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Lodas Gespenst (1816) D150

Lodas Gespenst

Der bleiche, kalte Mond erhob sich in Osten.
Der Schlaf stieg auf die Jünglinge nieder!
Ihre blauen Helme schimmern zum Strahl.
Das sterbende Feuer vergeht. Der Schlaf aber
ruhte nicht auf dem König: er hob sich mitten
in seinen Waffen, und stieg langsam
den Hügel hinauf, die Flamme des Turms
von Sarno zu sehn. Die Flamme war düster
und fern; der Mond verbarg in Osten sein rotes
Gesicht; es stieg ein Windstoss vom Hügel herab,
auf seinen Schwingen war Lodas Gespenst.
Es kam zu seiner Heimat, umringt von seinen
Schrecken, und schüttelt’ seinen düstern Speer.
In seinem dunklen Gesicht glühn seine Augen
wie Flammen; seine Stimme gleicht entferntem
Donner. Fingal stiess seinen Speer in die Nacht
und hob seine mächtige Stimme.
Zieh dich zurück, du Nachtsohn, ruf deine
Winde und fleuch! Warum erscheinst du
vor mir mit deinen schattigten Waffen?
Fürcht’ ich deine düstre Bildung, du Geist
des leidigen Loda? Schwach ist dein Schild,
kraftlos das Luftbild und dein Schwert.
Der Windstoss rollt sie zusammen; und du
selber bist verloren; fleuch von meinen Augen,
du Nachtsohn! ruf deine Winde und fleucht!
Mit hohler Stimme versetzte der Geist:
Willst du aus meiner Heimat mich treiben?
Vor mir beugt sich das Volk. Ich dreh
die Schlacht im Felde der Tapfern. Auf Völker
werf’ ich den Blick, und sie verschwinden.
Mein Odem verbreitet den Tod. Auf den Rücken
der Winde schreit’ ich voran,
vor meinem Gesichte brausen Orkane.
Aber mein Sitz ist über den Wolken,
angenehm die Gefilde meiner Ruh.
Bewohn’ deine angenehmen Gefilde, sagte
der König: denk’ nicht an Comhals Erzeugten.
Steigen meine Schritte aus meinen Hügeln
in deine friedliche Eb’ne hinauf? Begegnet ich
dir mit einem Speer, auf deiner Wolke, du Geist
desleidigen Loda? Warum runzelst du denn
deine Stirn auf mich? Warum schüttelst du
deinen luftigen Speer? Du runzelst deine Stirn
vergebens, nie floh ich vor den Mächtigen
im Krieg. Und sollen die Söhne des Winds
den König von Morven erschrecken?
Nein, nein; er kennt die Schwäche ihrer Waffen!
Fleuch zu deinem Land, versetzte die Bildung,
fass die Wunde, und fleuch! Ich halte die Winde
in der Höhle meiner Hand; ich bestimm
den Lauf des Sturms. Der König von Sora
ist mein Sohn; er neigt sich vor dem Steine
meiner Kraft. Sein Heer umringt Carric-Thura,
und er wird siegen! Fleuch zu deinem Land,
Erzeugter von Comhal, oder spüre meine Wut,
meine flammende Wut!
Er hob seinen schattigten Speer in die Höhe,
er neigte vorwärts seine schreckbare Länge.
Fingal ging ihm entgegen und zuckte sein
Schwert. Der blitzende Pfad des Stahls
durchdrang den düstern Geist. Die Bildung
zerfloss gestaltlos in Luft, wie eine Säule von
Rauch, welche der Stab des Jünglings berührt,
wie er aus der sterbenden Schmiede aufsteigt.
Laut schrie Lodas Gespenst, als es, in sich
selber gerollt, auf dem Winde sich hob.
Inistore bebte beim Klang. Auf dem Abgrund
hörten’s die Wellen. Sie standen
vor Schrecken in der Mitte ihres Laufs!
Die Freunde von Fingal sprangen plötzlich
empor. Sie griffen ihre gewichtigen Speere.
Sie missten den König: zornig fuhren sie auf;
all ihre Waffen erschollen!
Der Mond rückt’ in Osten voran. Fingal kehrt’
im Klang seiner Waffen zurück. Gross war
der Jünglinge Freude, ihre Seelen ruhig,
wie das Meer nach dem Sturm. Ullin hob
den Freudengesang. Die Hügel Inistores
frohlockten. Hoch stieg die Flamme der Eiche;
Heldengeschichten wurden erzählt.

