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Songs

Songs

Der Liedler (1815) D209

Der Liedler

Gib, Schwester, mir die Harf’ herab,
Gib mir Biret und Wanderstab,
Kann hier nicht fürder weilen!
Bin ahnenlos, bin nur ein Knecht,
Bin für die edle Maid zu schlecht,
Muss stracks von hinnen eilen.
„Still, Schwester, bist gottlob nun Braut,
Wirst morgen Wilhelm angetraut,
Soll mich nichts weiter halten.
Nun küsse mich, leb, Trude, wohl!
Dies Herze, schmerz- und liebevoll,
Lass Gott den Herrn bewalten.“
Der Liedler zog durch manches Land
Am alten Rhein- und Donaustrand,
Wohl über Berg und Flüsse.
Wie weit er flieht, wohin er zieht,
Er trägt den Wurm im Herzen mit
Und singt nur sie, die Süsse.
Und er’s nicht länger tragen kann,
Tät sich mit Schwert und Panzer an,
Den Tod sich zu erstreiten.
Im Tod ist Ruh, im Grab ist Ruh,
Das Grab deckt Herz und Wünsche zu;
Ein Grab will er erreiten.
Der Tod ihn floh, und Ruh ihn floh!
Des Herzogs Banner flattert froh
Der Heimat Gruss entgegen,
Entgegen wallt, entgegen schallt
Der Freunde Gruss durch Saat und Wald
Auf allen Weg’ und Stegen.
Da ward ihm unterm Panzer weh!
Im Frührot glüht der ferne Schnee
Der heimischen Gebirge;
Ihm war, als zög’s mit Hünenhaft
Dahin sein Herz,
Der Brust entrafft,
Als ob’s ihn hier erwürge.
Da konnt er’s fürder nicht besten:
„Muss meine Heimat Wiedersehen,
Muss sie noch einmal schauen!“
Die mit der Minne Rosenhand
Sein Herz an jene Berge band,
Die herrlichen, die blauen!
Da warf er Wehr und Waffe weg.
Sein Rüstzeug weg ins Dorngeheg;
Die liederreichen Saiten,
Die Harfe nur, der Süssen Ruhm,
Sein Klagepsalm, sein Heiligtum,
Soll ihn zurückbegleiten.
Und als der Winter trat ins Land,
Der Frost im Lauf die Ströme band,
Betrat er seine Berge.
Da lag’s, ein Leichentuch von Eis,
Lag’s vorn und neben totenweiss,
Wie tausend Hünensärge!
Lag’s unter ihm, sein Muttertal,
Das gräflich Schloss im Abendstrahl,
Wo Milla drin geborgen.
Glück auf, der Alpe Pilgerruh
Winkt heute Ruh dir Ärmster zu;
Zur Feste, Liedler, morgen!
Ich hab’ nicht Rast, ich hab’ nicht Ruh,
Muss heute noch der Feste zu,
Wo Milla drin geborgen.
„Bist starr, bist blass!“ Bin totenkrank,
Heut ist noch mein! Tot, Gott sei Dank,
Tot find’t mich wohl der Morgen.
Horch Maulgetrab, horch Schellenklang!
Vom Schloss herab der Alp’entlang
Zog’s unter Fackelhelle.
Ein Ritter führt ihm angetraut,
Führt Milla heim als seine Braut.
Bist Liedler schon zur Stelle!
Der Liedler schaut und sank in sich.
Da bricht und schnaubet wütiglich
Ein Werwolf durchs Gehege,
Die Maule fliehn, kein Saum sie zwingt,
Der Schecke stürzt. Weh! Milla sinkt
Ohnmächtig hin am Wege.
Da riss er sich, ein Blitz, empor,
Zum Hort der Heissgeminnten vor,
Hoch auf des Untiers Nacken
Schwang er sein teures Harfenspiel,
Dass es zersplittert niederfiel,
Und Nick und Rachen knacken.
Und wenn er stark wie Simson wär’,
Erschöpft mag er und sonder Wehr
Den Grimmen nicht bestehen.
Vom Busen, vom zerfleischten
Arm Quillt’s Herzblut nieder, liebewarm,
Schier denkt er zu vergehen.
Ein Blick auf sie, und alle Kraft
Mit einmal er zusammenrafft,
Die noch verborgen schliefe!
Ringt um den Werwolf Arm und Hand,
Und stürzt sich von der Felsenwand
Mit ihm in schwindle Tiefe.
Fahr, Liedler, fahr auf ewig wohl!
Dein Herze schmerz- und liebevoll
Hat Ruh im Grab gefunden!
Das Grab ist aller Pilger Ruh,
Das Grab deckt Herz und Wünsche zu,
Macht alles Leids gesunden.

