The Earliest English Translations of Bürger's Lenore: a Study in English and German Romanticism/Chapter 8/Ellenore by William Taylor

by William Taylor

For other English-language translations of this work, see Lenore (Bürger).

ELLENORE

By William Taylor^[1]

At break of day from frightful dreams
Upstarted Ellenore:
My William, art thou slayn, she sayde,
Or dost thou love no more?

He went abroade with Richard's host
The paynim foes to quell;
But he no word to her had writt,
An he were sick or well.

With blore of trump and thump of drum
His fellow-soldyers come,
Their helms bedeckt with oaken boughs,
They seeke their long'd-for home.

And evry road and evry lane
Was full of old and young
To gaze at the rejoycing band,
To haile with gladsom toung.

"Thank God!" their wives and children sayde,
"Welcome!" the brides did saye;
But grief or kiss gave Ellenore
To none upon that daye.

And when the soldyers all were bye,
She tore her raven hair,
And cast herself upon the growne,
In furious despair.

Her mother ran and lyfte her up,
And clasped her in her arm,
"My child, my child, what dost thou ail?
God shield thy life from harm!"

"O mother, mother! William's gone
What's all besyde to me?
There is no mercie, sure, above!
All, all were spar'd but he!"

"Kneele downe, thy paternoster saye,
'T will calm thy troubled spright:
The Lord is wise, the Lord is good;
What He hath done is right."

"O mother, mother! saye not so;
Most cruel is my fate:
I prayde, and prayde; but watte avaylde?
'T is now, alas! too late."

"Our Heavenly Father, if we praye,
Will help a suffring child:
Go take the holy sacrament;
So shall thy grief grow mild."

"O mother, what I feele within,
No sacrament can staye;
No sacrament can teche the dead
To bear the sight of daye."

"May-be, among the heathen folk
Thy William false doth prove,
And put away his faith and troth,
And take another love.

"Then wherefor sorrowe for his loss?
Thy moans are all in vain:
But when his soul and body parte,
His falsehode brings him pain."

"O mother, mother! gone is gone:
My hope is all forlorn;
The grave my only safeguard is—
O had I ne'er been born!

"Go out, go out, my lamp of life;
In grizely darkness die:
There is no mercie, sure, above.
Forever let me lie."

"Almighty God! O do not judge
My poor unhappy child;
She knows not what her lips pronounce,
Her anguish makes her wild.

"My girl, forget thine earthly woe,
And think on God and bliss;
For so, at least shall not thy soul
Its heavenly bridegroom miss."

"O mother, mother! what is bliss,
And what the fiendis cell?
With him 'tis heaven any where,
Without my William, hell.

"Go out, go out, my lamp of life,
In endless darkness die:
Without him I must loathe the earth,
Without him scorn the skie."

And so despair did rave and rage
Athwarte her boiling veins;
Against the Providence of God
She hurlde her impious strains.

She bet her breast, and wrung her hands,
And rollde her tearless eye,
From rise of morn, til the pale stars
Again orespread the skye.

When harke! abroade she herde the tramp
Of nimble-hoofed steed;
She herde a knight with clank alighte,
And climbe the stair in speed.

And soon she herde a tinkling hand,
That twirled at the pin;
And thro her door, that opened not,
These words were breathed in.

"What ho! what ho! thy door undo;
Art watching or asleepe?
My love, dost yet remember me,
And dost thou laugh or weepe?"

"Ah! William here so late at night!
Oh! I have wachte and wak'd:
Whense art thou come? For thy return
My heart has sorely ak'd."

"At midnight only we may ride;
I come ore land and see:
I mounted late, but soone I go;
Aryse, and come with mee."

"O William, enter first my bowre,
And give me one embrace:
The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss;
Awayte a little space."

"Tho blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss,
I may not harbour here;
My spurs are sett, my courser pawes,
My hour of flight is nere.

"All as thou lyest upon thy couch,
Aryse, and mount behinde;
To-night we'le ride a thousand miles,
The bridal bed to finde."

"How, ride to-night a thousand miles?
Thy love thou dost bemock:
Eleven is the stroke that still
Rings on within the clock."

