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Anonymous translation
O GRAY and silent dawning! | |
| The leaves are gently stirred; | |
| Out to the forest border | |
| The stag has led his herd. | |
| Amid the corn he standeth | 5 |
| Stamping, with eye of fire; | |
| I’ the thicket close are lying | |
| The peasants, son and sire. | |
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| The rusty gun uplifting, | |
| The old man doth exclaim,— | 10 |
| “A stag of fourteen branches! | |
| The deuce, boy, take good aim!” | |
| He aims! the shot resoundeth! | |
| Ay, that I woodcraft call! | |
| The stag of fourteen branches,— | 15 |
| To earth they see him fall! | |
| |
| The frightened hinds all scatter; | |
| The old man shouts, “Well done!” | |
| Darts forth, and his knee planteth | |
| Upon the deer thus won. | 20 |
| “Boy! but thy aim is famous! | |
| Ay, true unto a hair! | |
| God’s blessing on our cornfield, | |
| He ’ll feed no longer there! | |
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| “For him no grain is needful; | 25 |
| He ’ll bend its stalk no more. | |
| But, Fritz! why stand’st thou gaping? | |
| The cord,—quick! hand it o’er! | |
| There! foot to foot we ’ve bound him, | |
| Feel,—he ’s already cold!” | 30 |
| Then, with his hounds and people, | |
| Forth strode the keeper bold. | |
| |
| Help, God! He knows the by-paths! | |
| Up start both sire and son,— | |
| Rush forth, and leave behind them | 35 |
| The double-barrelled gun. | |
| The keeper does not loiter; | |
| He shouts, “Ye scoundrel crew! | |
| To me the gun what boots it, | |
| Without the shooters too?” | 40 |
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| In vain! then quick to shoulder | |
| He lifts his piece in sight, | |
| Aims,—coolly, long, and surely,— | |
| What, men?—and men in flight?— | |
| No matter! Straight he fireth— | 45 |
| Hilloh! that call I luck! | |
| He sees the old man falling,— | |
| His neck the bullet struck! | |
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| There, prone in his own barley, | |
| The stalwart peasant lies; | 50 |
| As if his heart were bursting | |
| He groans, and groaning dies. | |
| His blood spouts through his waistcoat, | |
| Runs in the ploughshare’s mark; | |
| Soaks through the clods all warmly,— | 55 |
| What thinks the brooding lark? | |
| |
| Upon her nest she sitteth,— | |
| She starts, to heaven she springs! | |
| For blood her nest wells into,— | |
| Blood, blood is on her wings! | 60 |
| To God she bids it lighten | |
| Amid the sun’s first beams, | |
| Sprinkling the ears of barley | |
| With gore, that back she streams. | |
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| That is a rain most potent, | 65 |
| That is no sprinkling mean, | |
| That is a lark’s soft blessing, | |
| To make the corn-crop green. | |
| On the young man it drops too, | |
| Who onward madly fares, | 70 |
| And in his arms, lamenting, | |
| His murdered father bears. | |
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| —Away, boy! Why embrace thus | |
| This corpse so stiff and cold? | |
| Away! and cease your whining,— | 75 |
| Feel! he ’s already cold! | |
| Back from those lips so livid | |
| Take thine, yet warm with breath: | |
| See! how the hounds are crouching,— | |
| Great God! ’t is at the death! | 80 |
| |
| Straight on one dray are resting | |
| The stag and man also, | |
| And to the venison-larder | |
| They through the pine-wood go. | |
| They go all fast and furious,— | 85 |
| The keeper whistles light,— | |
| He laughs,—why not?—he only | |
| Exerts the keeper’s right. | |
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| So gives it him no sorrow | |
| The youth’s wild grief to hear; | 90 |
| The clown will be forgotten, | |
| And eaten be the deer. | |
| Himself? He wins the medal,— | |
| That lacked he yet alone,— | |
| And Fritz, the scamp, is promptly | 95 |
| Into the dungeon thrown. | |
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| There stares he through the grating, | |
| And sees an organ-boy, | |
| Who sings unto the people | |
| Without—this song of joy: | 100 |
| “Success to all who living | |
| The garb of green do grace,— | |
| To the field and to the forest, | |
| The hunter and the chase!” | |
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