Larks

Audubon, Brown lark, 1827
Audubon, Brown lark, 1827


When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
       For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


Shakespeare, Sonnet 29

As the lark ascends the human spirit soars. A new day, a new year, brings new hope. Unless, of course, the new day represents a loss or a risk, as happened to Romeo and Juliet at the end of their only night of love:


JULIET

Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet 3.5

Another exception, according to Hölty, are young boys, who in their innocent pleasures are oblivious to either larks or nightingales:


Wie glücklich, wem das Knabenkleid 
Noch um die Schultern fliegt! 
Nie lästert er der bösen Zeit, 
Stets munter und vergnügt.  
. . .

Und schwinget er durch blaue Luft 
Den buntgestreiften Ball,
So achtet er nicht Blütenduft, 
Nicht Lerch und Nachtigall.   

Nichts trübt ihm, nichts in weiter Welt, 
Sein heitres Angesicht, 
Als wenn sein Ball ins Wasser fällt, 
Als wenn sein Schwert zerbricht.  

How lucky he is, he whose boy's clothes
Still hang from his shoulders!
He never curses this awful time,
He is always jolly and contented.
. . . 

And when he throws his ball through the blue air,
His brightly striped ball,
He does not notice the scent of the blossoms
Or the lark and the nightingale.

Nothing disturbs him, nothing in the wide world
Will affect his cheerful face,
Except when his ball falls in the water
Or if his sword gets broken.

Hölty, Der Knabenzeit D 400

Most commonly, of course, the lark is simply ‘the herald of the morn’. For Walter Scott’s imprisoned huntsman it is difficult to adjust to human timekeeping, being so accustomed to treating the lark as his alarm clock:


Ich hasse der Thurmuhr schläfrigen Klang,
Ich mag nicht sehn, wie die Zeit verstreicht,
Wenn Zoll um Zoll die Mauer entlang
Der Sonnenstrahl so langsam schleicht.
Sonst pflegte die Lerche den Morgen zu bringen,
Die dunkle Dohle zur Ruh mich zu singen;

I hate the drowsy sound of the tower clock,
I cannot bear to see how time is passing,
When inch by inch across the wall
The sunbeam creeps so slowly.
At one time the lark used to bring in the morning,
The dark jackdaw used to sing me to sleep;

Scott (tr. Storck), Lied des gefangenen Jägers D 843

Similarly, Scott’s Ellen promises another huntsman that he will sleep soundly until woken by the lark:


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. 

Not the stamping of wild horses,
Not the terrifying call of the watchman,
Not the image of all of the troubles of the day
None of these are going to disturb your quiet night.

But it will be the morning songs of the lark
That gently wake your sleeping ears,
And the sounds of the marsh birds
Rising out of the reeds and rushes.


Scott (tr. Storck), Ellens Gesang I  D 837

In Schiller’s Der Flüchtling (The refugee), the morning song of the lark is a greeting to the sun at dawn:


Frisch atmet des Morgens lebendiger Hauch,
Purpurisch zuckt durch düst're Tannen Ritzen
Das junge Licht und äugelt aus dem Strauch,
In goldnen Flammen blitzen
Der Berge Wolkenspitzen,
Mit freudig melodisch gewirbeltem Lied
Begrüßen erwachende Lerchen die Sonne,
Die schon in lachender Wonne
Jugendlich schön in Auroras Umarmungen glüht.

The morning’s living breath is fresh;
Through dark cracks in the fir trees there is a purple flash
Of young light looking out of the bushes,
Flashing with golden flames 
There are cloud capped mountain peaks,
With a joyful, melodious rolling song
As they wake  up, larks greet the sun,
Which, already laughing with joy, is
Glowing beautifully in Aurora’s embrace.

Schiller, Der Flüchtling  D 67, D 402

A number of poets associate larks with springtime, as well as morning.


In einem Tal bei armen Hirten
Erschien mit jedem jungen Jahr,
Sobald die ersten Lerchen schwirrten,
Ein Mädchen, schön und wunderbar.

