From the German of Schiller.
Translated by Mr. Bowring [John Bowring].
Originally published in The New Monthly Magazine (Henry Colburn) vol.1 #1 (Jan 1821).
"O Knight! a sister's love for thee
My bosom has confess'd;
Then ask no other love from me,
Nor wound a faithful breast.
If cold to thee that love appears,
Go, Knight! unmurmuring go—
And dry those sad and silent tears—
I know not why they flow."
He heard—embrac'd her, but his tongue
No agony betray'd;
Then wildly broke away, and sprung
On his war-horse array'd;
And straight to his Switzer-vassals he
Issues his high command,
To wear the Cross of Calvary
And speed to the Holy Land.
There many a deed of glory bright
Proclaim'd his fame around;
And wherever there raged the bloodiest fight,
There, there was the hero found.
His name alone could appal the heart
Of the fiercest infidel—
But his spirit still groan'd with the secret smart,
That nothing on earth could heal.
He bore that pang thro' a long, long year:
He could bear that pang no more;
Nor glory's crowns, nor victory's cheer
That inner pang could cure.
A ship he sees on Joppa's strand
With all its sails display'd;
And he speeds away to his father-land,
By favouring winds convey'd.
And swift he flew to the castle-gate
That guards his angel dear:
When O! what terrible accents grate
On his horror-stricken ear.
"She wears the Veil so pure and blest,
And is the Bride of Heaven:
And yesterday was the marriage-feast
In the holy convent given."
And he left, and left alas! for ever,
His father's castle then—
Abandon'd his bright arms—and never
He mounted his steed again.
And the warrior's praise was heard no more,
Unknown was the stranger's fame;
For the coarse, cold garment of hair he wore
Conceal'd his noble frame.
At the end of the dusky Linden aile
Where the holy convent stood,
His own hands raised a humble pile,
A hut of straw and wood.
And there he watch'd from the morning's break
To the evening's hour of peace—
And silent Hope oft flush'd his cheek,
As he sat in loneliness.
For hours and hours he speechless sate,
His eye on the convent above;
Until he heard the window grate
Of his Heaven-devoted love—
Until he saw her shadow bright
In the dark and lonely cell:
In his eye, it fill'd the vale with light,
Soft—pure—ineffable.
Then satisfied he sunk to rest:
His spirit own'd no pain,
But lived upon the hope so blest
To see that shade again.
And thus for many a day and year
The tranquil Pilgrim sate,
(Nor heaved a sigh, nor shed a tear)
To hear the window grate—
Until he saw her shadow bright
Soft—beaming from above,
Filling the gladden'd vale with light,
And purity and love.
And so he sate, and so he fell
A corpse all stiff and chill:
His dim eye fix'd upon the cell
Of his loved angel still.