---

 

• Hartmann von Auë, the fame went,
• Was a good knight, and well acquent
• With books in every character.
• Having sought this many a year,
• He found at length a record, fit,
• As far as he apprehendeth it,
• To smoothe the rugged paths uneven,
• To glorify God which is in Heaven,
• And gain kind thoughts from each true heart
• 10 For himself as also for his art.

• Unto your ears this song sings he,
• And begs, and an you hear it patiently,
• That his reward be held in store;
• And that whoso, when his days are o'er,
• Shall read and understand this book,
• For the writer unto God may look,
• Praying that God may be his goal
• And the place of rest to his poor soul.
• That man his proper shrift shall win
• 20 Who prayeth for his brother's sin.

 

• Once on a time, (rhymeth the rhyme)
• In Swabia-land once on a time,
• There was a nobleman sojourning,
• Unto whose nobleness everything
• Of virtue and high-hearted excellence
• Worthy his line and his large pretence
• With plentiful measure was meted out:
• The land rejoiced in him round about.
• He was like a prince in his governing,—
• 10 In his wealth he was like a king;
• But most of all by the fame far-flown
• Of his great knightliness was he known,
• North and south upon land and sea.
• By his name he was Henry of the Lea.
• All things whereby the truth grew dim
• Were held as hateful foes with him:
• By solemn oath was he bounden fast
• To shun them while his life should last.
• In honour all his days went by:
• 20 Therefore his soul might look up high
• To honourable authority.

• A paragon of all graciousness;
• A blossoming branch of youthfulness;
• A looking-glass to the world around,
• A stainless and priceless diamond;
• Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath;
• A home when the tyrant menaceth;
• A buckler to the breast of his friend,
• And courteous without measure or end;
• 30 Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell;
• Of precious wisdom a limpid well;
• A singer of ladies every one;
• And very lordly to look upon
• In feature and bearing and countenance:—
• Say, failed he in anything, perchance,
• The summit of all glory to gain
• And the lasting honour of all men?

• Alack! the soul that was up so high
• Dropped down into pitiful misery,—
• 40 The lofty courage was stricken low,—
• The steady triumph stumbled in woe,—
• And the world-joy was hidden in the dust,
• Even as all such shall be and must.
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• He whose life in the senses centreth
• Is already in the shadow of death.
• The joys, called great, of this under-state
• Burn up the bosom early and late;
• And their shining is altogether vain,
• For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain.
• 50 The torch that burns flames for men to see
• And wasteth to ashes inwardly
• Is verily but an imaging
• Of man's own life, the piteous thing.
• The whole is brittleness and mishap:
• We sit and dally in Fortune's lap
• Till tears break in our smiles betwixt,
• And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd
• With sorrow's wormwood fathomdeep.
• Oh! rest not therefore, Man, nor sleep:—
• 60 In the blossoming of thy flower-crown
• A sword is raised to smite thee down.

• Even with Earl Henry it was thus:
• Though gladsome and very glorious
• Was the manner of his life, yet God
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• Upon his spirit's fulness trod.
• The bar then was heavy that fell on him The curse that fell was heavy and deep,—
• A thunderbolt in the slow ? hour of sleep.
• His body, whose beauty was so much,
• Was turned to a unto loathing and reproach,—
• 70 Full of foul sores, increasing fast,
• Which grew into leprosy at last.
• Ages ago the Lord even so
• Ordained that Job should be brought low,
• To prove him if in such distress
• He would hold fast his righteousness.
• The great rich Earl, who otherwhile
• Met but man's praise and woman's smile,
• Was now no less than out-thrust quite.
• The day of the world hath a dark night.

• 80 What time Lord Henry wholly knew
• The stound that he was come into,
• And saw folk shun him as he went,
• And his pains food for merriment,—
• Then did he, as often it is done
• By those whom sorrow falleth on—
• He wrapped not round him as a robe
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• The patience that was found in Job.
• For holy Job meet semblance took,
• And bowed him under God's rebuke,
• 90 Which had given to him the world's reverse,
• And the shame, and the anguish, and the curse,
• Only to snatch away his soul
• From emptiness and earth's control:
• Therefore his soul had triumphing
• Inmostly at the troublous thing.

