promised Land. like the mice that run around, life, with all its fuss and flutter. Opus 29, No. I Why disturb me? Is it that my life is aim- THE MusE less, nowhere bound? Pushkin Dreary whisper, do you want me? Why do you forever taunt me? She loved me as a child, Do you call, or prophesy? ah yes, she loved me ever, Nay, I know not why, 0 why. and handed me the pipe, and bade that I endeavor, with childish lips and eager fingers, if I can, Opus 29, No. 4 to play for her the seven-reeded pipe of Pan. THE wAR HORSE And with a gentle smile she listened to me striving Pushkin to play the stately airs from hymns of gods "Say, my noble steed, why neigh you? deriving, Why do you thus hang your head? and then the peaceful songs the Phrygian Why not shake you your mane, say you, shepherds play. 'champ your bit, foam-flecked, instead?" Beneath the oak on many a sunny summer "Do I not attend and heed you? day, give you choicest oats to feed you? with diligence I strove to profit by her silver shoes you wear; behold! teaching; Is your bridle not the fairest, and then, at times, the Mystic Maid, at my reins of woven silk, the rarest, beseeching, are your stirrups not of gold?" with toss of golden curls from off her lovely brow, And the horse thus sadly answers :' herself took up the reed and sought to show "To the fray I'm harkening. me how. I can hear the host of lancers, trumpets call and arrows sing." And as the tones, with breath divine I heard her capture, > • "You have asked me why I neigh thus. my heart and soul, rejoicing, thrilled with 'Tis because so well I know holy rapture. I've so short a time to stay thus, not for long in comfort so." Opus 29, No. 2 "For the cruel foe will smite you, THE SINGER take my trappings, gay and neat, all my gaudy gear, despite you, Pushkin tear my shoes from off my feet." And have you heard the singer in the night? his song of love, his song of love despairing, "And my spirit sad is moaning, the plaintive pipe, his lonely vigil sharing, that my loins, where you have been, in silent fields before the morning light? will be covered, sweating, groaning, -have heard him there? with your torn and gory skin."

(xvii) Opus 29, No. 5 You hear the thunder's rolling roar, the voice of breakers on the shore; LosT HoPES the shepherds calling, clear and true, Pushkin you, answer too. Life has outdistanced all my yearnings ; To you none answers more. dreams all are gone, and hopes depart ; 0 poet, such are you. alas, have left me naught but sorrow, the fruit of emptiness of heart. Opus 32, No. 2 The storms of cruel fate assail me, RETROSPECT my wreath is dead, my limbs are numb; Pushkin alone in sorrow, what is left me? When thru the world at last there comes I wait the end, that soon will come? the close of day, and streets are still for night's duration, Thus, when the autumn cold approaches, to man and beast comes sleep, to waft us far and winds of early winter blow, away, a leaf is clinging, sad and lonely, fo,r daily toil the compensation. and helpless flutters to and fro. To me the silent hours move with feet of Opus 29, No. 6 lead, an endless time of 'weary waiting; THE RosE the serpent whispers to me words of doubt Push kin and dread, Where, where (is) the rose-bud, the child that sting with burning unabating. of dawn? Our rose has faded away and gone. My fancies boil, illusions fill my saddened 0 do not say : "Thus youth is passing." brain, · 0 do not say : "No joy is lasting." with dismal thoughts all too abundant ; View not the rose with gloom ; but ponder ; and memory unrolls its endless scroll again, for see you yonder ! Lilies in bloom ! with faults and futile deeds redundant. And as I read of my mistakes, I am aghast, Opus 29, No. 7 at dreary life and how to face it ; THE SuMMONS but this I know full well, that what has Pushkin passed is past, nor can I change it, or erase it. O"if it be that, in the night, when all that is alive is sleeping, Opus 32, No. 3 the moon-beams' vitalizing light among the hidden dead is creeping ; MESSAGE 0 if it be that then the dumb Push kin and silent graves give up their dwellers, I call to you, my one beloved, Far from home are you, my brother, to come to me ! 0 come, 0 come ! there with God you find another. Bright the moon has waxed and waned; 0 come, beloved shade, arise, To the dregs the cup is drained. as last I saw you, pallid lying, Better thus than from a fever; with tortured gaze from haggard eyes, free you lived, and free you died. in torment there before me dying. Slain your foe,-your son pursued him, as he fled in wanton pride. Come floating like a distant star, come like a whisper, light, to taunt me, Do not let your heart forget us, or like a fearful ghost to haunt me ! brother dear, beloved and brave. It matters not, but come ! 0 come! Give our father all our greetings, there with you beyond the grave. The punishment of none I crave, nor would I peer beyond the curtain Tell him all my wounds are mended, that hides the myst'ries of the grave. I am sound in ev'ry limb. I call you not because uncertain, I've a son, his name is I van, but only, only, that I may, so called, tell him, after him. in aching sorrow bow before you, and tell you how I still adore you, He will be, I'm sure, delighted, and will for aye. 0 come, 0 come ! proud to hear of this my son. He can wield a sword already, Opus 32, No. I shoot an arrow or a gun. THE ECHO Tho my daughter lives in Lisgov, Pushkin she is happy with her man. Tvark's a sailor, dead or living, Tho be it cry of baying hounds, you will know if any can. or hunting horn that ringing sounds, or maiden's voice that gay resounds Far from home are you, my brother, behind the hill, there with God you find another. to each your answer quick rebounds, Bright the moon has waxed and waned; and all is still. to the dregs the cup is drained.

