About the Author:
Walther von der Vogelweide (c. 1170 – c. 1230 AD) was the greatest of the Minnesänger, the wandering poets of the Middle Ages who sang of love and duty at the courts of the nobles of the Holy Roman Empire. It is unclear whether Walther began life as a noble knight, though he seems to have ended it with that status. In this poem Walther is old, and surveys a world which seems to have changed too much. He sees younger knights marching off to crusade and wishes he might join them to work out his own salvation as they will.
ALAS, my happy years! Whither are they sped?
Was, then, my life a fact, or but a vision fled?
And was that but a dream that I so real thought?
It seems that I have lain asleep, and knew it not.
I am awakened now, and no more understand
What once I knew as clearly as my own right hand.
People and countryside which as a child I knew,
All strange are grown to me, as though it were untrue.
Those who my playmates were are aged now and cold.
Ploughed up are now the fields, and stripped are wood and wold.
Save that the brooks are flowing, as they used to flow,
My sorrow nevermore would any solace know.
Coldly they greet me now who knew me well of old.
The world is full of sadness and troubles manifold:
And fancy bears me back to many a happy day
Which, like a ripple in the sea, long since has passed away,
For evermore, alas!
Alas! How grave and sad young people now are grown!
Those who in days of old no care or pain had known
Do little now but weep. Alas, how should that be?
Wherever now I turn, no happiness I see.
Dancing, laughter, song, for grief are all forgot:
Never yet Christian man saw such a woeful lot.
Mark how poorly now ladies are garlanded;
In raiment fit for boors proud knights are habited:
From Rome have come to us letters grim and sad:
Sorrow indeed we may, but nevermore be glad.
It makes my heart so sad (we lived so well of yore).
That now I needs must weep who used to laugh before;
The wild birds in the wood droop at our bitter plaint:
What wonder, then, that I should feel my courage faint.
What am I saying, fool! I pray to be forgiven,
For those who seek joy here will lose the joy of Heaven
For evermore, alas!
Alas! though things be fair, poison is in them all:
E’en in the honey-pot I see the hidden gall.
The world is gay without, white, and red, and green,
But sombre as the grave and dark as death within.
Let him whom she beguiled his comfort now behold:
A penance small may shrive sins great and manifold.
Bethink you well, Sir Knights, to you is the appeal:
Bright helmets ye do wear, and shining rings of steel,
Firm shields are on your arms, and hallowed swords ye bear!
Would God that I myself your victory might share!
Then, needy as I am, I’d earn me richest pay—
Not gold, nor gifts of land, nor glittering array;
But that eternal crown I evermore would wear.
Which any churl may win with shield and sword and spear!
If on this journey blest I oversea might pass
I’d sing for evermore ‘Praise God,’ and nevermore ‘Alas!’
Nevermore ‘Alas!’
—
Walter Alison Phillips translation
Leave a Reply