Katharina
The Muse, that aye of Right and Freedom sings,
Remote from palace-halls her way doth steer;
When songs are sung and revelry outrings,
She hath no portion in the courtiers' cheer;
But when loud sorrow comes on brooding wings,
With other mourning guests she then draws near;
Tho' ne'er she named the living in her lays,
The dead that hear not may she freely praise.
With moaning funeral bells the city thrills,
The passers-by in sable garments go;
No features smile, each eye some tears distils,
All men are rivals in unmeasured wo.
For all these signs, the Muse her task fulfils,
And separates the truth from falsehood's show.
The bells will toll whene'er men make them swing,
And tears will fall from shallow depths that spring.
The coffin rich, by skilful workmen made,
Decked with the purple pall a princess wore,
Decked with a crown with brilliant gems arrayed,
Declares the land is filled with anguish sore.
Yet though the pall and crown be thus displayed,
The Muse regards such trifles none the more;
Shall earthly splendour that strong eyesight daze
That on th' eternal sunlight loves to gaze?
She looks from earth to heaven, to earth again;
Thro' all historic ages peers her sight.
There queens arise to power, ere long to wane;
Like faces seen in dreams, some vanish quite.
Their names are heard no more in minstrel's strain,
Their pomp is lost in Fame's surpassing light.
Meanwhile in life still fresh, unfading, sure,
The names of noble burgher's wives endure.
The Muse this weighty question dares not slight—
“Hath this bright golden crown adorned a head
That wore it worthily, and lent it light?
Have this soft mantle's purple folds been spread
Above a queenly heart that loved the right?
A heart with holy aspirations fed,
Filled with an active strength, benevolent,
Spreading good actions o'er a large extent?”
Thus asks the Muse, but in her inner mind
What answer should be given she fully knows;
She utters much that grieves her, yet doth bind,
(Pent up within her breast), her deepest woes.
And more—that she an offering too may find
And of this mournful hour a sign propose,
She thoughtfully—beside the golden crown—
A fruitful wreath of ears of corn lays down.
“Spirit that early fled'st, with this be crowned,
Nor gold, nor priceless gem gleams brightly here;
No flowers within this coronal are bound,
Thy course was done, when days were short and drear;
Such fruits of earth are here entwined and wound
As thou distributedst when corn was dear;
A wreath like that of Ceres thou didst weave,
Mother and Nurse of men, my praise receive!”
She speaks and, glancing upward, sees divide
The vaulted roof; the clouds asunder flee;
Her sight can pierce to heav'n's dominions wide,
There meekly Katharina bends the knee;
She wears no more the signs of worldly pride,
On earth she leaves earth's hollow pomp and glee;
Yet on her forehead, lo! a heav'nly beam
From Light's most holy Source doth purely gleam.
Remote from palace-halls her way doth steer;
When songs are sung and revelry outrings,
She hath no portion in the courtiers' cheer;
But when loud sorrow comes on brooding wings,
With other mourning guests she then draws near;
Tho' ne'er she named the living in her lays,
The dead that hear not may she freely praise.
With moaning funeral bells the city thrills,
The passers-by in sable garments go;
No features smile, each eye some tears distils,
All men are rivals in unmeasured wo.
For all these signs, the Muse her task fulfils,
And separates the truth from falsehood's show.
The bells will toll whene'er men make them swing,
And tears will fall from shallow depths that spring.
The coffin rich, by skilful workmen made,
Decked with the purple pall a princess wore,
Decked with a crown with brilliant gems arrayed,
Declares the land is filled with anguish sore.
Yet though the pall and crown be thus displayed,
The Muse regards such trifles none the more;
Shall earthly splendour that strong eyesight daze
That on th' eternal sunlight loves to gaze?
She looks from earth to heaven, to earth again;
Thro' all historic ages peers her sight.
There queens arise to power, ere long to wane;
Like faces seen in dreams, some vanish quite.
Their names are heard no more in minstrel's strain,
Their pomp is lost in Fame's surpassing light.
Meanwhile in life still fresh, unfading, sure,
The names of noble burgher's wives endure.
The Muse this weighty question dares not slight—
“Hath this bright golden crown adorned a head
That wore it worthily, and lent it light?
Have this soft mantle's purple folds been spread
Above a queenly heart that loved the right?
A heart with holy aspirations fed,
Filled with an active strength, benevolent,
Spreading good actions o'er a large extent?”
Thus asks the Muse, but in her inner mind
What answer should be given she fully knows;
She utters much that grieves her, yet doth bind,
(Pent up within her breast), her deepest woes.
And more—that she an offering too may find
And of this mournful hour a sign propose,
She thoughtfully—beside the golden crown—
A fruitful wreath of ears of corn lays down.
“Spirit that early fled'st, with this be crowned,
Nor gold, nor priceless gem gleams brightly here;
No flowers within this coronal are bound,
Thy course was done, when days were short and drear;
Such fruits of earth are here entwined and wound
As thou distributedst when corn was dear;
A wreath like that of Ceres thou didst weave,
Mother and Nurse of men, my praise receive!”
She speaks and, glancing upward, sees divide
The vaulted roof; the clouds asunder flee;
Her sight can pierce to heav'n's dominions wide,
There meekly Katharina bends the knee;
She wears no more the signs of worldly pride,
On earth she leaves earth's hollow pomp and glee;
Yet on her forehead, lo! a heav'nly beam
From Light's most holy Source doth purely gleam.
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