DER FREISCHUTZ.

He? why, a tall Franconian strong and young,

Brown as a walnut the first frost hath hulled;

A soul of full endeavor powerful

Bound in lithe limbs, knit into grace and strength

Of bronze-like muscles elegant, that poised

A head like Hope's; and then the manly lines

Of face developed by action and mobile

To each suggestive impulse of the mind,

Of smiles of buoyancy or scowls of gloom.—

And what deep eyes were his!— Aye; I can see

Their wild and restless disks of luminous night

Instinct with haughtiness that sneered at Fate,

Glared cold conclusion to all circumstance,

As with loud law, to his advantage swift:

With scorn derisive that shot out a barb,

Stabbed Superstition to its dagger hilt;

That smiled a thrust-like smile which curled the lip,

A vicious heresy with incredible lore,

When God's or holy Mary's name came forth

Exclaimed in reverence or astonishment;

And then would say,

“What is this God you mouth,

Employ whose name to sanctify and damn?—

A benedictive curse?—‘ T hath past my skill

Of grave interpretation. And your faith —

Distinguishment unseen, design unlawed.

For earth, air, fire or water or keen cold,

Hints no existence of such, worships not,

Such as men's minds profess. Rather, meseems,

Throned have they one such as their hopes have wrought

In hope there may prove such an one in death

For Paradise or punishment. I hold

He juster were and would be kinglier kind

In sovereign mercy and a prodigal —

Not to few favored heads who, crowned with state,

Rule sceptered Infamies — of indulgence free

To all that burn luxuriant incense on

Shrines while they prayer him love's obedience.

Are all not children of the same weak mold?

Clay of His Adam-modeled clay made quick?

Endowed with the like hopes, loves, fears and hates,

Our mother's weaknesses? And these, forsooth,

These little crowns that lord it o'er His world,

Tricked up with imitative majesty,

God-countenanced arrogances, throned may still

Cry,‘ crawl and worship, for we are as gods

Through God! great gods incarnate of his kind!’

— Omnipotent Wrong-representatives!

With might that blasts the world with wars and wrings

Groans from pale Nations with hell's tyranny.

So to my mind real monarch only he —

Your Satan cramped in Hell!— aye, by the fiend!

To pygmy Earth's frail tinsel majesties,

That ape a God in a sonorous Heaven.

Grant me the Devil in all mercy then,

For I will none of such! a fiend for friend

While Earth is of the earth; and afterward —

Nay! ransack not To-morrow till To-day,

If all that's joy engulf you when it is.”

And laughed an oily laugh of easy jest

To bow out God and hand the Devil in.—

I met him here at Ammendorf one Spring,

Toward the close of April when the Harz,

Veined to their ruin-crested summits, pulsed

A fluid life of green and budded gold

Beneath pure breathing skies of boundless blue:

Where low-yoked oxen, yellow to the knees,

Along the fluted meadow, freshly ploughed,

Plodded and snuffed the fragrance of the soil,

The free bird sang exultant in the sun.

Triumphant Spring with hinted hopes of May

And jaunty June, her mouth a puckered rose.

Here at this very hostelery o’ The Owl;

Mine host there sleek served cannikins of wine

Beneath that elm now touseled by that shrew,

Lean Winter. Well!— a lordly vintage that!

With tang of fires which had sucked out their soul

From feverish sun-vats, cooled it from the moon's;

From wine-skin bellies of the bursting grape

Trodden, in darkness of old cellars aged

Even to the tingling smack of olden earth.

Rich! I remember!— wine that spurred the blood —

Thou hast none such, I swear, nor wilt again!—

That brought the heart loud to the generous mouth,

And made the eyes unlatticed casements whence

The good man's soul laughed interested out.

Stoups of rare royal Rhenish, such they say

As Necromance hides guarded in vast casks

Of antique make far in the Kyffhaeuser,

The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.

So, mellowed by that wine to friendship frank,

He spake me his intent in coming here;

But not one word of what his parentage;

But this his name was, Rudolf, and his home,

Franconia; but nor why he left nor when:

His mind to live a forester and be

Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train

Of buff and green; and so to his estate

Even now was bound, a youth of twenty-three.

And when he ceased the fire in his eyes

Worked restless as a troubled animal's,

Which hate-enraged can burn a steady flame,

Brute merciless. And thus I mused with me,

When he had ceased to fulminate at state,

“Another Count von Hackelnburg the fiend

Hath tricked unto the chase!— for hounds from Hell?”