• In suchwise Henry bore him not;
• Its duteousness his heart forgot;
• His pride waxed hard and kept its place,
• But the glory departed from his face,
• 100 And that which was his strength grew weak.
• The hand that smote him on the cheek
• Was all too heavy. It was night
• Now, and his sun withdrew its light.
• To the pride of his uplifted thought
• Much woe the weary knowledge brought
• That all his joys in their best day
  Added TextThat the pleasant way his feet did wend
• Must have an end and pass away Was all passed o'er and had an end.
• The day wherein his years had begun
• Went in his mouth with a malison.
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• 110 As the ill grew stronger and more strong,
• There was but hope bore him along:
• Even yet to hope he was full fain
• That gold might help him back again
• Thither whence God had cast him out.
• Ah! weak to strive and little stout
• 'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possess'd.
• North and south and east and west,
• Far and wide from every side,
• Mediciners well-proved and tried
• 120 Came to him at the voice of his woe;
• But, mused and pondered they everso,
• They could but say, for all their care,
• That he must be content to bear
• The burthen of the anger of God:
• For him there was none other road.
• Already was his heart nigh down,
• When yet to him one chance was shown;
• For in Salerno liv dwelt (folk said)
• A leach who still might lend him aid,
• 130 Albeit unto his body's cure
• All such had been as nought before.

• Up rose fresh-hearted the sick man,
• And sought the great physician,
• And told him all, and prayed him hard,
• With the proffer of a rich reward,
• To take away his grief's foul cause.
• Then said the leach without a pause:
• “There is one means might healing yield,
• Yet will you ever be unheal'd.”

• 140 And Henry said, “Say on; define
• Your thoughts; your words are as thick wine.
• Some means may bring recovery?—
• I will recover! Verily,
• Unto your will my will shall bend,
• So this mine anguish pass and end.”

• Then said the leach: “Give ear to me:
• Thus stands it with your misery.
• Albeit there be a means of health,
• From no man shall you win such wealth;
• 150 Many have it, yet none will give;
• You shall lack it all the days you shall live;—
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• Strength gets it not; valour gains it not;
• Nor with gold nor with silver is it bought.
• Then, since God heedeth not your plaint,
• Accept God's will and be content.”

• “Woe's me!” did Henry's speech begin;
• “Your pastime do you take herein,
• To snatch the last hope from my sight?
• Riches are mine, and mine is might:—
• 160 Why cast away such golden chance
• As waiteth on my deliverance?
• You shall grow rich in succouring me:
• Tell me the means, what they may be.”

• Quoth the leach: “Then know them, what they are;
• Yet still all hope must stand afar.
• Truly if the cure for your care
• Might be gotten anyway anywhere,
• Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth,
• Thiswise I had not sent you forth.
• 170 But all my knowledge hath none avail;
• There is but one thing would not fail:—
• An innocent virgin for to find,
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• Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind,
• Who, to save you from death, might choose
• Her own young body's life to lose:
• The heart's blood of the excellent maid,—
• That and nought else can be your aid.
• But there is none will be won thereby
• For the love of another's life to die.”

• 180 'Twas then poor Henry knew indeed
• That from his ill he might not be freed,
• Sith that no woman he might win
• Of her own will to act herein.
• Thus gat he but an ill return
• For the journey he made unto Salerne,
• And the hope he had upon that day
• Was snatched from him and rent away.
• Homeward he hied him back: full fain
• His limbs in the dust he would have lain.
• 190 Of his substance—lands and riches both—
• He rid himself; even as one doth
• Who the breath of the last life of his hope
• Once and for ever hath rendered up.
• To his friends he gave unto and to the poor;
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• Unto God praying evermore
• The spirit that was in him to save,
• And make his bed soft in the grave.
• What still remained, aside he set
• For Holy Church's benefit.
• 200 Of all that heretofore was his
• Nought held he for himself, I wis,
• Save one small house, with herd byre and field:
• There from the world he lived conceal'd,—
• There lived he, and awaited Death,
• Who, being awaited, lingereth.
• Pity and ruth his troubles found
• Alway through all the country round.
• Who heard him named, had sorrow deep,
• And for his piteous sake would weep.

