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Translated by C. T. Brooks
WHERE, below the steep of Jura, | |
| Rocky Solothurn is seen, | |
| Sweetly nestling in the mountains, | |
| Lies a deep and wild ravine. | |
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| Up towards heaven the stone Colossi | 5 |
| Soar above the vale so high, | |
| Gloomy firs fling out their branches | |
| Grimly, there, athwart the sky. | |
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| Down below, among the bushes, | |
| Bright the rivulet glides along, | 10 |
| In the pilgrim’s ear it murmurs | |
| Like a holy convent song. | |
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| By it oft sate Saint Verena, | |
| Long had she her dwelling here, | |
| Whether Spring came down the valley, | 15 |
| Or grim Winter howled so drear. | |
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| Whosoe’er was seized with sickness | |
| Straightway sought her holy cell, | |
| And had scarcely crossed her threshold | |
| When he felt himself made well. | 20 |
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| Whoso hears her words of wisdom, | |
| Witnesses the daily deed, | |
| Feels a longing stir within him: | |
| “O that I such life might lead!” | |
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| Many a one would surely whisper, | 25 |
| Once beholding her at prayer: | |
| “Ah, in sooth, for such rough region | |
| Is the damsel all too fair.” | |
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| But her daily care is only | |
| To extend Christ’s kingdom here, | 30 |
| And all hearts, in these wild places, | |
| Praise and bless her far and near. | |
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| Even the forest’s untamed creatures | |
| Seem as if they knew her well, | |
| And all night, as friends and servants, | 35 |
| Keep their guard around her cell. | |
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| But the Evil One is frantic, | |
| And he seeks, with envious heart, | |
| How to circumvent and crush her, | |
| Her who foils his every art. | 40 |
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| Often has he made the brooklet | |
| Through the vale a torrent roar, | |
| But, amid the swelling waters, | |
| Still, dry-shod, she passes o’er. | |
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| Oft, to kill the holy maiden, | 45 |
| Has he sent a murderer grim: | |
| But the wretch has fled with terror, | |
| When she turned and looked on him. | |
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| But, since all his spells are fruitless, | |
| Underfoot his wiles all trod, | 50 |
| Now, at least, the fiend will show her | |
| That he stronger is than God. | |
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| And as she, with fervor praying, | |
| Knelt in morning’s rosy hour, | |
| There stands Satan right behind her,— | 55 |
| Now her life is in his power! | |
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| With both hands the grinning monster, | |
| See! a giant bowlder grasps; | |
| High above him swings it fiercely; | |
| Sympathetic nature gasps. | 60 |
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| One more instant and he ’ll hurl it, | |
| Surely crush her in the place, | |
| But she hears a sudden rustling, | |
| Backward turns her angel-face. | |
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| Such a flood of radiant beauty | 65 |
| Blinds him with its dazzling light; | |
| Poised he holds the rock above him, | |
| And forgets his fury quite. | |
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| From his mind reflection’s traces | |
| Have so clean departed, all, | 70 |
| That he lets the trembling bowlder | |
| On his toes directly fall. | |
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| But what vexes him most sorely, | |
| Fills his soul with spite and shame, | |
| Is, that only “limping devil” | 75 |
| Since that day has been his name. | |
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| Wilt thou not believe my legend, | |
| Go to Saint Verena’s glen; | |
| In the rocky clump thou ’lt see there | |
| Print of Satan’s fingers ten. | 80 |
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