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Franz Schubert.
29
FRANZ SCHUBERT.
(Died 1828.)
[‘Schubert le musicien le plus poête qui fut jamais.’
F. Liszt.]
How many a winter evening have we sped
With thee, dear Master! When the southern blast
Bent all the treetops, like a lapping sail,
And on the hearth the woodfire ceaselessly
Cracked; as when the furze on golden moors
Snaps its brown seed pods in the summer heat.
With thee, dear Master! When the southern blast
Bent all the treetops, like a lapping sail,
And on the hearth the woodfire ceaselessly
Cracked; as when the furze on golden moors
Snaps its brown seed pods in the summer heat.
With thee we wander thro’ the enchanted wood.
The rider presses onward, ever on,
The child clings closer to the father’s arm,
And shudders at the phantom-crowned King.
And then we hear that unforgotten song,—
The Erl King, flitting through the dusty glade,
Singing wild snatches that must haunt the day
Of all who listen to its perilous tune.
The rider presses onward, ever on,
The child clings closer to the father’s arm,
And shudders at the phantom-crowned King.
And then we hear that unforgotten song,—
The Erl King, flitting through the dusty glade,
Singing wild snatches that must haunt the day
Of all who listen to its perilous tune.
Or by lone heath, or clear and rippling wave,
Or whom the hunter winds an airy liorn,
Or with the shepherd lad whose rustic pipe
Laments the beauteous tenant of the glen.
Or whom the hunter winds an airy liorn,
Or with the shepherd lad whose rustic pipe
Laments the beauteous tenant of the glen.
‘The rainbow fleets over her roof-tree,
Her face I no longer can see,
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward,—
Full sad your poor shepherd must be!’
Her face I no longer can see,
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward,—
Full sad your poor shepherd must be!’