(xviii) Opus 32, No. 4 Opus 36, No. I I LoVED You WELL THE ANGEL Pushkin Pushkin I loved you well, and still I think I love you, At Heaven's gate there stood an Angel; a latent spark yet smould'ring in my heart. about her head a halo glowed. Let not, however, this be on your conscience, A demon, filled with wrath and hatred, to mar your peace, or cause you any smart. flew over the gulf of Hell's abode. My love for you was silent, yes, was hopeless, Then he who scoffed at truth and beauty, with torture racked, now jealous and now shy. looked up and saw the Angel fair, But yet I doubt if God in Heav'n will send and in his heart for once was kindled you a Spark of Light that smouldered there. another love as pure and tJ;ue as I. "Not all in vain have I beheld thee, Opus 32, No. 5 and seen the Truth that glorifies ! Not all in Heav'n to me is hateful, WALTZ not all on earth do I despise." Pushkin 0 moment of rapt'rous bliss ! Opus 36, No. 2 Can I forget it? THE FADED FLOWER I live alone for you, you only, only you ! We two together, madly whirling, Pushkin your bold, inviting eyes, that pierced me A faded flower, dried and scentless, through! forgotten in this book I see, and lo, already, fancies thronging, Let it not pass, and musings strange come over me. but keep us dancing forever ! we two together, ever faster, whirling on, And when, and where and in what springtime my eyes mirrored in yours, did you first bloom ?-beneath what sky? in magic rapture thus, and who it was that stooped to pluck you? until oblivion enfold and cover us. and whose the hand that placed you there, and why? Opus 32, No. 6 In mem'ry of a tender meeting? To A DREAMER or of a parting, fraught with pain? Pushkin or of an afternoon together, To surge in passion's mighty throes is your in silent wood, or shady lane? enjoyment, with bitter tears to moan your plight, Are He and She among the living? imagined ecstasy your favorite employment, and where their little nook or bow'r? to nurse despondency is your supreme delight. or are they also dust and ashes, Believe me, you indeed are but an idle forgotten like this faded flow'r? dreamer, you who but toy with loving are a mere Opus 36, No. 3 blasphemer ; WHEN RosEs FADE if love itself should ever chance to seize your soul, Push kin to coil about your heart with pow'r beyond When roses are about to fade, control, ambrosia fills the air ; if once its venom in your blood and veins their souls float to Elysium; were seething, in peace forever there. if you yourself should ever truly feel its might, The drowsy waves roll onward, and lie and yearri the whole long night, far on thru Lethe's gloom, with sleepless eyes and fevered breathing, to find in Paradise if you, should come to know the agony of love, all the roses again in bloom. and from your eyes the scalding tears were really streaming, believe me, you would have an end of make Opus 36, No. 4 believe and idle dreaming. SPANISH RoMANCE Then, humble, meekly suppliant, and shorn Pushkin of all your tinsel armor, you'c\ kneel before your haughty charmer, The night is still, a soft breeze blows. and pray to all the gods above : by field and hill the river flows. "Ye gods, I pray you give me back my reason, . Bright the moon, with golden aura. that I no longer do or say I know not what. Silence! Hark! Guitars I hear I Have mercy on me, pity my unhappy lot." See the lovely young senora on her b;:tlcony appear. And yet, though love may be forgotten for a season,. The night is still, a soft breeze blows. 'twill never really be forgot. by field and hill the river flows.

(xix) Doff your gay mantilla; veiling and with our age and our companions, beauty fair as fairest rose; is vanishing, to leave noo trace. thru the latticed iron railing let there peep your ,littl<;! toes. A new young tribe, in vigor growing, has meanwhile blossomed in the sun, The night is" still, a soft breeze blows, while we, our time, our friends and neighbors, by field and hill the river flows. are ~wallowed in oblivion.