---

 

• The little farm, with herd and field,
• Now, as it had been erst, was till'd
• By a poor man of simple make
• Whose heart right seldom had the ache.
• A happy soul, and well content
• With every chance that fortune sent,
• Being equal in fortune's pitch
• Even unto him that is rich,—
• For that his master's kindly will
• 10 Set limit to his labour still,
• And without cumbrance and in peace
• He lived upon the field's increase.
• With him poor Henry trouble-press'd,
• Dwelt, and to dwell with him was rest.
• In grateful wise, neglecting nought,
• Still was the peasant's service wrought:
• Cheerily both in heart and look,
• The trouble and the toil he took,
• Which, new as each day dawned anew,
• 20 For Henry he must bear and do.

• With favour which to blessings ran,
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• God looked upon the worthy man:
• He gave him strength to aid his life,
• A sturdy heart, an honest wife,
• And children such as bring to be
• That a man's breast is brimmed with glee.
• Among them was a little maid,
• Red-cheeked, in yellow locks arrayed;
• Whose tenth year was just passing her;
• 30 With eyes most innocently clear,
• Sweet smiles that ? soothe, sweet tones that lull;
• Of gracious semblance wonderful.

• For her sick lord the dear good child
• Was full of tender thoughts and mild.
• Rarely from sitting at his feet
• She rose; because his speech was sweet
• To serve him she was proud and glad.
• Great fear her little playmates had
• At the sight of the loathly wight;
• 40 But she, as often as she might,
• Went to him and with him would stay;
• And her heart unto him alway
• Clave as a child's heart cleaves: his pain
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• And grief that ever must remain,
• With childish grace she soothed the while,
• And sat her at his feet with a smile.

• And Henry loved the little one
• Who had such thought his woes upon,
• And he would buy her baubles bright
• 50 Such as to children give delight:
• Nought else to peace his heart could lift
• Like her innocent gladness at the gift.
• A riband sometimes, broad and fair,
• To twine with the tresses of her hair,
• Or a looking-glass, or a little ring,
• Or a girdle-clasp;—at anything
• She was so thankful, was so pleased,
• That in some sort his pain was eased,
• And he would even say jestingly,
• 60 His own good little wife was she.
• Seldom she left him long alone,
• Winning him from his inward moan
• With love and childish trustfulness;
• Her joyous seeming ne'er grew less;
• She was a balm unto his breast,—
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• Unto his eyes she was shade and rest.

• Already were three years outwrung,
• And still his torment o'er him hung,
• And still in death ceased not his life.

• 70 It chanced the peasant and his wife,
• And his two little daughters, sate
• Together when the day was late,
• Their talk was all upon their lord,
• And how the help they could afford
• Was joy to them, and of the woe
• They suffered for his sake,—yet how
• His death, they feared, might bring them worse.
• They thought that in the universe
• No lord could be so good as he,
• 80 And if but once they lived to see
• Another inherit of their friend,
• That all their welfare needs must end.

• Then to his lord the peasant spake:
• “Question, dear master, I would make,
• So you permit me, of the cause
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• Wherefore thus long you have made pause
• From seeking help from such as win
• Worship by lore of medicine,
• And famous are both near and far.
• 90 One such might yet break down the bar
• That shuts you from your health's estate.
• Wherefore, dear master, should you wait?”

• Then sighs from the soul of the sick man
• Pressed outward, and his tears began;
• They were so sore, that when he spake
• It seemed as though his heart would break.