In a valley, amongst poor shepherds,
There appeared, every time the year was young,
As soon as the first larks trilled,
A beautiful and wonderful girl.

Schiller, Das Mädchen aus der Fremde  D 117, D 252

Sei mir gegrüßt, o Mai mit deinem Blütenhimmel, 
Mit deinem Lenz, mit deinem Freudenmeer.
Sei mir gegrüßt mit deinem fröhlichen Gewimmel 
Der neu belebten Wesen um mich her!
. . . 

Die Schwalbe kömmt, die Lerche wirbelt süße Lieder,
Der Waldstrom rauscht aus grüner Nacht hervor;
Und jeder Ton und jeder Klang kehrt wieder
Zum Jubellaut im Harmonienchor.

Let me greet you, o May, with your flowery sky,
With your spring, with your sea of joy.
Let me greet you, with your cheerful swarm
Of newly living creatures all around me.
. . . 

The swallow is arriving, the larks are singing sweet songs,
The stream through the forest murmurs out of the green night;
And each note and each sound returns again
To make a celebratory hymn in a harmonious choir.

Kumpf, Mein Gruß an den Mai  D 305

Geöffnet sind des Winters Riegel,
Entschwunden ist sein Silberflor,
Hell blinken der Gewässer Spiegel,
Die Lerche schwingt sich hoch empor,
Wie durch Salomo's Zaubersiegel
Geweckt, ertönt der Freude Chor.

Winter's bolts have been opened,
Its silver veil has disappeared,
The mirror of the waters is shining brightly,
The lark is lifting itself into the heights,
As if Solomon's magic seal
Had woken everything up, the choir of joy rings out.

Pollack, Frühlingslied  D 914, D 919

For Reil, encouraging his friends to join him on a trip out of Vienna into the countryside, larks represent the vibrant life of the open air:


Ins Grüne, ins Grüne,
Da lockt uns der Frühling, der liebliche Knabe,
Und führt uns am blumenumwundenen Stabe
Hinaus, wo die Lerchen und Amseln so wach,
In Wälder, auf Felder, auf Hügel, zum Bach,
Ins Grüne, ins Grüne.

Into the countryside, into the countryside!
Spring, that lovely lad, is luring us there
And leading us with a staff that has flowers twisted around it,
Outside, where the larks and blackbirds are so awake,
Into the woods, onto the fields, onto the hills, to the river,
Into the countryside, into the countryside.

Reil, Das Lied im Grünen  D 917

For another Viennese poet, though, Schubert’s friend Johann Mayrhofer, the songs of the soaring larks can not lift him out of despondency. His spirit does not fly up. The land where he lives and works cannot be the springboard for ascent as it is for the larks.


Der Lerche wolkennahe Lieder 
Erschmettern zu des Winters Flucht,
Die Erde hüllt in Sammt die Glieder, 
Und Blüten bilden rote Frucht. 
Nur du, o sturmbewegte Seele, 
Nur du bist blütenlos, in dich gekehrt, 
Und wirst in goldner Frühlingshelle 
Von tiefer Sehnsucht aufgezehrt!

Nie wird, was du verlangst, entkeimen 
Dem Boden, Idealen fremd,
Der trotzig deinen schönsten Träumen 
Die rohe Kraft entgegen stemmt;
Du ringst dich matt, mit seiner Härte, 
Vom Wunsche heftiger entbrannt;
Mit Kranichen ein strebende Gefährte, 
Zu wandern in ein milder Land.

The songs of the lark, up near the clouds, 
Ring out as winter flees. 
The earth covers its limbs in velvet 
And blossoms form red fruit.   
Only you, storm-tossed soul, 
Only you do not blossom. You are turned in on yourself, 
And in the golden brightness of spring 
You are sucked dry by deep longing.   

What you crave will never germinate in 
This soil, a stranger to ideals, 
Which, despite your most beautiful dreams, 
Sets its raw strength up against you.   
You exhaust yourself battling against its toughness, 
Fired up with the burning desire 
To set off as a striving companion with the cranes 
And to migrate to a kinder country.

Mayrhofer, Sehnsucht D 516

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