The Minstrel

Sister, pass down my harp,
hand me my hat and staff,
I can no longer tarry here.
I am but a servant, without forebears,
I am too humble for the noble maiden
and must at once hasten from here.
‘Be calm, sister, you are now, praise God, a bride.
Tomorrow you will wed Wilhelm.
There is nothing more to keep me here.
So kiss me, Trude, farewell!
This heart of mine, so full of pain and love –
let the Lord God guide it.’
The minstrel travelled through many a land,
on the banks of the old Rhine and Danube,
across mountains and rivers.
However far he journeyed, wherever he wandered,
he carried the worm in his heart,
and sang only of her, his sweet love.
And when he could bear it no longer
he girded on sword and armour,
to seek death in battle.
In death is peace, in the grave is peace;
the grave buries the heart and its desires.
On horseback he sought a grave.
Death eluded him; peace eluded him!
The Duke’s banner gaily waved
a greeting from the homeland;
his friends’ greetings resounded
through field and wood,
on every road and bridge.
Then he grew melancholy in his armour.
The distant snow on his native mountains
glistened in the dawn.
It seemed as if, with titanic force,
his heart were being drawn there,
wrenched from his breast;
it was as if he were suffocating here.
Then he could no longer resist:
‘I must see my homeland again,
I must behold it once more!’
With the rosy hand of love
it bound his heart
to those mountains, blue and glorious!
He threw away his weapons,
cast his armour into the thorny hedge;
his melodious strings,
his harp, his sweetheart’s eulogy,
his threnody and his sacred hymn –
his harp alone would accompany him home.
When winter came to the country,
and frost congealed the flowing rivers,
he reached his mountains.
There lay his homeland, a shroud of ice,
deathly white all around,
like a thousand Titans’ coffins!
Beneath him lay his native valley,
and, in the sun’s dying rays, the Count’s castle
in which Milla was sheltered.
Good luck! The Alpine pilgrim’s rest
bids you pause today, poor boy;
tomorrow, minstrel, to the castle.
I know no peace, I know no repose;
this very day I must reach the castle
where Milla is sheltered.
‘You are frozen, you are pale.’ I am sick unto death,
today is still mine! Death, thank the Lord,
death will strike me tomorrow!
Hark mules’ hooves, hark the jingling of bells!
Down from the castle, along the mountainside
rode a torchlit procession.
A knight led his bride,
led Milla home as his wife.
You are already here, minstrel!
The minstrel watched, overcome with gloom.
But then a werewolf broke through the wood,
snorting with rage.
The mules fled from the path;
the dappled pony fell.
Alas! Milla fainted by the wayside.
Like lightning, he leapt forward
to his beloved’s aid.
High against the monster’s neck
he hurled his cherished harp,
so that it shattered and fell to the ground.
But the monster’s neck and jaw were crushed.
Had he been as strong as Samson
he could not, exhausted and unarmed,
have resisted the raging beast.
From his breast, from his lacerated arm,
his heart’s blood gushed down, hot with love;
he thought he was near to death.
One glance at her, and at once
he summoned all the strength
which lay hidden within him.
He gripped the werewolf with arms and hands,
and plunged with it from the rock face
into the giddy depths.
Farewell, minstrel, farewell for ever!
Your heart, so full of pain and love,
has found rest in the grave!
The grave brings rest to all pilgrims;
the grave buries the heart and its desires,
and heals all sorrows.

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

Joseph Kenner was a public official, artist, and district governor of Freistadt and Bad Ischl. He is known for his acquaintance with composer Franz Schubert.

Kenner was born illegitimate in Vienna and raised by his mother (born: Harl) in Linz with the musical von Spaun family. He attended the seminary of Kremsmünster Abbey from 1805 to 1811, where he met Franz von Schober and Franz von Schlechta. He then entered the seminary in Vienna, where he met the composer Franz Schubert, who set several of his poems to music. His close friendship extended to others in Schubert's circle, including painter Moritz von Schwind, who approved of Kenner's own paintings, including a cycle of martyr illustrations, Der Liedler.

Kenner shared his recollections of Schubert with Schubert's early biographer Ferdinand Luib in 1858. These were cited by Otto Erich Deutsch.

Kenner studied jurisprudence and political science and became an intern of the district and tax office in Linz in 1822 and promoted to magistrate in 1843. He served from 1850 to 1854 as district governor of Freistadt and from 1854 to 1857 of Ischl.

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


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