"Looke up; the moon is bright, and we
Outstride the earthly men:
I'le take thee to the bridal bed,
And night shall end but then."

"And where is then thy house, and home,
And bridal bed so meet?"
" 'Tis narrow, silent, chilly, low,
Six planks, one shrouding sheet."

"And is there any room for me,
Wherein that I may creepe?"
"There's room enough for thee and me,
Wherein that we may sleepe.

"All as thou lyest upon thy couch,
Aryse, no longer stop;
The wedding-guests thy coming wayte,
The chamber-door is ope."

All in her sarke, as there she lay,
Upon his horse she sprung;
And with her lily hands so pale
About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry off they go,
Unheeding wet or dry;
And horse and rider snort and blow,
And sparkling pebbles fly.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,
Aright, aleft, are gone.
The bridges thunder as they pass,
But earthly sowne is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
"Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost fear to ride with me?

"The moon is bright, and blue the night;
Dost quake the blast to stem?
Dost shudder, mayd, to seeke the dead?"
"No, no, but what of them?"

How glumly sownes yon dirgy song!
Night-ravens flappe the wing.
What knell doth slowly tolle ding dong?
The psalms of death who sing?

Fourth creeps a swarthy funeral train,
A corse is on the biere;
Like croke of todes from lonely moores,
The chauntings meete the eere.

"Go, beare her corse when midnight's past,
With song, and tear, and wail;
I've gott my wife, I take her home,
My hour of wedlock hail!

"Leade forth, O dark, the chaunting quire,
To swell our spousal-song:
Come, preest, and reade the blessing soone;
For our dark bed we long."

The bier is gon, the dirges hush;
His bidding all obaye,
And headlong rush thro briar and bush,
Beside his speedy waye.

Halloo! halloo! how swift they go,
Unheeding wet or dry;
And horse and rider snort and blow,
And sparkling pebbles fly.

How swift the hill, how swift the dale,
Aright, aleft, are gon!
By hedge and tree, by thorp and town,
They gallop, gallop on:

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
"Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost feare to ride with mee?

"Look up, look up, an airy crew
In roundel dances reele:
The moon is bright, and blue the night,
Mayst dimly see them wheele.

"Come to, come to, ye ghostly crew,
Come to, and follow me,
And daunce for us the wedding daunce,
When we in bed shall be."

And brush, brush, brush, the ghostly crew,
Came wheeling ore their heads,
All rustling like the witherd leaves
That wide the whirlwind spreads.

Halloo! halloo! away they go,
Unheeded wet or dry;
And horse and rider snort and blow,
And sparkling pebbles fly.

And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behind them fled afar;
And backward scudded overhead
The skie and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
"Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost fear to ride with mee?

"I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
The sand will soone be run:
I snuffe the early morning air;
Downe, downe! our work is done.

"The dead, the dead can ride apace:
Our wed-bed here is fit:
Our race is ridden, our journey ore,
Our endless union knit."

And lo! an yron-grated gate
Soon biggens to their view:
He crackde his whyppe; the locks, the bolts,
Cling, clang! asunder flew.

They passe, and 'twas on graves they trodde;
"'Tis hither we are bound:"
And many a tombstone ghastly white
Lay in the moonshyne round.

And when he from his steed alytte,
His armure, black as cinder,
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked skull;
Nor hair nor eyne had he:
His body grew a skeleton,
Whilome so blithe of ble.

And at his dry and boney heel
No spur was left to bee;
And in his witherd hand you might
The scythe and hour-glass see.

And lo! his steed did thin to smoke,
And charnel-fires outbreathe;
And pal'd, and bleachde, then vanishde quite
The mayd from underneathe.

And hollow howlings hung in air,
And shrekes from vaults arose:
Then knewe the mayd she might no more
Her living eyes unclose.

But onward to the judgment-seat,
Thro' mist and moonlight dreare,
The ghostly crew their flight persewe,
And hollowe in her eare:

"Be patient; tho thyne heart should breke,
Arrayne not Heaven's decree;
Thou nowe art of thy bodie reft,
Thy soul forgiven bee!"

1. As printed in Taylor's Historic Survey of German Poetry II, 40-51, no edition of the original issue being known to exist.