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The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07
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How Sarah listens in the tent
While God Almighty, come to earth,
Foretells to Abraham the birth
Of Isaac and his seed thereafter.
Sarah cannot restrain her laughter,
Since both are well advanced in years.
God asks when he the laughter hears:
"Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will,
And doubt if this he may fulfil?"
Her indiscretion to recall
She says, "I did not laugh at all."
Which commonly would be a lie;
But God prefers to pass it by,
Since 'tis not done with malice dark,
And she's a lady patriarch.
Now that I'm here, I think with reason
That winter is the fairest season
How smooth the daily current flows
To ev'ry week's belovèd close!
—Just about nine on Friday night,
Sole by the lamp's reposeful light
My master with a mind perplexed
Sets out to choose his Sunday text.
Before the stove a while he stands,
Walks to and fro with twisted hands,
And vainly struggles to determine
The theme on which to thread his sermon.
Now and again amid his doubt
He lifts the window and looks out.
—Oh cooling surge of starlit air,
Pour on my brow your tide so rare!
I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer,
And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer.
He sits him down to write at last,
Dips pen and makes the A and O,
Which o'er his "Preface" always go.
I meanwhile from my post on high
Ne'er from my master turn an eye,
Look at him now, with far-off gaze
Pondering, testing every phrase;
The snuffer once he seizes quick
And cleans of soot the flaming wick;
Then oft in deep abstraction, he
Murmurs a sentence audibly,
Which I with outstretched bill peck up
And fill with lore my eager crop.
So do we come by smooth gradation
To where begins the "Application."
"Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout.
My master hears and turns about.
"Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light,
Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!"
Alone in darkness then I'd be;
That has no terrors, though, for me.
Behind the wainscot sharply picking
I hear a while the death-clock ticking,
I hear the marten vainly scoop
The earth around the chicken-coop.
Along the eaves the night-wind brushes,
And through far trees the tempest rushes—
Bird Wood's the name that forest bears,
Where rude old Winter raves and tears.
Now splits a beech with such a crack
That all the valleys echo it back.
—My goodness! when these sounds I hear
I'm glad a pious stove's so near,
Which warms you so the long hours through
That night seems fraught with blessings too.
—Just now I well might feel afraid,
When thieves and murderers ply their trade;
'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are
Secured from harm by bolt and bar.
How could I call so men would hear me
If some one raised a ladder near me?
When thoughts like this attack my brain
The sweat runs down my back like rain.
At two, thank God! again at three,
A cock-crow rises clear and free,
And with the morning bell at five
My whole heart, now once more alive,
High in my breast with rapture springs,
When finally the watchman sings
"Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake,
For bright and fair the day doth break."
Soon after this, an hour at most,
My spurs are growing stiff with frost
When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,
And rakes the fire until it catches.
Then from below, quite savory too,
I scent the steam of onion stew.
At length my master enters gay,
Fresh for the business of the day.
On Saturday a worthy priest
Should keep his room, his house at least;
Not visit or distract his brain,
Turning his thoughts to things profane.
My master was not tempted so,
While God Almighty, come to earth,
Foretells to Abraham the birth
Of Isaac and his seed thereafter.
Sarah cannot restrain her laughter,
Since both are well advanced in years.
God asks when he the laughter hears:
"Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will,
And doubt if this he may fulfil?"
Her indiscretion to recall
She says, "I did not laugh at all."
Which commonly would be a lie;
But God prefers to pass it by,
Since 'tis not done with malice dark,
And she's a lady patriarch.
Now that I'm here, I think with reason
That winter is the fairest season
How smooth the daily current flows
To ev'ry week's belovèd close!
—Just about nine on Friday night,
Sole by the lamp's reposeful light
My master with a mind perplexed
Sets out to choose his Sunday text.
Before the stove a while he stands,
Walks to and fro with twisted hands,
And vainly struggles to determine
The theme on which to thread his sermon.
Now and again amid his doubt
He lifts the window and looks out.
—Oh cooling surge of starlit air,
Pour on my brow your tide so rare!
I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer,
And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer.
He sits him down to write at last,
Dips pen and makes the A and O,
Which o'er his "Preface" always go.
I meanwhile from my post on high
Ne'er from my master turn an eye,
Look at him now, with far-off gaze
Pondering, testing every phrase;
The snuffer once he seizes quick
And cleans of soot the flaming wick;
Then oft in deep abstraction, he
Murmurs a sentence audibly,
Which I with outstretched bill peck up
And fill with lore my eager crop.
So do we come by smooth gradation
To where begins the "Application."
"Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout.
My master hears and turns about.
"Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light,
Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!"
Alone in darkness then I'd be;
That has no terrors, though, for me.
Behind the wainscot sharply picking
I hear a while the death-clock ticking,
I hear the marten vainly scoop
The earth around the chicken-coop.
Along the eaves the night-wind brushes,
And through far trees the tempest rushes—
Bird Wood's the name that forest bears,
Where rude old Winter raves and tears.
Now splits a beech with such a crack
That all the valleys echo it back.
—My goodness! when these sounds I hear
I'm glad a pious stove's so near,
Which warms you so the long hours through
That night seems fraught with blessings too.
—Just now I well might feel afraid,
When thieves and murderers ply their trade;
'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are
Secured from harm by bolt and bar.
How could I call so men would hear me
If some one raised a ladder near me?
When thoughts like this attack my brain
The sweat runs down my back like rain.
At two, thank God! again at three,
A cock-crow rises clear and free,
And with the morning bell at five
My whole heart, now once more alive,
High in my breast with rapture springs,
When finally the watchman sings
"Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake,
For bright and fair the day doth break."
Soon after this, an hour at most,
My spurs are growing stiff with frost
When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,
And rakes the fire until it catches.
Then from below, quite savory too,
I scent the steam of onion stew.
At length my master enters gay,
Fresh for the business of the day.
On Saturday a worthy priest
Should keep his room, his house at least;
Not visit or distract his brain,
Turning his thoughts to things profane.
My master was not tempted so,
