# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1835/Count Egmont I

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Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1835, Pages 91-92
ORIGINAL POETRY.
VERSIONS FROM THE GERMAN.
(Fifth Series.)
Count Egmont, a Tragedy.—Goethe.
We need only preface this scene by observing that the heroine, a girl of inferior rank, is beloved by Count Egmont. Brackenberg has been her friend and lover from childhood; and partly to preserve her secret, but still more from a mistaken kindness, which hopes that affection can be an equivalent for love, Clara encourages his visits. I only attempt (with one exception), to render the scenes in which she appears. Clara's character appears to me full of interest and poetry. You see her first, simple, and ignorant of that world from which she has lived secluded. Her attachment has originated in her imagination. The hero has been her idol before he was her lover. She looks up to him, and her tenderness is almost worship; but sorrow brings its strength. The imprisonment of Egmont rouses all the latent energies of her mind. She, who, "save to church," had never trod the public streets, rushes to the market-place, and strives with kindling words to excite the people to save their leader. Her efforts are vain; and those whom life has parted death re-unites. Count Egmont, one of the Protestant leaders in the Netherlands, was imprisoned and executed by the Duke of Alba. The first victim in as noble a cause, crowned by as glorious a triumph, as history records.
Scene I.—(Clara, Mother, Brackenberg.)
[A little chamber, in a narrow street,
Where neatness lends a charm to poverty.
Some signs there are of better days; and taste,
Simple, yet graceful, making its delight
Of natural enjoyment. Scattered round
Are common flowers; and softened daylight comes
Through the green branches of the plants that crowd
The window sill. There, bending o'er her wheel,
Whose low perpetual murmur fills the room,
The aged woman marks her daughter's face,
And in its loveliness recalls her own.
A youth, too, reads that face, as if his life
Had written all its history there. To him
The world, save where it shines, is as a blank
Which memory, like the melancholy moon, Fills with a borrowed light. The youth is pale,
As if his childhood taxed a mothers care
With many anxious hours.]
Mother.
Children, ye are too sad! Once this dull room
Was gladdened with your frequent mirth.
Brackenberg. Ah! once!
Mother. Come, sing! and sing together!
Clara. What shall we sing?
Brackenberg. What pleases you.
Clara. Then I will choose our song.
Quick, gay, as if our notes were like the steps
That rush to battle—'tis a soldier's song.
(She sings, while Brackenberg, accompanying her, holds the yarn which she is winding.)
Fife and trumpet are sounding
The battle alarms;
How my wild heart is bounding—
My love is in arms.
His bright lance is gleaming
On high in the air;
His banner is streaming—
I would I were there!
Oh, had I a helmet,
A sword, and a shield,
I would follow my true love
Away to the field!
Hark! hark! the death rattle
Of shot from the gun:
Our chief leads the battle
He leads—it is won!
Would I were the meanest
That belted a sword;
Its edge were the keenest
That drew for my lord!
To pray and sigh for him
Is all that I can;
I would strike and die for him,
If I were a man!
Mother.
Why sent you the good youth away so soon?
Clara.
Blame me not, mother; for I blame myself.
My spirits are oppressed when he is here—
I know not how to look, or how to speak!
The wrong I do him cuts me to the heart.
Mother.
Clara, he loves you with a faithful love.
Clara.
I cannot help it—would we could be friends!
How I reproach me the deceit I use;
He brings so many kindly thoughts to mind
How many pleasures have we shared together—
How many thoughts exchanged. Sometimes he takes
My hand so softly and so timidly,
With such undoubting confidence of love!
How can I feed so fond a faith in vain?
I have no hope to give ; and yet I lack
The courage that would tell him to despair.
Mother.
Time was, you loved him well enough to wed.
Clara.
I knew not then the mightiness of love,
Or how a heart requires a heart again;
I wished him well—God knows I wish it still—
But loved him—never! never!
Mother.
Well, maiden, in your folly you have lost
A calm, a happy, and a loving home.
Clara.
Not loving, mother!—love asks more, much more!