Opus 36, No. 5 With weary tepetition rolling, the hours sound their dreary knell, NIGHT a melancholy cadence tolling Pushkin for us and ours a sad fare-well. For you my voice is filled tonight with love and longing ; Opus 37, No. 2 the melody I sing disturbs the starry still ness; TEARS alone by dreary candlelight I lie and yearn Tutschev for you. My song is all of you, with tender fervor Tears never ending, forever descending, glowing, fall from the eyes of the mortals who mourn; a stream of love, to you, devoted, flowing. of sorrow portending, sad and heartrending, From out the dark your radiant eyes look vast inexhaustible deluge, from eyes forlorn, down upon me; fall like the torrents before 'tis light, they seem to smile at me as here I lie alone. late in the autumn, in dead of the night. My dear, my dearest dear, my heart is all your own. Opus 37, No. 3 IMPROMPTU Opus 36, No. 6 Foeth ARION (Written, it may be, by a middle aged Pushkin bachelor who has been asked to tea Ah, there were many of us there ; by a charming young lady. H. S. D.) the sailors heaving at the halyards, He would have me go mad who invented the oarsmen pulling all together, this rose, lustily rowing! with its petals and stem and aroma so fragrant. Not a sound the helmsman uttered, as with He would have me go mad who has woven sure hand he steered the heavy boat along, those braids, while, free of care and full of hope, to them so enchantingly rich, and the little curls I sang: vagrant. So before my old age has descended on me, Swift came the storm, and fierce the tempest and converted me into a hideous spectre, blared and bellowed. I have flown over here with a buzz like a They perished, all that motley crew. bee, But I alone am cast ashore, alone am saved, to get drunk on this fragrant and honey mysterious singer. sweet nectar. Care-free I sing my song again: And the thought of this day, from all worri-

ment free, 0 ' I dry my clothes beneath the rock, in my heart will preserve it perpetually and lie and sing there in the sun-shine : sunny. What for others is nothing but wax will for Opus 37, No. I me in my memory ever be sweet-scented honey. SLEEPLESS Tutschev Opus 37, No. 4 Monotonous the hours toll, WALTZ a weary tale for all who read it ; Foeth like conscience, clear to ev'ry soul, yet• strange to them who fail to heed it. So lithe and so dainty and slender, around with me whirling she flies ; Who is there of us has' not heard so warm are her hands and so tender, its voice, thru endless hours of waiting, so warm are the stars in her eyes. in silence, tense and suffocating, the moan of Time's prophetic word? And yesterday noon ah, I saw her, with her red cheeks all ashen and grey ; One well might think that orphaned nature asleep and enshrouded in velvet beneath resistless fate wer,e prone, they took her and bore her away. and we, at war with all creation, . Ah! Ah! deserted, have been left alone. High above thru my window, pale like a ghost looks the moon. And all our life is 'clear before us, I dream that we two are still dancing; a ghost upon the brink of space, ah, how could it happen so soon?

