Translations. - Lieder. (From Heine.)

IV.

Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:
What a knocking in that little chamber!--dost hear?
There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he
Is hard at work on a coffin for me.

He hammers and knocks by night and by day;
'Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:
Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,
That I the sooner may go to sleep!

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

The Wind Of The World

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Coming

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Hard Times

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Christmas Day, 1850

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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Translations. - Lyrisches Intermezzo. Lxiv. (From Heine.)

Night lay upon mine eyelids;
Upon my mouth lay lead;
With rigid brain and bosom,
I lay among the dead.

How long it was I know not
That sleep oblivion gave;
I wakened up, and, listening,
Heard a knocking at my grave.

"Tis time to rise up, Henry!
The eternal day draws on;
The dead are all arisen--
The eternal joy's begun."

"My love, I cannot raise me;
For I have lost my sight;
My eyes with bitter weeping
They are extinguished quite."

"From thy dear eyelids, Henry,
I'll kiss the night away;
Thou shalt behold the angels,
And Heaven's superb display."

"My love, I cannot raise me;
Still bleeds my bosom gored,
Where thou heart-deep didst stab me
With a keen-pointed word."

"Soft I will lay it,...

George MacDonald

Translations. - Die Heimkehr. (From Heine.)

LX.

They have company this evening,
And the house is full of light;
Up there at the shining window
Moves a shadowy form in white.

Thou seest me not--in the darkness
I stand here below, apart;
Yet less, ah less thou seest
Into my gloomy heart!

My gloomy heart it loves thee,
Loves thee in every spot:
It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders--But
into it thou seest not!


LXII.

Diamonds hast thou, and pearls,
And all by which men lay store;
And of eyes thou hast the fairest--
Darling, what wouldst thou more?

Upon thine eyes so lovely
Have I a whole army-corps
Of undying songs composed--
Dearest, what wouldst thou more?

And with thine eyes so lovely
Thou hast tortured me very sore,
And ...

George MacDonald

Translations. - Lyrisches Intermezzo. Xxxviii. (From Heine.)

The phantoms of times forgotten
Arise from out their grave,
And show me how once in thy presence
I lived the life it gave.

In the day I wandered dreaming,
Through the streets with unsteady foot;
The people looked at me in wonder,
I was so mournful and mute.

At night, then it was better,
For empty was the town;
I and my shadow together
Walked speechless up and down.

My way, with echoing footstep,
Over the bridge I took;
The moon broke out of the waters,
And gave me a meaning look.

I stopped before thy dwelling,
And gazed, and gazed again--
Stood staring up at thy window,
My heart was in such pain.

I know that thou from thy window
Didst often look downward--and
Sawest me, there in the moonlight,
A ...

George MacDonald

Translations. - Lyrisches Intermezzo. Xli. (From Heine.)

I dreamt of the daughter of a king,
With white cheeks tear-bewetted;
We sat 'neath the lime tree's leavy ring,
In love's embraces netted.

"I would not have thy father's throne,
His crown or his golden sceptre;
I want my lovely princess alone--
From Fate that so long hath kept her."

"That cannot be," she said to me:
"I lie in the grave uncheerly;
And only at night I come to thee,
Because I love thee so dearly."

George MacDonald

Translations. - The Grave. (From Von Salis-Seewis.)

The grave is deep and soundless,
Its brink is ghastly lone;
With veil all dark and boundless
It hides a land unknown.

The nightingale's sweet closes
Down there come not at all;
And friendship's withered roses
On the mossy hillock fall.

Their hands young brides forsaken
Wring bleeding there in vain;
The cries of orphans waken
No answer to their pain.

Yet nowhere else for mortals
Dwells their implored repose;
Through none but those dark portals
Home to his rest man goes.

The poor heart, here for ever
By storm on storm beat sore,
Its true peace gaineth never
But where it beats no more.

George MacDonald

Translations. - Part I. Sonnet Lix. (From Petrarch.)

I am so weary with the burden old
Of foregone faults, and power of custom base,
That much I fear to perish from the ways,
And fall into my enemy's grim fold.
True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold,
Came, of ineffable and utmost grace--
Then straightway vanished from before my face,
So that in vain I strive him to behold.
But his voice yet comes echoing below:
O ye that labour, the way open lies!
Come unto me lest some one shut the gate!
--What heavenly grace--what love will--or what fate--
The pinions of a dove on me bestow
That I may rest, and from the earth arise?

George MacDonald