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The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 05
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Who can have set the godlike image there?
Who in the dead of night such offering planned?
It is the master's, who with anxious care
Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn,
To show the utmost that his art can dare.
What shall we bring him for his ease foregone
And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed—
His head a crown of laurel shall put on!—
So soon a great procession was decreed
Of priests and laymen; marching in the van
Went one who bore the recompense agreed.
They came where dwelt the venerated man—
And found an open door, an empty house;
They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.
The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse
And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears
To see the grateful people pay their vows.
He is not there, the grave assemblage hears;
A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost
Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.
From room to room they went—their pains were lost;
In all the desolate chambers there was none
That answered them, or came to play the host.
They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun
Through opened windows—in their anxious round
Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,
Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!
III
They have brought a captive home, and raging told
That he is stained with foulest blasphemy,
Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.
It is the pilgrim we were used to see
For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade,
Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.
Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid
A Christian's courage show in face of wrong?
God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!
Ah yes—though life is sweet, his will is strong,
His mind made up; he yields him to their hands,
Content to shed his blood in torment long.
Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands
And merciless prepare a hideous deed—
Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!
He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed?
I see a wondrous radiance in his face,
As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!
Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace
Toward the blood-stained spot—it is to be.
The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.
"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me
When to the cross the tender youth I bound—
My heart of stone ignored his misery."
So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found
The path of expiation, firmly trod,
Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.
"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God,
Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end?
I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,
Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend.
'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *
Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"
So when the ruffian captors seized him there
And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled;
'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.
And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,
And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high,
White peace came down upon his soul defiled.
In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die
That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still—
His suffering was one long atoning cry.
The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will
He yet found strength his torment dire to face.
The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;
And as the glory of its parting rays
Who in the dead of night such offering planned?
It is the master's, who with anxious care
Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn,
To show the utmost that his art can dare.
What shall we bring him for his ease foregone
And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed—
His head a crown of laurel shall put on!—
So soon a great procession was decreed
Of priests and laymen; marching in the van
Went one who bore the recompense agreed.
They came where dwelt the venerated man—
And found an open door, an empty house;
They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.
The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse
And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears
To see the grateful people pay their vows.
He is not there, the grave assemblage hears;
A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost
Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.
From room to room they went—their pains were lost;
In all the desolate chambers there was none
That answered them, or came to play the host.
They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun
Through opened windows—in their anxious round
Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,
Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!
III
They have brought a captive home, and raging told
That he is stained with foulest blasphemy,
Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.
It is the pilgrim we were used to see
For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade,
Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.
Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid
A Christian's courage show in face of wrong?
God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!
Ah yes—though life is sweet, his will is strong,
His mind made up; he yields him to their hands,
Content to shed his blood in torment long.
Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands
And merciless prepare a hideous deed—
Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!
He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed?
I see a wondrous radiance in his face,
As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!
Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace
Toward the blood-stained spot—it is to be.
The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.
"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me
When to the cross the tender youth I bound—
My heart of stone ignored his misery."
So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found
The path of expiation, firmly trod,
Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.
"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God,
Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end?
I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,
Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend.
'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *
Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"
So when the ruffian captors seized him there
And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled;
'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.
And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,
And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high,
White peace came down upon his soul defiled.
In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die
That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still—
His suffering was one long atoning cry.
The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will
He yet found strength his torment dire to face.
The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;
And as the glory of its parting rays