(xx) Opus 37, No. 5 But when 'tis noon, harassed and shaken, our fiery spirits grow more cool; NIGHT WINDS we fear the curves and dread the ditches, Tutschev and call : "Go easy there, you fool !" And why your moaning, winds of night? Of what do you complain so madly? Yet all the while the coach rolls onward, What means your eerie voice of fright, and when our journey's end is nigh, that cries now harsh and now so sadly? we sit and doze, contented waiting, but faster yet the horses fly! In words that speak to heart and soul you tell of suffering unending.; again, with blast beyond control, Opus 45, No. 3 you groan and wail with voice heart-rending. SoNG OF NIGHT a· sing you not such direful songs, Tutschev of worlds in ferment at creation! How hungrily the dark soul longs Around the globe the mighty seas extend, to hear these tales of desolation. · so thus is life engulfed in seas of dreaming. The night comes on, imagination teeming, It yearns to leave this mortal breast, the flooding tides of life ascend. with all the Infinite uniting. Wake not the storms, but let them rest, Night calls us forth, with voice insistent beneath is Chaos, dire and blighting! urging, the magic bark is waiting at the shore; Opus 45, No. I on sombre waves, with swelling tide up- ELEGY surging, , Pushkin the great unknown our dreams explore. I love your secret hidden flowers, The vast abyss, the firmament unbounded, your twilight that so mystic gleams, with myriad stars reflected in its face, 0 poetry, thou gift of Heaven, looks up to where we float, our bark sur well-beloved child of blessed dreams. rounded You poets tell us that the shadows, by boundless void of flaming space. pellucid band from Lethe's firth, descend again to seek the places Opus 45, No. 4 which were most dear to them on earth. OuR TIME Unseen they visit haunts belov-ed, a sleeping loved one each attends, T~ttschev and in a vision thus appearing, 'Tis not our flesh that now-a-days is weak; they comfort their deserted friends. the soul is soft, man desperately yearning. He craves the light, and for the light would They wait, these loved ones in Elysium, · seek, these shades with life immortal blest, but finding it, rejects it undiscerning. as mortals at a fam'ly banquet await a tardy, welcome guest. His lack of faith has scorched and ·dried his But yet, mayhap, this, too, is dreaming; soul; perhaps, when in my burial shroud, unending woe he bears in desolation. I will forget all earthly feelings, He senses doom with faith the longed-for and all of which I am so proud. goal, for which he will not pray •in supplication. Perhaps, where all is clothed in glory, in beauty that cannot decay, And never will he say, in prayer and tears, the sacred flame that shines eternal no matter how he mourns out-side the portal : will burn the thought of earth away, "I do believe! 0 help my faith in Thee to open wide the gate to life immortal! my soul will lose life's transient image,. 0 let me in!" 'mid all the beauty there above, know not regret, nor joy, nor yearning, forget the bitter pangs of love. Opus 46, No. Opus 45, No. 2 PRAELUDIUM THE COACH OF LIFE Goethe Pushkin To endless end of time recurring, Although at times,the load is heavy, all things go on, nor pause nor halt, ever the coach is on the go ; the present, past and future blurring, without a halt it hastens forward, enclosed in one vast arching vault. enmeshed in Time's eternal flow. Joy does not come of man's contriving, At early dawn we urge the driver but follows. from the soul's accord, to spur the horses, fast and free; and all our turmoil, strife and striving with ardor fired; we scorn to loiter, will merge in the peace of God our Lord. and shout: "The whip for them, all three)" Hallelujah!

(xxi) Opus 46, No. 2 Opus 46, No. 6 THE HALLOWED PLACE THE SPRING

c Goethe Chamisso When in the hallowing moon-light the In the shade of fragrant lindens, Nymphs are assembled together, wells our spring, with crystal flow; and the Graces in secret come down from and the birds sing there so sweetly, Olympus to join them, nay, I think not many know! then the listening poet can hear their ex quisite singing, To the spring there came a maiden, feel the rhythmical pulse of their strange, with a jug in either hand; mysterious dancing. as she quickly filled her pitchers, there she saw a young lad stand. All the beauty that Heaven has made, all ,. loveliness earth has happily ,Porne unto man, Long they chatted there together, stands revealed to the soul of the dreamer. longer than she was aware: All he describes to the Muses who, lest the "Mother dear, you must not scold me, gods be offended, for 'twas you that sent me there. hasten to teach him awe for their secrets, to speak of them humbly. ] ugs are light when empty, heavier far there at the spring they grow ; and the birds there sing so sweetly, Opus 46, No. 3 mother, nay, you cannot know." SERENADE Eichendorff Opus 46, No. 7 Come, my fairest, up the mountain, SINGING thru the lovely, sunny hours, Chamisso gather wreaths of wood-land flowers; at the cool and crystal fountain, At home we sit in a circle, with your rosy lips, and smiling, at ease on the sweet-smelling grass, sip the cup, with laugh beguiling. and when we're singing together, how happy the hours pass. Drinking, kissing, sings the poet, none can rule his mind, or know it ; And whe~, alone, I am tortured, ballads from his heart come, dancing, by cares that drive me insane, life is wondrous fair,-entrancing ! no sooner I begin singing, than all will be well again.

Opus 46, No. 4 And many a time when I'm boiling with anger I cannot restrain, IN THE FOREST I only have to start singing, Eichendorff and all will be well again. A wedding procession comes gaily by, the birds are all glad and singing; So tell us not of your troubles, far up on the mountain the huntsmen cry, nor yet of your woes complain, with shouts the valley is ringing. but just start gaily singing, and all will be well again. But soon they are gone, and ev'rything still, and none is left but me only. Opus 52, No. I Softly the wood sighs, high up on the hill, and my heart is forlorn and lonely. THE WINDOW Pushkin Where is the world that harks to fancy? Opus 46, No. 5 The one I know js bleak and bare. WINTER NIGHT My fate it is to breathe in boredoni, Eichendorff and nothing matters, naught I care. The snow lies heavy ev'rywhere, What matters that the wind, in summer, all gladness has been banished. delights to play among the trees, . A lonely tree stands bleak and bare to sway the grain and meadow flowers, its leaves have long since vanished. where buzz the busy honey-bees?

