Landon in The Literary Gazette 1835/Count Egmont IV
36
Literary Gazette, 28th March, 1835, Pages 202-203
ORIGINAL POETRY.
VERSIONS FROM THE GERMAN.
(Fifth Series: continued.)
Count Egmont, a Tragedy.—Goethe.
Count Egmont’s Soliloquy In Prison.
The chain is on his hand and on his wrist—
Even the narrow limits of his cell
He cannot trace. How drearily the light
From the sepulchral lamp falls o'er the walls,
Which gleam with constant damp. On every stone
Are graven melancholy characters;
Names that are histories. He cannot rest,
That captive warrior, for his pulses beat
With an impatient sense of injury;
His brow is feverish with unquiet thoughts;
And though he folds his arms as if to sleep,
It will not visit him.
Egmont.
Old friend and true companion! soothing Sleep,
Yes fly, like other friends. How easily
Did your sweet influence fall on my free head,
Cool like a lovely crown of myrtle boughs.
Beloved Sleep! amid the clash of arms,
On the rough torrent of unquiet life,
I rested, breathing lightly as a child,
Weary and cradled in your mother arms.
When the storm swept the leaves from off the bough,
And rushed thro' crashing branches, yet my heart
Was in its depths untroubled,—and I slept.
What is it now shakes my tranquillity?
It is the axe's clang laid to my roots.
I shudder as I stand—I feel my fall
Before it comes. The traitors will prevail!
Thundering amid the forest comes the oak
Down upon earth, while yet its crown is green.
Yet wherefore now—thou who so oft hast driven,
Like the soap bubbles on the air dispersed,
So many heavy cares away—why now
Can I not do as I have frequent done
A thousand times—flung off their weight with thee?
Since when has death grown fearful; with whose face,
As with familiar images of life,
Thou hast been wont to live; what ails thee, Sleep!
A natural horror sinks my shuddering soul.
It is not him, not the bold enemy
That rushes fiercely on the healthful breast.
For such I have no fear. ’Tis this dull jail
That makes the hero and the coward one!
Oft, amid princes in the senate house,
Weary of long debate in narrow walls,
I've felt the air grow heavy, and rushed forth
And flung me on my horse, with one deep breath,
Impatient for a far and free career.
Then went I forth amid the pleasant fields,
Rich with sweet nature's bounty, fair with flowers,
Or golden with the early harvest's corn:
The heaven above us shed its blessings round.
I felt more keenly my humanity,
And lofty impulses, and generous thoughts,
Swelled in my bounding veins. To serve mankind
Was uppermost in the young hunter's thoughts.
Then was the soldier ready to make good
His right against a world—his glorious right!
When freedom, terrible, swept like a storm
Through meadow, forest, valley, swelling on;
Scorning the petty boundaries wherewith man
Would fence his portion from a brother's claim.
Ah, Memory! thou art a spectre now
Of the fair happiness I once possessed.
Fate ! that hast made the past but as a dream,
False fate ! wilt thou deny me that bold death
I never feared before the open sun?
Hast thou prepared a foretaste of the tomb
In this my vault-like prison? I am cold,—
I draw a difficult breath amid the damp
Exhaling from these old sepulchral stones.
I shudder at yon pallet, as it were
A new made grave laid open at my feet.
Oh, care! that art death's shadow, leave me now.
Ah, when hath Egmont been so all alone
In this wide world! come back, my former self.
Let me remember I have many friends;
That I am master of the people's heart.
Honour, fidelity, and hard-earned love,
These cannot flit like meteors of the night.
Fear were, for me, injustice. I am safe
In the great strength that makes the many one.
My trust is with my countrymen, whose cause
Has ever been my own, they will rise up,
And, with an overwhelming power, save
Their faithful servant, and their ancient friend.
Oh! walls, that press me with your gloomy depths,
My spirits rise above your dark restraint!
Courage is like an angel at my heart!
I see the people gathered at my side,
In swarming thousands; and she too is there,
My own beloved one! Freedom is more fair
For that it wears her image. I will sleep,
And dream of Clara and of liberty.
The fair face painted on the dungeon air,
By the strong force of hope, distinct and sweet,
Is a good omen. Love mine, I will rest.
If my last sleep—it will be full of thee.
L. E. L.