• “From God this woful curse,” he said,
• Wofully have I merited,
• Whose mind but to world-vanity
• 100 Looked, and but thought how best to be
• Wondrous in the thinking of men:
• Worship I laboured to attain
• By wealth, which God in His great views
• Had given me for another use:—
• God's self I had well-nigh forgot,
• The moulder of my human lot,
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• Whose gifts, ill ta'en, though well bestow'd,
• Hindered me from the Heaven-road;
• Till I at length, lost here as there,
• 110 Am chosen unto shame & despair,
• His wrath's insufferable weight
• Made me to know Him,—but too late.
• From bad to worse, from worse to worst,
• At length I am cast forth and curs'd:
• The whole world from my side doth flee;
• The wretchedest insulteth me;
• Looking on me, each ruffian
• Accounts himself the better man,
• And turns his visage from the sight,
• 120 As though I brought him bane and blight.
• Therefore may God reward thee, thou
• Who dost bear with me even now,
• Not scorning him whose sore distress
• No more may guerdon faithfulness.
• And yet, however kind and true
• The deeds thy goodness bids thee do,—
• Still, spite of all, it must at heart
• Rejoice thee when my breath shall part.
• How am I lessened outcast and ? forlorn!—
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• 130 That I, who as thy lord was born,
• Must now beseech thee of thy grace
• To suffer me in mine evil case.
• With a great blessing verily
• Thou shalt be blest of God through me,
• Because to me, whom God thus tries,
• Pity thou grantest, Christianwise.
• The thing thou askest thou shalt know:—
• All the physicians long ago
• Who might bring help in any kind
• 140 I sought;—but, woe is me! to find
• That all the help in all the earth
• Avails not and is nothing worth.
• One means there is indeed; and yet
• That means nor gold nor prayers may get:—
• A leach who is full of lore hath said
• How it needeth that a virtuous maid
• For my sake with her life should part,
• And feel the steel cut to her heart:
• Only in the blood of such an one
• 150 My curse may cease beneath the sun.
• But such an one what hope can show,
• Who her own life would thus forego
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• To save my life? Then let despair
• Bow down within my soul to bear
• The wrath God's justice doth up-pile.
• When will death come? Woe, woe the while!”

• Of these, poor Henry's words, each word
• The little maiden likewise heard
• Who at his feet would always sit;
• 160 And forgot it not, but remembered it.
• In the hid shrine, her heart's recess,
• She held his words in silentness.
• As the mind of an angel was her mind,
• Grave and holy and Christ-inclin'd.

• When in their chamber, day being past,
• Her parents, after toil, slept fast,—
• Then always with the self-same stir
• The sighs of her grief troubled her.
• At the foot of her parents' bed
• 170 Lying, so many tears she shed
• (Bitter and many) as to make
• That they woke up and kept awake.

• Her secret grieving once perceived,
• They made much marvel why she grieved,
• And questioned her of the evil chance
• To which she gave sorrowful utterance
• In her sobbings and in her undercries:
• But nothing answered she anywise,
• Until her father bade her tell
• 180 Openly and truly and well
• Why night by night within her bed
• So many bitter tears she shed.
• “Alack!” quoth she, “what should it be
• But our kind master's misery,—
• With thoughts how soon we now must miss
• Both him and all our happiness?
• Our solace shall be ours no more:
• There is no lord alive, be sure,
• Who, like unto him and of his worth,
• 190 Shall bless our days with peace thenceforth.”

• They answering said: “Right words and rare
• Thou speak'st; but it booteth not an hair
• That we should make outcry and lament:
• Brood thou no longer thereanent.
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• Unto us it is pain, as unto thee,
• Perchance even more; yet what can we
• That may avail for succouring?
• Truly the Lord hath done this thing.”

• Thus silenced they her speaking; but
• 200 Her soul's complaint they silenced not.
• Grief lay with her from hour to hour
• Through the long night; nor dawn had power
• To rid her of it; all beside
• That near and about her might betide
• Seemed nought. And when sleep covered men,
• Again and again and yet again,
• Wakeful and faithful, she would crouch
• Wearily on her little couch,
• Tossing in trouble without sign:
• 210 And from her eyes the scalding brine
• Flowed through sick grief that wept apart;
• As steadfastly within her heart
• She pondered on her heart's sore ache
• And on those words Earl Henry spake.
• Long with herself communing so,
• Her tears were softened in their flow;
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• Because at length her will was fix'd
• To stand his fate and him betwixt.

• Where now should such a child be sought,
• 220 Thinking even as this one thought,
• Who, rather than her lord should die,
• Chose her own death and held thereby?

• But once her purpose settled fast,
• All woe went forth from her and pass'd;
• Her heart sat lightly in her breast,
• And one thing only gave unrest.
• Her lord's own hand, she feared, might stay
• Her footsteps from the terrible way,—
• She feared her parents strength might lack,
• 230 And, through much loving, hold her back.

• By reason of such fears, she fell
• Into new grief unspeakable,
• And that night, as the past nights, wept,
• Waking her father where he slept.
• “Thou foolish child” (thus did he say,)
• “Why wilt thou weep thine eyes away
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• For what no help thou hast can mend?
• Is not this moan thou mak'st to end?
• We would sleep; let us sleep in peace.”
• 240 Thus chidingly he bade her cease,
• Because his thought conceived in nought
• The thing she had laid up in her thought.

