Ellens Gesang I (Raste Krieger! Krieg ist aus), D 837

Ellen's song I

(Poet's title: Ellens Gesang I)

Part of  Sieben Gesänge aus Walter Scott’s Fräulein vom See 

All translations into English that appear on this website, unless otherwise stated, are by Malcolm Wren. You are free to use them on condition that you acknowledge Malcolm Wren as the translator and schubertsong.uk as the source. Unless otherwise stated, the comments and essays that appear after the texts and translations are by Malcolm Wren and are © Copyright.

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‘The Lady of the Lake’ in Scott’s long narrative poem is called Ellen Douglas. She is introduced in the middle of the First Canto as she rows across Lake Katrine from the island where her family is living in hiding (after her father had fallen out of favour with the King of Scotland). She thinks that she is going to meet her fiancé, Malcolm Graeme, but the figure on the bank turns out to be a stranger who had lost his way while out hunting deer. He explains to her that he had been separated from his fellow hunters and that his horse then died. Following the strict Highland laws of hospitality she offers the stranger a bed for the night but is careful not to ask who is he (in case he is a clan enemy). She rows him over to the island in the lake and then leads him to her ‘rustic bower’:

XXV.

     The stranger viewed the shore around;
     'T was all so close with copsewood bound,
     Nor track nor pathway might declare
     That human foot frequented there,
     Until the mountain maiden showed
     A clambering unsuspected road,
     That winded through the tangled screen,
     And opened on a narrow green,
     Where weeping birch and willow round
     With their long fibres swept the ground.
     Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
     Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

     XXVI.

     It was a lodge of ample size,
     But strange of structure and device;
     Of such materials as around
     The workman's hand had readiest found.
     Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,
     And by the hatchet rudely squared,
     To give the walls their destined height,
     The sturdy oak and ash unite;
     While moss and clay and leaves combined
     To fence each crevice from the wind.
     The lighter pine-trees overhead
     Their slender length for rafters spread,
     And withered heath and rushes dry
     Supplied a russet canopy.
     Due westward, fronting to the green,
     A rural portico was seen,
     Aloft on native pillars borne,
     Of mountain fir with bark unshorn
     Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine
     The ivy and Idaean vine,
     The clematis, the favored flower
     Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,
     And every hardy plant could bear
     Loch Katrine's keen and searching air.
     An instant in this porch she stayed,
     And gayly to the stranger said:
     'On heaven and on thy lady call,
     And enter the enchanted hall!'

     XXVII.

     'My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,
     My gentle guide, in following thee!'—
      He crossed the threshold,—and a clang
     Of angry steel that instant rang.
     To his bold brow his spirit rushed,
     But soon for vain alarm he blushed
     When on the floor he saw displayed,
     Cause of the din, a naked blade
     Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung
     Upon a stag's huge antlers swung;
     For all around, the walls to grace,
     Hung trophies of the fight or chase:
     A target there, a bugle here,
     A battle-axe, a hunting-spear,
     And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,
     With the tusked trophies of the boar.
     Here grins the wolf as when he died,
     And there the wild-cat's brindled hide
     The frontlet of the elk adorns,
     Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;
     Pennons and flags defaced and stained,
     That blackening streaks of blood retained,
     And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,
     With otter's fur and seal's unite,
     In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
     To garnish forth the sylvan hall.

     XXVIII.

     The wondering stranger round him gazed,
     And next the fallen weapon raised:—
     Few were the arms whose sinewy strength
     Sufficed to stretch it forth at length.
     And as the brand he poised and swayed,
     'I never knew but one,' he said,
     'Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield
     A blade like this in battle-field.'
     She sighed, then smiled and took the word:
     'You see the guardian champion's sword;
     As light it trembles in his hand
     As in my grasp a hazel wand:
     My sire's tall form might grace the part
     Of Ferragus or Ascabart,
     But in the absent giant's hold
     Are women now, and menials old.'

     XXIX.

     The mistress of the mansion came,
     Mature of age, a graceful dame,
     Whose easy step and stately port
     Had well become a princely court,
     To whom, though more than kindred knew,
     Young Ellen gave a mother's due.
     Meet welcome to her guest she made,
     And every courteous rite was paid
     That hospitality could claim,
     Though all unasked his birth and name.
     Such then the reverence to a guest,
     That fellest foe might join the feast,
     And from his deadliest foeman's door
     Unquestioned turn the banquet o'er
     At length his rank the stranger names,
     'The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;
     Lord of a barren heritage,
     Which his brave sires, from age to age,
     By their good swords had held with toil;
     His sire had fallen in such turmoil,
     And he, God wot, was forced to stand
     Oft for his right with blade in hand.
     This morning with Lord Moray's train
     He chased a stalwart stag in vain,
     Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,
     Lost his good steed, and wandered here.'

     XXX.

     Fain would the Knight in turn require
     The name and state of Ellen's sire.
     Well showed the elder lady's mien
     That courts and cities she had seen;
     Ellen, though more her looks displayed
     The simple grace of sylvan maid,
     In speech and gesture, form and face,
     Showed she was come of gentle race.
     'T were strange in ruder rank to find
     Such looks, such manners, and such mind.
     Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,
     Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;
     Or Ellen, innocently gay,
     Turned all inquiry light away:—
     'Weird women we! by dale and down
     We dwell, afar from tower and town.
     We stem the flood, we ride the blast,
     On wandering knights our spells we cast;
     While viewless minstrels touch the string,
     'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.'
     She sung, and still a harp unseen
     Filled up the symphony between.

