SAY, sparkling streamlet, whither thouArt going!
With joyous mien thy waters nowAre flowing.
Why seek the vale so hastily?
Attend for once, and answer me!
MILLSTREAM.
Oh youth, I was a brook indeed;
But lately My bed they've deepen'd, and my speedSwell'd greatly, That I may haste to yonder mill.
And so I'm full and never still.
YOUTH.
The mill thou seekest in a moodContented, And know'st not how my youthful blood'S tormented.
But doth the miller's daughter fair Gaze often on thee kindly there?
MILLSTREAM.
She opes the shutters soon as lightIs gleaming;And comes to bathe her features brightAnd beaming.
So full and snow-white is her breast,--I feel as hot as steam suppress'd.
YOUTH.
If she in water can inflameSuch ardour, Surely, then, flesh and blood to tameIs harder.
When once is seen her beauteous face, One ever longs her steps to trace.
MILLSTREAM.
Over the wheel I, roaring, bound,All-proudly, And ev'ry spoke whirls swiftly round,And loudly.
Since I have seen the miller's daughter, With greater vigour flows the water.
YOUTH.
Like others, then, can grief, poor brook,Oppress thee?
"Flow on!"--thus she'll, with smiling look,Address thee.
With her sweet loving glance, oh say, Can she thy flowing current stay?
MILLSTREAM.
'Tis sad, 'tis sad to have to speedFrom yonder;I wind, and slowly through the meadWould wander;And if the choice remain'd with me, Would hasten back there presently.
YOUTH.
Farewell, thou who with me dost proveLove's sadness!
Perchance some day thou'lt breathe of loveAnd gladness.
Go, tell her straight, and often too, The boy's mute hopes and wishes true.
1797.
THE MAID OF THE MILL'S TREACHERY.
[This Ballad is introduced in the Wanderjahre, in a tale called The Foolish Pilgrim.]
WHENCE comes our friend so hastily,When scarce the Eastern sky is grey?
Hath he just ceased, though cold it be,In yonder holy spot to pray?
The brook appears to hem his path,Would he barefooted o'er it go?
Why curse his orisons in wrath,Across those heights beclad with snow?
Alas! his warm bed he bath left,Where he had look'd for bliss, I ween;And if his cloak too, had been reft,How fearful his disgrace had been!
By yonder villain sorely press'd,His wallet from him has been torn;Our hapless friend has been undress'd,Left well nigh naked as when born.
The reason why he came this road,Is that he sought a pair of eyes, Which, at the mill, as brightly glow'dAs those that are in Paradise.
He will not soon again be there;
From out the house he quickly hied, And when he gain'd the open air,Thus bitterly and loudly cried"Within her gaze, so dazzling bright,No word of treachery I could read;She seem'd to see me with delight,Yet plann'd e'en then this cruel deed!
Could I, when basking in her smile,Dream of the treason in her breast?
She bade kind Cupid stay awhile,And he was there, to make us blest.
"To taste of love's sweet ecstasyThroughout the night, that endless seem'd, And for her mother's help to cryOnly when morning sunlight beam'd!
A dozen of her kith and kin,A very human flood, in-press'd Her cousins came, her aunts peer'd in,And uncles, brothers, and the rest.
"Then what a tumult, fierce and loud!
Each seem'd a beast of prey to be;
The maiden's honour all the crowd,With fearful shout, demand of me.
Why should they, madmen-like, beginTo fall upon a guiltless youth?
For he who such a prize would win,Far nimbler needs must be, in truth.
"The way to follow up with skillHis freaks, by love betimes is known:
He ne'er will leave, within a mill,Sweet flowers for sixteen years alone.--They stole my clothes away,--yes, all!
And tried my cloak besides to steal.
How strange that any house so smallSo many rascals could conceal!
"Then I sprang up, and raved, and swore,To force a passage through them there.
I saw the treacherous maid once more,And she was still, alas, so fair They all gave way before my wrath,Wild outcries flew about pell-mell;At length I managed to rush forth,With voice of thunder, from that hell.
"As maidens of the town we fly,We'll shun you maidens of the village;Leave it to those of qualityTheir humble worshippers to pillage.
Yet if ye are of practised skill,And of all tender ties afraid, Exchange your lovers, if ye will,But never let them be betray'd."Thus sings he in the winter-night,While not a blade of grass was green.
I laugh'd to see his piteous plight,For it was well-deserved, I ween.
And may this be the fate of all,Who treat by day their true loves ill, And, with foolhardy daring, crawlBy night to Cupid's treacherous mill!
1798.
THE MAID OF THE MILL'S REPENTANCE.
YOUTH.
AWAY, thou swarthy witch! Go forthFrom out my house, I tell thee!
Or else I needs must, in my wrath,Expel thee!
What's this thou singest so falsely, forsooth, Of love and a maiden's silent truth?
Who'll trust to such a story!
GIPSY.
I sing of a maid's repentant fears,And long and bitter yearning;Her levity's changed to truth and tearsAll-burning.
She dreads no more the threats of her mother, She dreads far less the blows of her brother,Than the dearly loved-one's hatred.
YOUTH.
Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies,Of murder and thievish plunder!
Such actions false will cause no surprise,Or wonder.
When they share their booty, both clothes and purse,--As bad as you gipsies, and even worse,Such tales find ready credence.
GIPSY.
"Alas, alas! oh what have I done?
Can listening aught avail me?
I hear him toward my room hasten on,To hail me.
My heart beat high, to myself I said:
'O would that thou hadst never betray'dThat night of love to thy mother!'"YOUTH.
Alas! I foolishly ventured there,For the cheating silence misled me;Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair,--Nor dread me!
When suddenly rose a fearful din, Her mad relations came pouring in.
My blood still boils in my body!
GIPSY.
"Oh when will return an hour like this?
I pine in silent sadness;
I've thrown away my only true blissWith madness.
Alas, poor maid! O pity my youth!
My brother was then full cruel in trothTo treat the loved one so basely!"THE POET.
