Landon in The Literary Gazette 1835/Count Egmont II
ORIGINAL POETRY.
VERSIONS FROM THE GERMAN.
(Fifth Series: continued.)
Count Egmont, a Tragedy,—Goethe.
Scene II.—(Mother, Clara, and afterwards Count Egmont.)
(The same small chamber; but the fire-light now
Flings its fantastic shadow on the wall:
A light less cheerful than the blessed sun,
And yet more social. Curtains closely drawn,
And fastened doors, shut out all else beside
The still small world of our own hope and heart.
The maiden's garb is simple; but 'tis worn
With a sweet anxiousness to please. Her hair—
How rich its golden tresses are—is knit
With curious care around her graceful head.
Her cheek is red; the rose betrays her heart;
Telling how fast it beats. One enters there—
A warrior by his step—and by his eye—
And yet the step is light—the eye is soft.
Still hath that eye a dark and inward power,
Which, like the shadow of some omen, sits
And clouds the present with vague prophesy.)
Mother.
So true a lover have I never known!
Young Brackenberg may well deserve a place
On those old chronicles of constancy
That are such favourites with you.
(Clara continues to pace the room, singing
snatches of an old song.)
It weeps, saddest weeping,
It hopes, and it fears;
Then smiles are keeping
A light mid its tears.
Now humble, now scornful,
Now gladness, now gloom;
Now bright as the morning;
Now dark as the tomb.
Now pining all lonely;
Then widely it roves;
Yet happy is only
The spirit that loves.
Mother.
Now, cease this foolish singing.
Clara.
Pray thee forbid me not, you do not know
The power that lurked in that simple song:
‘Twas sung beside my cradle, and recalls
Thoughts that I love to link with thoughts of love.
Frank, innocent, glad thoughts. He is a child,
And useth childish phrase; our common words,
The workaday and worldly, are too harsh,
Too cold a language, for his gentle mouth,
Which has a music like the lisping child.
The loving heart delighteth in old songs;
They say so many things we wish to say,
And wake our sympathies, and make us feel
Less strange ourselves. Others have loved as well,
And left these tender relics of their love.
Mother.
You think of nothing else. This will not last.
Youth and fair Love have their appointed time;
They pass, and then we care for other things.
Clara (shuddering.)
Let that day come, and it will come like death,
Cold, fearful; but thou liest too near my heart
To be forgotten: other loves may pass
The vain, the cautious—not a love like mine.
(Egmont enters, his mantle folded round him.
Clara at first stands as if overpowered, and
then springs towards him. The Mother
makes him welcome, and, after a few words,
hurries, to prepare supper.)
Clara.
What ails my love, that thus with folded arms
He stands aloof? and yet love, mine, you smile.
The watching soldier wraps him in his cloak.
Egmont.
Sweet one, the lover has his ambush too—
Disguising.
Clara.
Ah! what would my lover be?
Egmont.
Whate'er you please!
(Throws off his cloak, appears in a splendid
garb, and clasps her in his arms.)
Clara.
I pray thee, loose me, for I fear to spoil
Your rich array! How glorious you are!
Egmont.
Are you pleased, sweetest? Thus you bade me come,
Garbed as a Spaniard.
Clara.
I shall pray thee, love,
To come no more, so gorgeous in array—
It is a barrier 'twixt thy heart and mine.
I dare not touch you. Oh, the golden fleece!
Egmont.
Yes, sweet, look on it !
Clara.
It was an emperor hung it round your neck.
Egmont.
And with it many a noble privilege.
The master of the order, and its knights
Alone, may sit in judgment upon him
Who wears its stately badge upon his breast.
Clara.
Ah, you might challenge the whole world to judge
Your glorious life. How rich this velvet is.
I know not where to fix my eager eyes.
Egmont.
Look till you tire of looking, dearest child.
Clara.
I love this golden fleece. Some day I'll ask
Its ancient history of you. It is given—
The high reward of honourable toil.
You wear it as your proud rank's proudest sign.
I liken it, my Egmont, to your love,
Which wear I, as a badge, upon my heart—
And yet—
Egmont.
What yet, my sweetest?
Clara.
Noble achievement won this noble pledge.
But I have nothing done to gain your heart,
How have I merited this happiness—
I never laboured for your love?
Egmont.
Therefore the worthier of it. Love is not
A bird of prey, to pay the hunter's toil—
He is best won by those who seek him not.
What have I done? What can I do for you?
Clara.
I saw you riding in the regent's train.
Egmont.
Did you, my child? I looked, but saw you not.
Clara.
I shun to meet your eye before a crowd—
I am a very coward.
Egmont.
Not so; it is not fear; but a sweet shame
That sends the rose so frequent to your cheek.
Clara.
(Kneels at his feet, and looks up into his face.)
Let me gaze on thee! Let me read those eyes!
And aye, within them comfort, joy, and hope.
The history of my life is written there.
Oh! tell me—are you mine—my very own—
Mine—Egmont—the great Egmont—on whose smile
So much depends—on whom the city trusts—
He who hath given to so many life.
Egmont.
No, I am not he.
Clara.
Egmont.
Listen, sweet!
The Egmont of yon city—he is proud,
And cold, and stern, and sorrowful. He keeps
His counsel to himself. He wears a brow
That is a smiling shadow to his heart:
Perplexed with seeming mirth, that shroudeth care.
Exalted by a giddy populace,
That know not what they laud, or what they seek.
Moving 'mid those who understand him not;
Whom he has naught in common with: and worn
By furious guarding 'gainst familiar friends
Who seem, yet are not. Watched, suspected, feared;
Wearied with labour, which hath neither end
Nor yet reward; but only distant hope.
Such is the Egmont of the field and state.
But thine beloved: he is happy, frank,
Open, and known to that most dear of hearts—
Which he knows, too, and trusts it as his own.
Calm, deeply joyful; such is Egmont now.
Clara.
Ah! let me die upon those blessed words—
The world has now no joy beyond.
L. E. L.
[The above scene certainly suggested to Sir Walter Scott the exquisite one in "Kenilworth," where Leicester comes to visit Amy, garbed as befits his rank. A brief portion will shew the general resemblance. "Meanwhile, the earl affected to resist, when she strove to take his cloak from him. ‘Nay.' she said, ‘but I will unmantle you. I must see if you have kept your word to me, and come as the great earl that men call thee; and not heretofore as a private cavalier.' And, with a childish wonder, which her youth and rustic education rendered not only excusable but becoming, she examined and admired from head to foot, the noble form and princely attire of him who formed the proudest ornament of the court. 'But this other fair collar, so richly wrought, with some jewel, like a sheep hung by the middle, attached to it, what,' said the young countess, 'does it signify?' This collar,' said the earl, 'is the badge of the noble order of the Golden Fleece, once appertaining to the House of Burgundy. It hath high privileges, my Amy, belonging to it—this most noble order—for even the King of Spain himself, who hath now succeeded to the honours and demesnes of Burgundy, may not sit in judgment upon a knight of the Golden Fleece, unless by assistance and consent of the great chapter of the order. It belongs properly to Flanders; and Egmont and Orange have pride in seeing it displayed on an English bosom.'"— Kenilworth.]
(To be continued.)