Thursday 23 April 2020

Jacob Frese (1691-1729): 'Ofreds Klagan'

Strife’s lament

Ah, where’s the golden age gone by,
     When here peace had its dwelling,
When bliss as rain came from on high
     When bounty still was swelling,
When all our land with honey flowed
     When milk our bodies nourished,
When heaven’s lap us all bestowed/
     And wishes freely flourished.

Such peace has long since turned to strife/
     And concord has been routed/
Alas, all joy has left our life/
     (I mourn this, but can’t doubt it)
Our land’s become a wilderness:
     Our paradise has vanished:
Our kingdom’s rich in wretchedness/
     And grace and justice banished.

I saw a man with sword in hand
     Upon a red horse riding/
All amity he did disband
     War was his aim presiding;
Around him was a raging flood
     That swamped the Earth entirely;
It was the vanquished Northmen’s blood
     In our lands smitten direly.

Ah, if my weary eyes could be
     A source of tears unpausing:
Ah, if the rivers in the sea
     Might through my veins be coursing; 
The vanquished folk in Israel
     I’d then be truly mourning.
Each stream would then interpret well
     The tears my eye are spawning.

O Prince of Peace, O GOD Divine/
     Why dost thou curse us roundly?
As thou’st decreed, we now decline
     To lose our way profoundly.
Forbear! Oh let thy just wrath cease;
     In happiness transplant us;
Grant concord; Ah, were there but peace!
     Both peace and joy, God, grant us!




No comments: