C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
William and Helen
By Gottfried August Bürger (1747–1794)
F
And eyed the dawning red:—
“Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?”
He sought the bold crusade;
But not a word from Judah’s wars
Told Helen how he sped.
At length a truce was made,
And every knight returned to dry
The tears his love had shed.
With many a song of joy;
Green waved the laurel in each plume,
The badge of victory.
To meet them crowd the way,
With shouts, and mirth, and melody,
The debt of love to pay.
And sobbed in his embrace,
And fluttering joy in tears and smiles
Arrayed full many a face.
She sought the host in vain;
For none could tell her William’s fate,
If faithless or if slain.
She rends her raven hair,
And in distraction’s bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair.
“Nor sorrow thus in vain:
A perjured lover’s fleeting heart
No tears recall again.”
What’s lost forever lorn;
Death, death alone can comfort me;
O had I ne’er been born!
Drink my life-blood, Despair!
No joy remains on earth for me,
For me in heaven no share.”
The pious mother prays;
Impute not guilt to thy frail child!
She knows not what she says.
O turn to God and grace!
His will, that turned thy bliss to bale,
Can change thy bale to bliss.”
O mother, what is bale?
My William’s love was heaven on earth;
Without it earth is hell.
Since my loved William’s slain?
I only prayed for William’s sake,
And all my prayers were vain.”
And check these tears that flow;
By resignation’s humble prayer,
O hallowed be thy woe!”
Or slake this scorching pain;
No sacrament can bid the dead
Arise and live again.
Be thou my god, Despair!
Heaven’s heaviest blow has fallen on me,
And vain each fruitless prayer.”
With thy frail child of clay!
She knows not what her tongue has spoke;
Impute it not, I pray!
And turn to God and grace;
Well can devotion’s heavenly glow
Convert thy bale to bliss.”
O mother, what is bale?
Without my William what were heaven,
Or with him what were hell?”
Upbraids each sacred Power,
Till, spent, she sought her silent room,
All in the lonely tower.
Till sun and day were o’er,
And through the glimmering lattice shone
The twinkling of the star.
That o’er the moat was hung;
And, clatter, clatter, on its boards
The hoof of courser rung.
As off the rider bounded;
And slowly on the winding stair
A heavy footstep sounded.
A rustling stifled noise;
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring;
At length a whispering voice:
How, Helen, dost thou fare?
Wak’st thou, or sleep’st? laugh’st thou, or weep’st?
Hast thought on me, my fair?”
I waked, I wept for thee.
Much have I borne since dawn of morn;
Where, William, couldst thou be?”
I rode since darkness fell;
And to its bourne we both return
Before the matin bell.”
And warm thee in their fold!
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the wind;—
My love is deadly cold.”
This night we must away;
The steed is wight, the spur is bright;
I cannot stay till day.
Upon my black barb steed:
O’er stock and stile, a hundred mile,
We haste to bridal bed.”
O dearest William, stay!
The bell strikes twelve—dark, dismal hour!
O wait, my love, till day!”
Full fast I ween we ride;
Mount and away! for ere the day
We reach our bridal bed.
Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee!
The feast is made, the chamber spread,
The bridal guests await thee.”
She mounts the barb behind,
And round her darling William’s waist
Her lily arms she twined.
And fast as fast might be;
Spurned from the courser’s thundering heels
The flashing pebbles flee.
Ere they could snatch a view,
Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain,
And cot and castle flew.
Fleet goes my barb—keep hold!
Fear’st thou?”—“O no!” she faintly said;
“But why so stern and cold?
Why shrieks the owlet gray?”—
“’Tis death-bells’ clang, ’tis funeral song,
The body to the clay.
Ye may inter the dead;
To-night I ride, with my young bride,
To deck our bridal bed.
To swell our nuptial song!
Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast!
Come all, come all along!”
The shrouded corpse arose:
And hurry! hurry! all the train
The thundering steed pursues.
High snorts the straining steed;
Thick pants the rider’s laboring breath
As headlong on they speed.
And where thy bridal bed?”
“’Tis distant far,—low, damp, and chill,
And narrow,—trustless maid!”
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course!”
O’er thundering bridge, through boiling surge,
He drove the furious horse.
Splash! splash! along the sea;
The scourge is wight, the spur is bright,
The flashing pebbles flee.
Each forest, grove, and bower!
On right and left fled past how fast
Each city, town, and tower!
Dost fear to ride with me?
Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride!”—
“O William, let them be!—
And creaks ’mid whistling rain?”
“Gibbet and steel, th’ accursed wheel,
A murderer in his chain.
To bridal bed we ride;
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance
Before me and my bride.”
The wasted form descends;
And fleet as wind through hazel bush
The wild career attends.
Splash! splash! along the sea;
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles flee.
How fled what darkness hid!
How fled the earth beneath their feet,
The heaven above their head!
And well the dead can ride;
Dost, faithful Helen, fear for them?”—
“O leave in peace the dead!”
The sand will soon be run;
Barb! barb! I smell the morning air;
The race is well-nigh done.”
Splash! splash! along the sea;
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles flee.
The bride, the bride is come;
And soon we reach the bridal bed,
For, Helen, here’s my home.”
Revolved an iron door,
And by the pale moon’s setting beam
Were seen a church and tower.
The birds of midnight, scared;
And rustling like autumnal leaves
Unhallowed ghosts were heard.
He spurred the fiery horse,
Till sudden at an open grave
He checked the wondrous course.
Down drops the casque of steel,
The cuirass leaves his shrinking side,
The spur his gory heel.
The mold’ring flesh the bone,
Till Helen’s lily arms entwine
A ghastly skeleton.
And with a fearful bound,
Dissolves at once in empty air,
And leaves her on the ground.
Pale spectres flit along,
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance,
And howl the funeral song:—
Revere the doom of heaven.
Her soul is from her body reft;
Her spirit be forgiven!”