G.A. Bürger: “The Brave Man”

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THE BRAVE MAN

 

High sounds the song of the valiant man,

Like clang of bells and organ-tone.

Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control,

Not gold rewards, but song alone.

Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can

Thus sing and praise the valiant man!

 

The thaw-wind came from southern sea,

Heavy and damp, through Italy,

And the clouds before it away did flee,

Like frighted herds, when the wolf they see.

It sweeps the fields, through the forest breaks,

And the ice bursts away on streams and lakes.

 

On mountain-top dissolved the snow;

The falls with a thousand waters dashed;

A lake did o’erflow the meadow low,

And the mighty river swelled and splashed.

Along their channel the waves rolled high,

And heavily rolled the ice-cakes by.

 

On heavy piers and arches strong,

Below and above of massive stone,

A bridge stretched wide across the tide,

And midway stood a house thereon.

There dwelt the tollman, with child and wife;

O tollman!  Tollman!  Flee for thy life!

 

And it groaned and droned, and around the house

Howled storm and wind with a dismal sound;

And the tollman aloof sprang forth on the roof,

And gazed on the tumult around:

“O merciful Heaven!  Thy mercy show!

Lost, lost, and forlorn!  Who shall rescue me now?”

 

Thump!  Thump! The heavy ice-cakes rolled,

And piled on either shore they lay;

From either shore the wild waves tore

The arches with their piers away.

The trembling tollman, with wife and child,

He howled still louder than storm-winds wild.

 

Thump!  Thump! The heavy ice-cakes rolled,

And piled at either end they lay;

All rent and dashed, the stone piers crashed,

As one by one they shot away.

To the middle approaches the overthrow!

O merciful Heaven!  Thy mercy show!

 

High on the distant bank there stands

A crowd of peasants great and small;

Each shrieking stands, and wrings his hands,

But there’s none to save among them all

The trembling tollman, with wife and child,

For rescue howls through the storm-winds wild.

 

When soundest thou, song of the valiant man,

Like clang of bells and organ-tone?

Say on, say on, my noble song!

How namest though him, the valiant one?

To the middle approaches the overthrow!

O brave man!  Brave man! Show thyself now!

 

Swift galloped a count forth from the crowd,

On gallant steed, a count full bold.

In his hand so free what holdeth he?

It is a purse stuffed full of gold.

“Two hundred pistoles to him who shall save

Those poor folks from death and a watery grave!”

 

Who is the brave man?  Is it the count?

Say on, my noble song, say on!

By Him who can save!  The count was brave,

And yet do I know a braver one.

O brave man! Brave man!  Say, where art thou?

Fearfully the ruin approaches now!

 

And ever higher swelled the flood,

And ever louder roared the blast,

And ever deeper sank the heart of the keeper; –

Preserver!  Preserver!  Speed thee fast!

And as pier after pier gave way in the swell,

Loud cracked and dashed the arch as it fell.

 

“Halloo!  Halloo! To the rescue speed!”

Aloft the count his purse doth wave;

And each one hears, and each one fears;

From thousands none steps forth to save,

In vain doth the tollman, with wife and child,

For rescue howl through the storm-winds wild.

 

See, stout and strong, a peasant man,

With staff in hand, comes wandering by;

A kirtle of gray his limbs array;

In form and feature, stern and high.

He listened, the words of the count to hear,

And gazed on the danger that threatened near.

 

And boldly, in Heaven’s name, into

The nearest fishing-boat spray he;

Through the whirlwind wide, and the dashing tide,

The preserver reaches them happily.

But, alas!  The boat is too small, too small,

At one to receive and preserve them all!

 

And thrice he forced his little boat

Through whirlwind, storm, and dashing wave;

And thrice came he full happily,

Till there was no one left to save.

And hardly the last in safety lay,

When the last of the ruins rolled away.

 

Who is, who is the valiant man?

Say on, my noble song, say on!

The peasant, I know, staked his life on the throw,

But for the sake of gold’t was done.

Had the count not promised the gold to him,

The peasant had risked neither life nor limb.

 

“Here,” said the count, “my valiant friend,

Here is thy guerdon, take the whole!”

Say, was not this high-mindedness?

By Heaven!  The count hath a noble soul!

But higher and holier, sooth to say,

Beat the peasant’s heart in his kirtle gray.

 

“My life cannot be bought and sold;

Though poor, I’m not by want oppressed;

But the tollman old stands in need of thy gold;

He has lost whatever he possessed.”

Thus cried he, with hearty, honest tone,

And, turning away, went forth alone.

 

High soundest thou, song of the valiant man,

Like clang of bells and organ-tone.

Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control,

Not gold rewards, but song alone.

Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can

Thus sing and praise the valiant man!

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