C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Svanhvit’s Colloquy

By Per Daniel Amadeus Atterbom (1790–1855)

NO Asdolf yet,—in vain and everywhere

Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed,

At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before

The lofty staircase in the castle yard.

His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye,

And limbs with frenzied terror quivering,

All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged

His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain.

O Lord, that know’st what he hath witnessed there!

Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound

Unto the faithful creature’s silent tongue,

That momentary voice would be, for me,

A call to life or summons to the grave.

And yet what childish fears are these! How oft

Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved

And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful!

Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower

That proudly glances on the frosty pane.

Short is the violet’s, short the cowslip’s spring;—

The frost-flowers live far longer: cold as they

The beautiful should be, that it may share

The splendor of the light without its heat;

For else the sun of life must soon dissolve

The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears;

And tears—flow fast away.

Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower,

That I may look into the vale beneath!

There lies the city,—Asdolf’s capital:

How wondrously the spotless vest of snow

On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles

A glittering welcome to the morning sun,

Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth!

The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament,

But smiles in silence,—knowing sadly well

That she is slighted, and that he, who could

Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells

In other climes, where lavishly he pours

His fond embracing beams, while she, alas!

In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness

Cold on the solitary couch reclines.—

What countless paths wind down, from divers points,

To yonder city gates!—Oh, wilt not thou,

My star, appear to me on one of them?

Whate’er I said,—thou art my worshiped sun.

Then pardon me;—thou art not cold; oh, no!

Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

Yet thus it is! Thy being’s music has

A thousand chords with thousand varying tones,

Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee

Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed,

This too may have its power,—but then it lasts

One and the same forever, sounding still

Unalterably like itself alone;

A wordless prayer to God for what we love,

’Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms

Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales

Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it.

Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men,

Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings,

And far beneath them view the world, whose form

For ever varies on from hour to hour.

What would they ask of love? That, volatile,

In changeful freshness it may charm their ears

With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air

Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull

To rapturous repose, when round them roars

The awful thunder’s everlasting voice!

Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem

The maid who is no more than woman. How

Should she o’er-sound the storm their wings have raised?

Great Lord! how lonely I become within

These now uncheerful towers! O’er all the earth

No shield have I,—no mutual feeling left!

’Tis true that those around me all are kind,

And well I know they love me,—more, indeed,

Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though

They raised me to my Asdolf’s royal throne,

As being the last of all his line,—ah me!

No solace could it bring;—for then far less

Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul!

A helpless maiden’s tears like raindrops fall,

Which in a July night, ere harvest-time,

Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within

Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown.

Yet One there is, who counts the maiden’s tears;—

But when will their sad number be fulfilled?—

How calm was I in former days!—I now

Am so no more! My heart beats heavily,

Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain

Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that

’Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed

Not all unworthy in thine eyes.

A gentle friend—the Master from Vallandia—

Has taught me how I may converse with thee,

Thou cherished token of my Asdolf’s love!

I have been told of far-off lakes, around

Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave,

And make a mournful shade above the stream,

Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells

Broad and unfathomably deep below;—

From these dark lakes at certain times, and most

On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals,

Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound

Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells

Of churches and of castles long since sunk;

And as the wanderer’s steps approach the shore,

He hears more plainly the lamenting tone

Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still

Continues motionless and calm, and seems

To listen with a melancholy joy,

While thus the dim mysterious depths resound;

So let me strive to soften and subdue

My heart’s dark swelling with a soothful song.

Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve.

Another, then! that of the hapless flower,

Surprised by frost and snow in early spring.