I try to gather up my thoughts in vain—
I doubt, I fear, it is his absence, mother,
That spreads its own dismay; were Egmont nigh,
All would be clear. He is my light—my life—
Existence is without him incomplete—
How great he is! Our land on him relies!
Why should not I—I who am in his arms
Mother.
And for the future—ask if the hereafter—
Clara.
I only ask the present—if he loves me?
Mother.
Children and sorrow come together. First
Are sleepless nights, and cradle watchings—next
Your age is vexed with maiden fantasies,
And your girl's lover costeth you more care
Than ever did your own. It is not well!
Clara.
You did not always blame me, mother dear!
When first I sought the casement, just to watch
Our stately hero pass, you came as well;
And when his dark eye sought me out with smiles,
Did you not feel the greeting half your own?
Mother.
My foolish fondness for thee was too kind.
Clara.
When he came often—came here day by day—
And well we knew his coming was for me—
Were you not proud and joyful as myself.
When on our threshold waiting, and for him,
Was I called back, my mother?
Mother.
I never thought it would have gone so far—
Clara.
And when, at length, wrapped in his cloak, he came,
Who was it greeted—gladly too—our guest?
I leant upon my chair, pale, trembling—still
As if spell bound: I could not speak to him.
Mother.
He is so kind—so frank—one cannot choose,
But give the cheerful welcome which he makes.
Clara.
Ah, this poor house is heaven, since he came here.
What princess but would envy in his heart
The lowly Clara's place! How fond his love—
How anxious for me—and how tender of me—
Love mine—my idol! Not in his true heart
Beats one false pulse!
Mother.
Does he come here to-day?
Clara.
Have you not seen me at the window, mother?
The floor creaked, and I reddened at the noise—
I thought it was a step—and still my eyes,
Though turned on other things, have watched the door.
Mother.
You are so eager, you betray yourself.
The wood-cut which your cousin shewed—how near
It had betrayed your secret. Egmont's form
Scarce caught your eye, before you cried, 'Tis he!
Clara.
'Tis hard to hide a heart so full as mine!
It was the fight near Gravelines—and there
His horse was killed beneath him—and my heart
Gave all the wretched picture lacked to shew.
Nay, I must laugh. There Egmont stood, as tall
As the old tower, or the good English ship
That rode hard by. I saw the hero stand,
His helmet off, the wind in his dark hair,
And his eye bright with triumph. Often now
I think how I was used to fancy war,
Familiar from my childhood, with the name—
The honoured name of Egmont. I was wont
To image what the hero's self might be:
How feel I now?
Brackenberg (solus).
I scarcely meant to go so soon away—
I felt my heart swell when she said no word
That might induce my stay. Unhappy one!
The perils darkening o'er thy father land
Affect not thee. No general sympathy
Stirs generous anger in thy laggard veins.
Spaniard, or countryman—the same to thee—
I had a nobler spirit as a boy;
My very school-task roused its youthful wrath
At the oppressor's name. But now I hang
Devotedly upon a maiden's look.
I cannot leave her! Can she not love me?
The gentle ties gathered by many years,
Affections garnered since our first small words:
These cannot be forgotten all—like dreams!
Can she have cast me from her thoughts? Not quite—
Yet half is worse than nothing. Oh! no more
Can I endure this worst of misery—doubt!
Can it be true—the whisper which I heard—
That at this very door a cavalier
Stands with the night, his cloak around his face;
Aye enters? No! it is a false, base lie!
Clara is innocent, as I am wretched;
Yet time was when she loved, or seemed to love:
Can I forget the happiness that pierced
My heart like sudden pain—yet was so sweet.
False hope! that in thy cruelty dost paint
A perfect joy—a paradise far off.
And that first kiss—that one—'t was here.
(Laying his hand on the table.)
Gentle she always was, and kind, and sweet, But there was softness in her eyes that night.
I never read their light so close before.
I know not how—but there my lip touched hers.
My head was dizzy with the wild delight.
Oh ! would that I had died! I think of death
As if he were a friend—severe and cold—
From whom I shrink—but yet my only friend.
L. E. L.
(To be continued.)