But answered nothing, save light words of cheer

As best become fleet friends warm wine doth make.

Then as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn

With some six of his jerkined foresters

From the Thuringian forest; damp with dew;

Red-cheeked as morn with early travel; bound

For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.

Chief huntsman he then to the goodly Duke,

And father of the sunniest maiden here

In Ammendorf, the blameless Ilsabe;

Who, motherless, the white-haired father prized

A jewel priceless. As huge barons’ ghosts

Guard big, accumulated hoards of wealth,

Fast-sealed in caverned cellars, robber wells,

Beneath the dungeoned Dummburg, so he watched

Her, all his world in her who was his wealth.

A second Lora of Thuringia she.

Faultless for love, instilled all souls with love,

Who, in the favor of her maiden smile,

Felt friendship grow up like a golden thought;

A life of love from words; and light that fell

And wrought calm influence from her pure blue eyes.

Hair sedate and austerely dressed o'er brows

White as a Harz dove's wing; hair with the hue

Of twilight mists the sun hath soaked with gold.

A Tyrolean melody that brought

Dim dreams of Alpine heights, of shepherds brown,

Goat-skinned, with healthy cheeks and wrinkled lips

That fill wild oaten pipes on wand'ring ways,

Embowered deep, with mountain melodies,—

Simple with love and plaintive even to tears,—

Her presence, her sweet presence like a song.

And when she left, it was as when one hath

Beheld a moonlit Undine, ere the mind

Adjusts one thought, cleave thro’ the glassy Rhine

A glittering beauty wet, and gone again

A flash — the soul drifts wondering on in dreams.

Some thirty years agone is that; and I,

Commissioner of the Duke — no sinecure

I can assure you — had scarce reached the age

Of thirty ( then some three years of that House ).

Thro’ me the bold Franconian, whom at first,

By bitter principles and scorn of state —

Developed into argument thro’ wine —

The foresthood like was to be denied,

Was then enfellowed. “Yes,” I said, “he's young;

True, rashly young! yet, see: a wiry frame,

A chamois’ footing, and a face for right;

An eye which likes me not, but quick with pride,

And aimed at thought, a butt it may not miss:

A soul with virgin virtues which crude flesh

Makes seem but vices, these but God may see —

Develop these. But, if there's aught of worth,

Body or mind, in him, Kurt, thou wilt know,

And to the surface wear, as divers win

From hideous ooze and life rich jewels lost

Of polished pureness, worthless left to night,

Thou or thy daughter, and inspire for good.”

A year thereafter was it that I heard

Of Rudolf's passion for Kurt's Ilsabe,

Then their betrothal. And it was from this,—

For, ah, that Ilsabe! that Ilsabe!—

Good Mary Mother! how she haunts me yet!

She, that true touchstone which philosophers feign

Contacts and golds all base; a woman who

Could touch all evil into good in man.—

Surmised I of the excellency which

Refinement of her gentle company,

Warm presence of chaste beauty, had resolved

His fiery nature to, conditioning slave.

And so I came from Brunswick — as you know —

Is custom of the Duke or, by his seal

Commissioned proxy, his commissioner,—

To test the marksmanship of Rudolf who

Succeeded Kurt with marriage of his child,

An heir of Kuno.— He?— Great grandfather

Of Kurt, and one this forestkeepership

Was first possesor of; established thus —

Or such the tale they told me‘ round the hearths.

Kuno, once in the Knight of Wippach's train,

Rode on a grand hunt with the Duke, who came

With vast magnificence of knights and hounds,

And satin-tuniced nobles curled and plumed

To hunt Thuringian deer. Then Morn too slow

On her blithe feet was; quick with laughing eyes

To morrow mortal eyes and lazy limbs;

Rather on tip-toed hills recumbent yawned,

Aroused an hour too soon; ashamed, disrobed,

Rubbed the stiff sleep from eyes that still would close,

While brayed the hollow horns and bayed lean hounds,

And cheered gallants until the dingles dinned,

Where searched the climbing mists or, compact light,

Fled breathless white, clung scared a moted gray,

Low unsunned cloudlands of the castled hills.

And then near mid-noon from a swarthy brake

The ban-dogs roused a red gigantic stag,

Lashed to whose back with grinding knotted cords,

Borne with whom like a nightmare's incubus,

A man shrieked; burry-bearded and his hair

Kinked with dry, tangled burrs, and he himself

Emaciated and half naked. From

The wear of wildest passage thro’ the wild,

Rent red by briars, torn and bruised by rocks.

