“Amaveram prae caeteris
    Te, sed amici veteris
    Es jam oblita!  Superis
    Vel inferis
    Ream te criminamur.”

I will close this section with the lament written for a medieval Gretchen whose fault has been discovered, and whose lover has been forced to leave the country.  Its bare realism contrasts with the lyrical exuberance of the preceding specimens.

GRETCHEN.

No. 41.

    Up to this time, well-away! 
    I concealed the truth from day,
      Went on loving skilfully. 
    Now my fault at length is clear: 
    That the hour of need is near,
      From my shape all eyes can see. 
    So my mother gives me blows,
    So my father curses throws;
      They both treat me savagely. 
    In the house alone I sit,
    Dare not walk about the street,
      Nor at play in public be.

    If I walk about the street,
    Every one I chance to meet
      Scans me like a prodigy: 
    When they see the load I bear,
    All the neighbours nudge and stare,
      Gaping while I hasten by;
    With their elbows nudge, and so
    With their finger point, as though
      I were some monstrosity;
    Me with nods and winks they spurn,
    Judge me fit in flames to burn
      For one lapse from honesty.

    Why this tedious tale prolong? 
    Short, I am become a song,
      In all mouths a mockery. 
    By this am I done to death,
    Sorrow kills me, chokes my breath,
      Ever weep I bitterly. 
    One thing makes me still more grieve,
    That my friend his home must leave
      For the same cause instantly;
    Therefore is my sadness so
    Multiplied, weighed down with woe,
      For he too will part from me.

XVIII.

A separate section should be assigned to poems of exile.  They are not very numerous, but are interesting in connection with the wandering life of their vagrant authors.  The first has all the dreamy pathos felt by a young German leaving his beloved home in some valley of the Suabian or Thuringian hills.

ADIEU TO THE VALLEY.

No. 42.

    Oh, of love twin-brother anguish! 
    In thy pangs I faint and languish,
      Cannot find relief from thee! 
    Nay, no marvel!  I must grieve her,
    Wander forth in exile, leave her,
      Who hath gained the heart of me;
    Who of loveliness so rare is
    That for her sake Trojan Paris
      Would have left his Helene.

    Smile, thou valley, sweetest, fairest,
    Wreathed with roses of the rarest,
      Flower of all the vales that be! 
    Vale of vales, all vales excelling,
    Sun and moon thy praise are telling,
      With the song-birds’ melody;
    Nightingales thy praise are singing,
    O thou soothing solace-bringing
      To the soul’s despondency!