• Answered him the excellent maid:
• “Truly my own dear lord hath said
• That by one means he may be heal'd.
• So ye but your consenting yield,
• It is my blood that he shall have.
• I, (being virgin-pure,) to save
• His days, do choose the edge o' the knife,
• 250 And my death rather than my life.”

• The young girl's parents lay and heard,
• And had sore grief of her spoken word;
• And thus her father said: “How now?
• What silly wish, child, wishest thou?
• Thou durst not do it in very truth.
• What knows a child of these things, forsooth?
• Ugly Death thou hast never seen:
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• Were he once to near thee, I ween,—
• Didst thou view the pit of the sepulchre,—
• 260 Thy face would change and thy flesh fear,
• And thy soul within thee would shake,
• And thy weak hands would toil to break
• The grasp of the monster foul and grim,
• Drawing thee from thyself to him.
• Leave thy words and thy weeping too;
• What cannot be done, seek not to do.”

• “Nay, father mine,” replied the child,
• “Though my words may be counted wild,
• Well I know that the body's death
• 270 Is a torture and tortureth.
• Yet truly this is truth no less:
• He who is plagued with sharp distress,
• Who hates his life, having but woe,—
• To him the end cometh, even so,
• When, for all the curses that he hath pass'd,
• He scapes not the curse of death at last.
• What booteth it him a long-drawn life
• To have traversed in trouble and in strife,
• If nothing after all he can win,
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• 280 Except, being old, to enter in
• At the self-same door which years ago
• He might more firmly have passed through?
• But scantly may the soul see good,—
• So rough is world-driving and so rude;
• And, good once ended, hope once lorn,
• Best it were I had not been born.
• Therefore my lips give praise to God,
• Who this great blessing hath bestow'd
• On me,—by loss of body and limb
• 290 To have the life that lives with Him.
• 'Twere ill done, did ye make me loth
• From what unto me and unto both
• Bringeth joy and prosperity;
• Gaining the crown of Christ for me;
• And you, from every troublous thing
• That threateneth you, delivering.
• The generous master ye shall keep
• Who leaves you undisturbed to reap
• The fruits our little field doth grow,—
• 300 Earn'd, father, in the sweat of thy brow.
• With you, while he liveth, it shall stay;
• He is good; he will not drive you away.
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• But if we now should let him die,
• Our ruining hasteneth thereby:
• The thought whereof doth make me give
• My own young life that he may live.
• To such a choice, which profits all,
• Meseems your chiding should be small.”

• Then the mother broke forth at last,
• 310 Finding her daughter's purpose fast:—
• “Think, my own child, —daughter mine, think
• Of the bitter cup that I had to drink,
• Of the pain that I suffered once for thee;
• And, thinking, turn thyself unto me.
• Is this the guerdon thou dost give
• Even to the womb that bade thee live?
• Her in pain must I lose again
• Whom I bore and brought forth in pain?
• Wouldst leave thy parents for thy lord?
• 320 This were hatred of God and of His word.
• Clean from thy mind is the word gone
• Which God pronounced? Ponder thereon:
• “Listen,” (it is written) “to their command,
• That thy days may be long in the land.”
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• Lo! how corrupt must be thine heart,—
• It hath striven the will of God to thwart.
• And sayest thou, —if thou losest thus
• Thy life, good hap shall come to us?
• Oh no! in us thou wilt give birth
• 330 To weariness and to scorn of earth.
• In the whole world thou art alone
• That which our joy is set upon.
• Yes, little daughter, always dear,
• 'Tis thou shouldst make our gladness here;
• Thou shouldst be a lamp to our life,
• Our aim in the troublesome hard strife,
• And a staff our falling steps to save:
• In place whereof, thine own black grave
• With thine own hand thou digg'st, and sad
• 340 Grows the hope and the comfort that we had,
• And I must weep at thy tomb all day
• Till in plague and torment I pass away.
• Yet whatsoever oh! whate'er our ills may be,
• So much and more shall God do to thee.”