— For, such the law then, when the peasant chased

Or slew the dun deer of his tyrant lords,

As punishment the torturing withes and spine

Of some big stag, a gift of game and wild

Enough till death — death in the antlered herd

Or crawling famine in bleak, haggard haunts.

Then was the dark Duke glad, and forthwith cried

To all his dewy train a rich reward

For him who slew the stag and saved the man,

But death to him who slew the man and stag,

The careless error of a loose attempt.

So crashed the hunt along wild, glimmering ways

Thro’ creepers and vast brush beneath gnarled trees,

Up a scorched torrent's bed. Yet still refused

Each that sure shot; the risk too desperate

The poor life and the golden gift beside.

So this young Kuno with two eyes wherein

Hunt with excitement kindled reckless fire

Clamored, “And are ye cowards?— Good your grace,

You shall not chafe!— The fiend direct my ball!”

And fired into a covert deeply packed,

An intertangled wall of matted night,

Wherein the eye might vainly strive and strive

To pierce one foot or earn one point beyond.

But, ha! the huge stag staggered from the brake

Heart-hit and perished. That wan wretch unhurt

Soon bondless lay condoled. But the great Duke,

Charmed with the eagle shot, admired the youth,

There to him and his heirs forever gave

The forest keepership.

But envious tongues

Were soon at wag; and whispered went the tale

Of how the shot was free, and that the balls

Used by young Kuno were free bullets, which

Molded were cast in influence of the fiend

By magic and directed by the fiend.

Of some effect these tales were and some force

Had with the Duke, who lent an ear so far

As to ordain Kuno's descendants all

To proof of skill ere their succession to

The father's office. Kurt himself hath shot

The silver ring from out the popinjay's beak —

A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.

The Devil guards his mysteries close as God.

For who can say what elementaries

Demoniac lurk in desolate dells and woods

Shadowy? malicious vassals of that power

Who signs himself, thro’ these, a slave to those,

Those mortals who act open with his Hell,

Those only who seek secretly and woo.

Of these free, fatal bullets let me speak:

There may be such; our Earth hath things as strange;

Then only in coarse fancies may exist;

For fancy is among our peasantry

A limber juggler with the weird and dark;

For Superstition hides not her grim face,

A skeleton grin on leprous ghastliness,

From Ignorance's mossy thatches low.

A cross-way, as I heard, among gaunt hills,

A solitude convulsed of rocks and trees

Blasted; and on the stony cross-road drawn

A bloody circle with a bloody sword;

Herein rude characters; a skull and thighs

Fantastic fixed before a fitful fire

Of spiteful coals. Eleven of the clock

Cast, the first bullet leaves the mold,— the lead

Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,

Burnt blood,— the wounded Sacramental Host,

Unswallowed and unhallowed, oozed when shot

Fixed to a riven pine.— Ere twelve o'clock,

When dwindling specters in their rotting shrouds

Quit musty tombs to mumble hollow woes

In Midnight's horrored ear, with never a cry,

Word or weak whisper, till that hour sound,

Must the free balls be cast; and these shall be

In number three and sixty; three of which

Semial — he the Devil's minister —

Claims for his master and stamps as his own

To hit awry their mark, askew for harm.

Those other sixty shall not miss their mark.

No cry, no word, no whisper, tho’ there gibe

Most monstrous shapes that flicker in thick mist

Lewd human countenances or leer out

Swoln animal faces with fair forms of men,

While wide-winged owls fan the drear, dying coals,

That lick thin, slender tongues of purple fire

From viperous red, and croaks the night-hawk near.

No cry, no word, no whisper should there come

Weeping a wandering form with weary, white

And pleading countenance of her you love,

Faded with tears of waiting; beckoning

With gray, large arms or censuring; her shame

In dull and desolate eyes; who, if you speak

Or stagger from that circle — hideous change!—

Shrinks, faced a hag of million wrinkles, which

Ridge scaly sharpness of protruding bones,

To rip you limb from limb with taloned claws.

Nor be deceived if some far midnight bell

Boom that anticipated hour, nor leave

By one short inch the bloody orbit, for

The minion varlets of Hell's majesty

Expectant cirque its dim circumference.

But when the hour of midnight smites, be sure

You have your bullets, neither more nor less;

For, if thro’ fear one more or less you have,

Your soul is forfeit to those agencies,

Right rathe who are to rend it from the flesh.

