J. Ludwig Uhland: “The Mower’s Maiden”
Excerpt, “German Ballads, Songs, etc., comprising translations from Schiller, Uhland, Burger, Goethe, Korner, Becker, Fouque, Chamisso, etc., etc.” London: Edward Lumley. 1900.
The Mower’s Maiden.
“Good morrow to thee, Mary ! right early art thou laden !
Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and steadfast maiden!
Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be done,
I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son.”
.
It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened:
Oh, how her loving bosom swelled, and how her full eye glistened !
New life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all,
See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full crops fall!
.
And when the noon grows sultry; and the weary peasants wend
To sleep in pleasant thickets, and o’er cooling streams to bend;
Still are the humming-bees at work beneath that burning sky,
And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly.
.
The sun hath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons home;
” Enough,” her neighbours cry, ” enough ! come, Mary, prithee come! “
Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward through the dew,
But Mary only whets her scythe and goes to work anew.
.
And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are bright,
Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of night;
But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to hear,
The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.
.
Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to morn,
She toils, by strong love nourished, by happy hope upborne;
Till when the third day’s sun arose, the labour was complete,
And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and sweet.
.
“Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now ? — the task is done!
Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won;
But for the wedding—nay indeed—my words were only jest;
How foolish and how credulous we find a lover’s breast!”
.
He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid stood still,
Her weary limbs they shook, they sank, her heart grew stiff and chill ;
Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit pass,
And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass!
.
And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden led,
A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread.
Oh, make her grave in pleasant shades, where softest flow’rets grow,
For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below !