• Then the pious maid answered and said:—
• “O mother, that in my soul art laid,
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• How should I not at all times here
• See the path of my duty clear,
• When at all times my thankful mind
• 350 Meeteth thy love, tender and kind,
• That kindly and tenderly ministers?
• Of a verity I am young in years;
• Yet this I know: what is mine, to wit,
• Is mine but since thou gavest it.
• And if the people grant me praise
• And look with favour in my face,
• Yet my heart's tale is continual
• That only thee must I thank for all
• Which it pleaseth them to perceive in me;
• 360 And that ne'er a thing should be brought to be
• By myself on myself, save such
• As thou wouldst permit without reproach.
• Mother, it was thou that didst give
• These limbs and the life wherewith I live,—
• And is it thou wouldst grudge my soul
• Its white robe and its aureole?
• The knowledge of evil in my breast
• Hath not yet been, nor sin's unrest;
• Therefore, the road being overtrod,
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• 370 I know I shall have portion with God.
• Say not that this is foolishness;
• No hand but God's hand is in this:
• Him must thou thank, Whose grace doth cleanse
• My heart from earth's desire, till hence
• It longs with a great longing mighty will to go
• Ere sin be known that's yet to know.
• Well it needs that the joys of earth
• (Deemed oftentimes of a priceless worth)
• By man should be counted excellent:
• 380 How otherwise might he rest content
• With anything but Christ's perfecting?
• Oh! to such reeds let me not cling!
• God knows how vain seem to my sight
• The bliss of this world and the delight;
• For the delight turneth amiss,
• And soul's tribulation hath the bliss.
• What is their life?—a gasp for breath;
• And their guerdon?—but the burthen of death.
• Nothing is sure, save this One thing alone is sure:—should peace
• 390 Come to-day, with tomorrow it shall cease;
• And that Till the last evil thing at last
• Shall find us out, and our days be past.
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• Nor birth nor wealth succoureth then,
• Nor strength, nor the courage of strong men,
• Nor honour, nor fealty, nor truth.
• Out and alack! Our life, our youth,
• Are but dust only and empty smoke:
• We are laden branches that the winds rock.
• Woe to the fool who layeth hold
• 400 On earth's vanities which are vain shadows manifold!
• The marsh-fire gleam as it hath shone
• Still shines, luring his footsteps on;
• But he is dead ere he reach the goal,
• And with his flesh dieth his soul.
• Therefore, dear mother, be at rest,
• And labour not to make manifest
• That for my sake thou wouldest hold'st me here:
• And in thy silence it shall be clear
  Added TextBut let one silence make it clear
• That my father's will joineth is joined with thine.
• 410 Alas! though I kept this life of mine
• 'Tis verily but a little while
• That ye may smile, or that I may smile.
• Two years perchance, perchance even three,
• In happiness I shall keep with ye:
• Then must our lord be surely dead,
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• And sorrow and sighing find us instead;
• And your want shall your will withhold
• From giving me any dowry-gold,
• And no man will take me for his wife;
• 420 And my life shall be trouble-rife,
• And very hateful, and worse than death.
• Or though this thing that threateneth
• Were 'scaped, and ere our good lord died
• Some bridegroom chose me for his bride,—
• Though then, ye think, all is made smooth,
• Yet the bad is but made worse, forsooth;
• For even with love, woes should not cease,
• And not to love were the end of peace.
• Thus through ill and grief I struggle still,
• 430 What to attain? Even grief and ill.
• In this strait, One would set me free,
• My soul and my body asking of me,
• That I may be with him where He is.
• Hold me not; I would make myself His.
• He only is the true husbandman;
• The labour ends well which He began;
• Ever His plough goeth aright;
• His barns fill; for His fields there is no blight;
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• In His lands life dies not anywhere;
• 440 Never a child sorroweth there;
• There heat is not, neither is cold;
• There the lapse of years maketh not old;
• But peace hath its dwelling there for aye,
• And abideth, and shall not pass away.
• Thither, yea, thither let me go,
• And be rid of this shadow-place below,—
• This place laid waste like a waste plain,
• Where nothing is but torment and pain,
• Where a day's blight falleth upon
• 450 The work of a year, and it is gone;
• Where ruinous thunder lifts its voice,
• And where the harvest may not rejoice.
• You love me? Oh, let your love be seen;