  I met him here at Ammendorf one spring. It was the end of April and the Harz, Treed to their ruin-crested summits, seemed One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, Beneath a heaven that was like the face Of girlhood waking into motherhood. Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil; And in each thorn-tree hedge the wild bird sang A song to spring, full of its own wild self And soul, that heard the blossom-laden May's Heart beating like a star at break of day, As, kissing red the roses, she drew near, Her mouth's ripe rose all dewdrops and perfume. Here at this inn and underneath this tree We took our wine, the morning prismed in its Flame-crystalled gold.—A goodly vintage that! Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years. Rare! I remember! wine that spurred the blood, That brought the heart glad to the songful lip, And made the eyes unlatticed casements whence A man's true soul smiled, breezy as the blue. As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, As that, old legends tell, which Necromance And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks Of antique make deep in the KyffhÄuser, Webbed, frosty gray, with salt-petre and mold, The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.— So solaced by that wine we sat an hour He told me his intent in coming here. His name was Rudolf; and his native place, Franconia; but no word of parentage: Only his mind to don the buff and green And live a forester with us and be Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train, And for the Duke's estate even now was bound. Tall was he for his age and strong and brown, And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed Hope's counterpart—but with the eyes of doubt: Deep stealthy disks, instinct with starless night, That seemed to say, "We're sure of Earth—at least For some short while, my friend; but afterward— Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"— And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes Worked restless as a hunted animal's; Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's,—the eyes Of the Wild Huntsman,—his that turn and turn Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend. And then his smile! a thrust-like thing that curled His lips with heresy and incredible lore When Christ's or th' Virgin's holy name was said, Exclaimed in reverence or admonishment: And once he sneered,—"What is this God you mouth, Employ whose name to bless yourselves or damn? A curse or blessing?—It hath passed my skill T' interpret what He is. And then your faith— What is this faith that helps you unto Him? Distinguishment unseen, design unlawed. Why, earth, air, fire, and water, heat and cold, Hint not at Him: and man alone it is Who needs must worship something. And for me— No God like that whom man hath kinged and crowned! Rather your Satan cramped in Hell—the Fiend! God-countenanced as he is, and tricked with horns. No God for me, bearded as Charlemagne, Throned on a tinsel throne of gold and jade, Earth's pygmy monarchs imitate in mien And mind and tyranny and majesty, Aping a God in a sonorous Heaven. Give me the Devil in all mercy then, Bad as he is! for I will none of such!" And laughed an oily laugh of easy jest To bow out God and let the Devil in. And grasped of both wild hands, swung trenchant. Page 285 Accolon of Gaul Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn With some six of his jerkined foresters From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew, And fresh as morn with early travel; bound For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed. Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke, And father of the loveliest maiden here In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe: Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized His daughter more than all that men hold dear; His only happiness, who was beloved Of all as Lora of Thuringia was, For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul, Winning all hearts to love her and to praise, As might a great and beautiful thought that holds Us by the simplest words.—Blue were her eyes As the high glory of a summer day. Her hair,—serene and braided over brows White as a Harz dove's wing,—an auburn brown, And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold: And her young presence, like embodied song, Filled every heart she smiled on with sweet calm, Like some Tyrolean melody of love, Heard on an Alpine path at close of day When homing shepherds pipe to tinkling flocks: Being with you a while, so, when she left,— How shall I say it?—'twas as when one hath Beheld an Undine on the moonlit Rhine, Who, ere the mind adjusts a thought, is gone, And to the soul it seems it was a dream. Some thirty years ago it was;—and I, Commissioner of the Duke—(no sinecure I can assure you)—had scarce reached the age Of thirty,—that we sat here at our wine; And 'twas through me that Rudolf,—whom at first, From some rash words dropped then in argument, The foresterhood was like to be denied,— Was then enfellowed. "Yes," said I, "he's young. Kurt, he is young: but look you! what a man! What arms! what muscles! what a face—for deeds! An eye—that likes me not; too quick to turn!— But that may be the restless soul within: A soul perhaps with virtues that have been Sever |
|