     XXXI.

     Song.

     Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
          Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
     Dream of battled fields no more,
          Days of danger, nights of waking.
     In our isle's enchanted hall,
          Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
     Fairy strains of music fall,
          Every sense in slumber dewing.
     Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
     Dream of fighting fields no more;
     Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
     Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

     'No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
          Armor's clang or war-steed champing
     Trump nor pibroch summon here
          Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
     Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
          At the daybreak from the fallow,
     And the bittern sound his drum
          Booming from the sedgy shallow.
     Ruder sounds shall none be near,
     Guards nor warders challenge here,
     Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
     Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.'

     XXXII.

     She paused,—then, blushing, led the lay,
     To grace the stranger of the day.
     Her mellow notes awhile  prolong
     The cadence of the flowing song,
     Till to her lips in measured frame
     The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

     Song Continued.

     'Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
          While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
     Dream not, with the rising sun,
          Bugles here shall sound reveille.
     Sleep! the deer is in his den;
          Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
     Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
     How thy gallant steed lay dying.
     Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
     Think not of the rising sun,
     For at dawning to assail ye
     Here no bugles sound reveille.'

     XXXIII.

     The hall was cleared,—the stranger's bed,
     Was there of mountain heather spread,
     Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
     And dreamed their forest sports again.
     But vainly did the heath-flower shed
     Its moorland fragrance round his head;
     Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
     The fever of his troubled breast.
     In broken dreams the image rose
     Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
      His steed now flounders in the brake,
     Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
     Now leader of a broken host,
     His standard falls, his honor's lost.
     Then,—from my couch may heavenly might
     Chase that worst phantom of the night!—
     Again returned the scenes of youth,
     Of confident, undoubting truth;
     Again his soul he interchanged
     With friends whose hearts were long estranged.
     They come, in dim procession led,
     The cold, the faithless, and the dead;
     As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
     As if they parted yesterday.
     And doubt distracts him at the view,—
     O were his senses false or true?
     Dreamed he of death or broken vow,
     Or is it all a vision now?

Ellen’s two-part lullaby (which Schubert set as two different songs) addresses the stranger as both a huntsman (as he had introduced himself) and a warrior (which was implicit in the situation). The name that he had used of himself (The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James) was obviously a pseudonym but it was no deception: Ellen and her mother were clearly given to understand that their guest was a senior nobleman (and therefore, by definition, a warrior).

For all Ellen’s concern to banish the horrors that he has witnessed in battle and the frustrations of the hunt, James Fitz-James fails to sleep well:

Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,
His standard falls, his honor's lost.

These are the vivid images and searing emotional experiences of nightmares.

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Original Spelling

Ellens Gesang I

Raste Krieger! Krieg ist aus,
Schlaf den Schlaf, nichts wird dich wecken,
Träume nicht von wildem Strauß,
Nicht von Tag und Nacht voll Schrecken. 

In der Insel Zauberhallen
Wird ein weicher Schlafgesang
Um das müde Haupt dir wallen
Zu der Zauberharfe Klang. 

Feen mit unsichtbaren Händen
Werden auf dein Lager hin
Holde Schlummerblumen senden,
Die im Zauberlande blühn. 

Raste Krieger, Krieg ist aus,
Schlaf den Schlaf, nichts wird dich wecken,
Träume nicht von wildem Strauß,
Nicht von Tag und Nacht voll Schrecken. 

Nicht der Trommel wildes Rasen,
Nicht des Kriegs gebietend Wort,
Nicht der Todeshörner Blasen
Scheuchen deinen Schlummer fort. 

Nicht das Stampfen wilder Pferde,
Nicht der Schreckensruf der Wacht,
Nicht das Bild von Tagsbeschwerde
Stören deine stille Nacht. 

Doch der Lerche Morgensänge
Wecken sanft dein schlummernd Ohr,
Und des Sumpfgefieders Klänge
Steigend aus Geschilf und Rohr. 

Raste Krieger! Krieg ist aus,
Schlaf den Schlaf, nichts wird dich wecken,
Träume nicht von wildem Strauß,
Nicht von Tag und Nacht voll Schrecken.

Confirmed by Peter Rastl with Schubert’s source, Das Fräulein vom See. Ein Gedicht in sechs Gesängen von Walter Scott. Aus dem Englischen, und mit einer historischen Einleitung und Anmerkungen von D. Adam Storck, weiland Professor in Bremen. Zweite, vom Uebersetzer selbst noch verbesserte Auflage. Essen, bei G. D. Bädeker. 1823, pages 33-34; and with Das Fräulein vom See. Ein Gedicht in sechs Gesängen von Walter Scott. Aus dem Englischen, und mit einer historischen Einleitung und Anmerkungen von D. Adam Storck, Professor in Bremen. Essen, bei G. D. Bädeker. 1819, pages 35-37.

To see an early edition of the text, go to page 33 here: https://books.google.at/books?id=p0YRAQAAMAAJ

For the full text of Scott’s The Lady of the Lake: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3011/3011-h/3011-h.htm