And while that hour of midnight sounds a din

Of hurrying hoofs and shouting outriders —

Six snorting steeds postilioned roll a stage

Black and with groaning wheels of spinning fire,

“Room there!— ho! ho!— who bars the mountain-way!

On over him!” — but fear not nor fare forth,—

‘ Tis but the last trick of your bounden slave:

And ere the red moon strives from dingy clouds

And dives again, high the huge leaders leap

Iron fore-hoofs flashing and big eyes like gledes,

And, spun a spiral spark into the night,

Whistling the phantom flies and fades away.

Some say there comes no stage, but Hackelnburg,

Wild Huntsman of the Harz, rides hoarse in storm,

Dashing the dead leaves with dark dogs of hell

Direful thro’ whirling thickets, and his horn

Croaks doleful as an owl's hoot while he hurls

Straight‘ neath rain-streaming skies of echoes, sheer

Plunging the magic circle horse and hounds.

And then will come, plutonian clad and slim,

Upon a stallion vast intensely black,

Semial, Satan's lurid minister,

To hail you and inform you and assure.—

Enough! these wives-tales heard to what I've seen;

To Ammendorf I came; and Rudolf there

With Kurt and all his picturesque foresters

Met me. And then the rounding year was ripe;

Throbbing the red heart of full Autumn: When

Each morning gleams crisp frost on shriveled fields;

Each noon sits veiled in mysteries of mist;

Each night unrolls a miracle woof of stars,

Where moon — bare-bosomed goddess of the hunt —

Wades calm, crushed clouds or treads the vaster blue.

Then I proposed the season's hunt; till eve

The test of Rudolf's skill postponed, with which

Annoyed he seemed. And so it was I heard

How he an execrable marksman was,

And whispered tales of near, incredible shots

That wryed their mark, while in his flint-lock's pan

Flashed often harmless powder, while wild game

Stared fearless on him and indulgent stood,

An open butt to such wide marksmanship.

Howbeit, he that day acquitted him

Of these maligners’ cavils; in the hunt

Missing no shot however rash he made

Or distant thro’ thick intercepting trees;

And the piled, curious game brought down of all

Good marksmen of that train had not sufficed,

Doubled, nay, trebled, to have matched his heap.

And wonderstruck the jaegers saw, nor knew

How to excuse them. My indulgence giv'n,

Still swore that only yesterday old Kurt

Had touched his daughter's tears and Rudolf's wrath

By vowing end to their betrothed love,

Unless that love developed better aim

Against the morrow's test; his ancestor's

High fame should not be damaged. So he stormed,

But bowed his gray head and wept silently;

Then looking up forgave when big he saw

Tears in his daughter's eyes and Rudolf gone

Forth in the night that wailed with coming storm.

Before this inn, The Owl, assembled came

The nice-primped villagers to view the trial:

Fair fraeuleins and blonde, comely, healthy fraus;

Stout burgers. And among them I did mark

Kurt and his daughter. He, a florid face

Of pride and joy for Rudolf's strange success;

She, radiant and flounced in flowing garb

Of bridal white deep-draped and crowned with flowers;

For Kurt insisted this their marriage eve

Should Rudolf come successful from the chase.

So pleased was I with what I'd seen him do,

The test of skill superfluous seemed and so

Was on the bare brink of announcement, when,

Out of the evening heaven's hardening red,

Like a white warning loosed for augury,

A word of God some fallen angel prized

As his last all of heaven, penitent,

Hell-freed, sent minister to save a soul,

A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,

A wafted waif, pruned settled on a bough:

Then I, “Thy weapon, Rudolph, pierce its head!”

Cried pointing, “And chief-forester art thou!”

Pale as a mist and wavering he turned;

“I had a dream —” then faltered as he aimed,

“A woman's whim!” But starting from the press

Screamed Ilsabe, “My dove!” to plead its life

Came — cracked the rifle and untouched the dove

Rose beating lustrous wings, but Ilsabe —

“God's wrath! the sight!” — fell smitten, and the blood

Sprang red from shattered brow and silent hair —

That bullet strangely thro’ her brow and brain....

And what of Rudolf? ah! of him you ask?

That proud Franconian who would scoff at Fate

And scorn all state; who cried black Satan friend

Sooner than our white Christ;— why, he went mad

O’ the moment, and into the haunted Harz

Fled, an unholy thing, and perished there

The prey of demons of the Dummburg. But

I one of few less superstitious who

Say, as the finale of a madman's deed,

He in the Bode, from that ragged rock,

The Devil's Dancing Place, did leap and die.