A host of lines thou sendest me,
For critic aid applying!
In prose I’ve shown proficiency,
But not in versifying.
Yet to myself I did confess,
If I am fit to greet her,
I must my little poetess
Address likewise in meter.
Once more, as in the days gone by,
Because the task compels me,
On Pegasus I’ll boldly fly,
And give thee what sense tells me.
The blossoms full of Love’s bright glow
Express their feelings fairly;
And yet their pretty praises go
With that old man’s life barely.
One thing, besides, has been left out
(An error hard to pardon)
That grows most freely all about,
Ev’n in our hero’s garden.
The thorns it is, that interlace
With all through which we wander,
At every time, in every place—
My Karolin’, O ponder!
The Lord has set them in our life
In every shape of sorrow,
That we might from this painful strife
Look gladly to a morrow.
The thorn flower thus upraised its voice:
“Thou fortunate old hero,
In thee let all the world rejoice,
At last _I_ give thee zero!
“This warrior, as he reached his goal,
Finds me with ready warning
To men who fame and glory’s scroll
Crave too much for adorning.
“To all I fain a song would raise,
As from this tomb they sever,
That outward pomp and human praise
Can make men happy never.”
· · · · ·
The world of men goes blindly on,
Deceived by seeming merely;
The higher Judge ascends the throne;
He, He alone sees clearly.
Before the mighty judgment seat,
To hear the final sentence,
Proud kings and poorest serfs will meet,
Relying on repentance.
The dead will heed no song of praise,
No vain encomium paid them.
What will avail thy tuneful lays?
Thy prayers alone will aid them!
My child, up to this lofty height
A God man’s soul hath lifted:
“That we on earth may still unite
With those who’ve from us drifted.”
They who i’ the Faith have found release,
And passed away before ye,
Cry, “Seek within your heart for peace,
Not in this world’s false glory.”
Believe me, ’tis a solemn fact,
When Christians find interment
There’s nothing that will more detract
Than Eulogy’s preferment.
So in thy song of praise make known
How, ’spite of banners flying,
Within the tomb, unrobed, alone,
A hapless wretch is lying;
And he, a sinful mortal, now
His honors seeming hateful,
Will, trembling in God’s presence, bow,
And for thy prayers be grateful.
Then to thy beauteous wreath of fame,
Of laurel and everlasting,
Which to the splendor of his name
On the marshal’s tomb thou ’rt casting,
Choose one more blossom, meek and still,
To soothe earth’s grief its dower,
Which may our hearts with comfort fill—
That is the passion flower,
The symbol of the Cross. When dyes
Of dawn the world astonish,
And the laurel cries, “Here a hero lies!”
This shall to prayer admonish.
J. K. H.
Thus wrote the general about the Field Marshal. Aspergillum and saber!
Elvira was not edified; she had hoped for more appreciation of her
martial hymn.
The summer of the same year we spent at the castle of Teikowitz, the
Moravian estate of Landgrave Fürstenberg. He himself was not there, he
had only put the castle hospitably at our disposal. Aunt Lotti and
Elvira were invited too. There were no other guests, and calls were not
exchanged with neighbors; so we four women spent this summer in real
rural isolation and quiet. The beautiful park full of flowers, and the
near forest, offered us blithe enjoyment of nature. Elvira wrote poetry
more assiduously than ever, I kept up a great deal of reading and
piano-playing. We two drew closer and closer in friendship—exchanged
oaths to be constant in our friendship till our life’s end. Our mothers
found it a little tedious, it would seem, for as a pastime they took up
their experiments again to see if the faculty of presentiment still
worked. Once more numbers were drawn and trente-et-quarante cards dealt,
“but only for fun,” they said. For it was proved that the atmosphere of
the gaming-room suspended the capacity for guessing, even when it had
stood the tests ever so well at home; so we would not allow the great
plans and projects to take another start. But it really would be
interesting to ascertain whether that capacity had been altogether
annihilated by the time spent at the real bank, or whether in the quiet
of merely fictitious play it would reappear.
And lo, it did reappear. Not quite so brilliantly as before, but yet
sufficiently to achieve great imaginary winnings. Should we perhaps risk
it once more after all? Perhaps a second time they would be hardened
against the “agitation” there? But no, that would be temerity. Besides,
gaming is a detestable thing, it really afforded no pleasure at all—so
no thoughts of going to the German watering-places again! But here in
Teikowitz it was just as innocent as it was interesting to test that
occult power.... Elvira, who officiated as drawer of the numbers, often
urged that we should take another trip to Wiesbaden by all means; if not
this year, next year anyhow. That was all the dream of her life, to see
Wiesbaden again—it had been so divinely beautiful there.
Before me lies an old album which belonged to my cousin, and which I
received after her death. On the first leaves there are entries in which
is mirrored a chapter of romance that was enacted between us girls.
On the first page a small painted portrait shows my mother, the giver of
the album: “Your loving Aunt Sophie, May 2, 1857.” Then come a few dried
flowers and album-verses from various friends and acquaintances, witty
inscriptions after the style of “S. N. D. our friendship never,”—
And now begins the romance:
For dear heaven’s sake!
Bertha Kinsky
Past!
8th July:
Remember that day. The 3rd friendship was sworn, the 8th you have
proved it.
And on the next leaf,
Thank you!!
[Dried spray of birch]
Not past any more! These leaves are the witnesses of its ceasing to be
past.