Poems (Waldenburg)/The Minstrel's Curse
Free Translations.
THE MINSTREL'S CURSE.UHILAND.
In the olden times there stood a castle bright and grand,It glanced from hill and valley far o'er the blue sea's strand,'Circled by perfumed gardens wreathed by all flowrets rare,And rainbow-hued the fountains played in the sunny air.
Here dwelt a haughty monarch in land and conquest great,Who stern and cruel-hearted sat on his throne of state,His thoughts were those of terror, his glance of rage alone,The writing of his hand was blood, a scourge his every tone.
Once journeyed to this palace a noble minstrel pair,The one with golden curling locks, the other gray in hair,The elder mounted with his harp upon a brave decked steed,The glowing youth beside him sprang; of horse he had no need.
The sire spoke thus to the youth: "My son now be thou strong,Sound thou thy clearest, deepest tone, and think thy tenderest song, Bring forth each soul-inspiring lay of joyousness and pain,If we can touch this monarch's heart 'twill be a nation's gain."
Soon stood the Minnesingers within the lofty hall;Upon their throne sat king and queen, around the courtiers all,The king in splendor blazing, like blood red northern light,The queen with mein so mild as shines the moon at night.
The sire struck the harp's deep chords, he struck them full and clear;And richer yet and still more rich, they fell upon the ear;Then soared above so heavenly pure the youthful voice of fire,While low and deep the other voice, joined like a spirit choir.
They sang of love and spring, of chivalry, and youth,Of the blissful golden age, of holiness and truth,—Of freedom, and the sweetest themes the human heart can moveAnd every noble, lofty aim the human breast can love.
The courtiers circling round forget the mocking word,The monarch's haughtiest knights, bend down the knee to God;Moved both by sadness and by joy, the queen, with glances sweet,Plucks from her breast the rose, and flings it at the singers' feet!
"Thou hast my folk corrupted, enticest thou my queen,"Loud cries the king, his dreadful rage by all the court is seen,He draws his sword and downwards hurls it through the minstrel's breast—And where the golden song burst forth, now red the life stream prest!
The courtly throng stood dumb, as from a storm's alarms,The youthful form lay dead, within the minstrel's arms,He threw his mantle o'er the corse, then it he gently bore,And bound upon the gallant steed and slowly walked before
On to the massive gates; then stood, his harp in hand,That harp of sweetest tone, and priceless in the land,Against a marble column he broke its silver strings!Then clarion like his wailing voice through court and palace rings,
"Woe to your stately corridors, for never tender tone,Of harp or song your walls shall hear, these be the sounds alone—The tread of slaves, and sighs and groans, be heard within your halls,Until to ruin and murder th' avenging spirit calls!
"And thou, Oh maddened murderer! Look thou upon the dead!A kingdom great—the realm of Song—hurls curses on thy head! In vain thy strife for glory, or laurels for thy fame,In darkest night forgotten, shall sink thy cruel name!"
So rang the aged voice. 'The heavens above are just!The mighty palace walls have fallen to the dust,Alone one broken column, tells of all its vanished might,And this the sport of storm and wind may crumble in a night.
Where bloomed the perfumed garden, lies a lonely desert land,No trees spread cooling shadows, no stream sings through the sand,No mention of the monarch's name in heroes' book or verse,Forgotten, desolated! Such was the minstrel's curse!