Loda's Ghost

The wan, cold moon rose in the east.
Sleep descended on the youths.
Their blue helmets glitter to the beam;
the fading fire decays. But sleep
did not rest on the king: he rose
in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended
the hill, to behold the flame
of Sarno’s tower. The flame was dim
and distant; the moon hid her red face
in the east. A blast came from the mountain,
on its wings was the spirit of Loda.
He came to his place in his terrors,
and shook his dusky spear.
His eyes appear like flames in his
dark face; his voice is like distant
thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night
and raised his voice on high.
Son of night, retire: call
thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come
to my presence, with thy shadowy arms?
Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit
of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds:
feeble is that meteor, thy sword!
The blast rolls them together and thou
thyself art lost. Fly from my presence,
son of night! Call thy winds and fly!
Dost thou force me from my place?
replied the hollow voice.
The people bend before me. I turn
the battle in the field of the brave. I look
on the nations, and they vanish:
my nostrils pour the blast of death.
I come abroad on the winds:
the tempests are before my face.
But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds;
the fields of my rest are pleasant.
Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said
the king: let Comhal’s son be forgot.
Do my steps ascend from my hills,
into the peaceful plains? Do I meet
thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, spirit
of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou
frown on me? Why shake thine
airy spear? Thou frownest
in vain. I never fled from the mighty
in war. And shall the sons of the wind
frighten the king of Morven?
No; he knows the weakness of their arms!
Fly to thy land, replied the form:
receive the wind, and fly! The blasts
are in the hollow of my hand: the course
of the storm is mine. The king of Sora
is my son, he bends at the stone
of my power. His battle is around Carric-Thura;
and he will prevail! Fly to thy land,
son of Comhal, or feel
my flaming wrath!
He lifted high his shadowy spear!
He bent forward his dreadful height.
Fingal, advancing, drew his
sword. The gleaming path of the steel
winds through the gloomy ghost. The form
fell shapeless into air, like a column of
smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs,
as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.
The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled
into himself, he rose on the wind.
Inistore shook at the sound. The waves
heard it on the deep. The waves
stopped in their course, with fear.
The friends of Fingal started, at
once; and took their heavy spears.
They missed the king: they rose in rage;
all their arms resound!
The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned
in the gleam of his arms. The joy
of his youth was great, their souls settled,
as a sea from the storm. Ullin raised
the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore
rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose;
and the tales of heroes are told.

Composer

Franz Peter Schubert was an late Classical and early Romantic composer. He produced a vast oeuvre during his short life, composing more the 600 vocal works (largely Lieder), and well as several symphonies, operas, and a large body of piano music. He was uncommonly gifted from a young age, but appreciation of his music was limited during his lifetime. His work became more popular in the decades after his death, and was praised by 19th century composers, including Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, and Liszt.

Information from Wikipedia. Read more here.


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Poet

Edmund von Harold, born in Limerick, was an officer in the service of the Elector Palatine.

He is know particularly for his involvement with the Ossian cycle of epic poems by Scottish poet, James Macpherson, who claimed to have collected word-of-mouth material in Gaelic from ancient sources and that the work was his translation of that material.

In 1775 Harold produced his own translation of James Macpherson's Ossian into Germany prose, but incorporated some of his own 'discoveries'. In 1787 he published an independent volume of Ossianic poetry, simultaneously in both English and German, making capital of his 'insider's' knowledge of the Bard.

Schubert's settings of the songs are based on the 1775 translation, and include Cronnan (D282), Das Mädchen von Inistore (D281), Der Tod Oscars (D375), Die Nacht (D534), Lodas Gespenst (D150), Lorma (D327 and D376), Ossians Lied nach dem Fallen Nathos (D278) and Shilrik und Vinvelva (D293).

 (Taken from Howard Gaskill, The Reception of Ossian in Europe, Bloomsbury, and from Wikipedia.)


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Source Text by:

James Macpherson was a Scottish writer, poet, literary collector and politician, known as the "translator" of the Ossian cycle of poems. He was the first Scottish poet to gain an international reputation.
Macpherson was born at Ruthven in the parish of Kingussie in Badenoch, Inverness-shire. In the 1752-3 session, he was sent to King's College, Aberdeen, moving two years later to Marischal College (the two institutions later became the University of Aberdeen); it is also believed that he attended classes at the University of Edinburgh as a divinity student in 1755–6. During his years as a student, he ostensibly wrote over 4,000 lines of verse, some of which was later published, notably The Highlander (1758), a six-canto epic poem, which he attempted to suppress sometime after its publication.

Taken from Wikipedia. To view the full article, please click here.


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Translation:

James Macpherson was a Scottish writer, poet, literary collector and politician, known as the "translator" of the Ossian cycle of poems. He was the first Scottish poet to gain an international reputation.
Macpherson was born at Ruthven in the parish of Kingussie in Badenoch, Inverness-shire. In the 1752-3 session, he was sent to King's College, Aberdeen, moving two years later to Marischal College (the two institutions later became the University of Aberdeen); it is also believed that he attended classes at the University of Edinburgh as a divinity student in 1755–6. During his years as a student, he ostensibly wrote over 4,000 lines of verse, some of which was later published, notably The Highlander (1758), a six-canto epic poem, which he attempted to suppress sometime after its publication.

Taken from Wikipedia. To view the full article, please click here.


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