The wind is blowing from the north, What matters, that the summer lightning thru empty branches streaming ; is flaring high and ever higher ? the tree, though rocking back and forth, or that the setting sun is bursting is yet expectant dreaming. thru rifts of cloud in stream of fire?

It dreams of sunny days to come, or when, in purple ev'ning shadows, of spring, and forest voices, the sleeping world grows gently dim? of .brooks and buds no longer numb, or when the flooding moon-light blanches when all again rejoices. the maples at the water's brim.

(xxii) Last ev'ning, as the twilight faded, the moon, with fair and friendly beams, with misty moon-light all about, upon my right is shining brightly. I saw a maiden at her window, in silent waiting, looking out. When· I return,-ah, all too soon, ill-omened visions rise to taunt me, Her bosom heaved in secret anguish, while on my left the dreary moon, she watched and watched, intent and still, portending sorrow, seems to haunt me. the little path that passed her doorway from over yonder down the hill. For thus it is the poet's role, · ever pursued by endless dreaming, " 'Tis I !" There is a hurried whisper; sifting the visions, vague and teeming, I see a figure there, and soon, to plumb the secrets of the soul. it moves ! The window softly opens ! A cloud comes by and hides the moon. Opus 52, No. 5 "How Jucky !" thought I, sadly musing, SPANISH RoMANCE "How happy one indeed can be!" Push kin Alas-will ever, some still ev'ning, To the noble senorita, a window open thus for me? came two knights in courtly guise. Bold and free in turn they greet her ; Opus 52, No. 2 both look straight into her eyes. THE RAVENS Push kin Both are clad in shining armor, both lean heavy on their swords ; Ravens high aloft are soaring, (not that either one would harm her, keen-eyed, all below exploring: both are brave and noble lords.) "Raven, what good dinner spy you? tasty food to satisfy you?" She is dear to them as glory, rather life than her they'd lose; Says the second raven: "Yea, one she loves, (so runs the story,) I know where we dine today. which one did the maiden choose? In the field to which we're flying, I can see a warrior lying. "Which of us shall be your lover? which of us shall win the prize?" How he died and who his foe, And, with knightly optimism, that his hawk alone can know, both look straight into her eyes. and tlie steed who bore him there, and the maid he thought so fair. Opus 52, No. 6 Swiftly flew the hawk away, SERENADE horse and gear were victor's prey; Pushkin she who should be faithful to him, welcomes him who fought and slew him." I come, Inesilla, my sweetest and best, in silent Sevilla, where all are at rest. Opus 52, No. 3 la, la, etc. ELEGY My mantle around me, with sword and guitar, Pushkin I fear no opponents, whoever they are. The fire of youth is gone, its. madness jaded, the bloom of life is dull, its brightness faded; What matters the old ma,n asleep there by like wine, the sorrows of a bygone day . you? grow strong with age, in secret hid away. If he should awaken, I'll·crtt him in two! My path is sad, and offers naught but sorrow, Your long silken ladder will reach to the a sea of doubt, a dreary, bleak tomorrow. ground. Why wait you? Perhaps there's a rival But; 0 my friends, I do not want to die, around? I want to live, to ponder and to sigh. I know that joys at times will come to bless I come, Inesilla, my sweetest and best, me in silent Sevilla, where all are at rest. amid the countless worries that distress me. Opus 52, No. 7 My soul will thrill with music's sweet delight, or bathe·· in tears at fancied lovers' plight; THE PRISONER and best of all, as sunset draws yet nearer, Pushktn they whom I love will love me. ever dearer. Alone by the bars at the window I lay, Below a young eagle was tearing his prey. Opus 52, No. 4 Bold emblem of freedom, he spreads out his VISIONS wings, his blood-spattered booty away from him Pushkin flings, I ride to you, and happy dreams looks up at the window where shackled I lie, in eager throng pursue me lightly ; and seems to be thinking the same thought as I.

(xxiii) mist is rising, But yet, when •sorrows come, rivers the sky, you then may find it there, the azure ;vault of Heaven to cheer you, · · .. ':,~ .. ~• ....•• :~m;1oJ~''"'•u,~ clouds· float. slowly .by. and say; · that still one heart is true, languor .fills the world, though far a.way · face of nature creeping, is ever near you. in some fairy cave, god Pan himself is sleeping. My friend, what is my name to you? Opus 59, No. 2 IN AN ALBUM Pushkin • :My friend, what is my name to you? Like rpar- of waves in wintry weather, /'twill pass and vanish altogether, -"like forest sounds and morning dew.