The Pile Builder. A Lacustrine Lyric.

Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchten     Ein Pfahlbaugerstwerk im See     Und fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchten     Die Alpen in ewigem Schnee.     Damp smoky-like vapour is streaming         O'er piles in the waters below.     And far o'er the forest are gleaming         The Alps in perpetual snow.     A man on a wood block is sitting         In furs, for the wind-draught is strong:     With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting,         While he mournfully murmurs a song:     'See my face swollen up like the devil!         Remark how in wind, as it spins,     The history of Europe primval         With rheumatics and toothache begins!     'It is true that with stone-axe employment,         Or with celts I can hammer my way,     But no rational means of enjoyment         Is known to the world in this day.     'Wild animals, wolfish or beary,         Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown;     And when I build huts on the prairie         The buffaloes batter them down.     'And so, to the beaver a debtor,         I build for myself in the flood;     The further from firm land the better,         A pile-dam in shingle and mud.     'But much I am forced to dispense with         What ages to come will behold;     I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with,         But as yet there's no iron or gold.     'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,         But exchange is not yet understood:     A good glass of beer would be healthy;         But never a drop has been brewed.     'And then how my horror increases     To think of our cookery rude!         How we crack a pig's bones into pieces,     And suck out the marrow for food.     'And how can the soul be expected         To form an ideal of taste,     When nothing but poles are erected         Around in a watery waste?'     He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,         With rheumatics his temper was grim;     Two wild bears slipped over the poling,         And, climbing, came snapping at him.     Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,         Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,     Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,         And paddled with curses away.     Where once the Lacustrians plying,         Drove many a pillar or stake,     A strata of relics is lying         'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.     And he who this song made for singing,         Himself through those layers has mined,     And the relics to daylight upbringing,         Felt pride as a mortal refined. Translated From The German Of Joseph Victor Scheffel By Charles G. Leland.