by Walter Scott, Sir (1771 - 1832)
Translation Singable translation by Anonymous / Unidentified Author

Sunset
Language: English 
Available translation(s): FRE
The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill,
in Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet;
the westland wind is hush and still,
the lake lies sleeping at my feet.

Yet not the landscape to mine eyes
bears those bright hues that once it bore;
tho' Ev'ning, with her richest dye,
flames o'er the hills on Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill , the stream, the tower, the tree,
Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply?

To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill:
And Araby's or Eden's bowers,
Were barren as this moorland hill.

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • GER German (Deutsch) [singable] (Anonymous/Unidentified Artist) , title 1: "Der Abend"
  • FRE French (Français) (Daphné van Raemdonck) , title 1: "Coucher de soleil", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Research team for this text: Caroline Diehl , Ferdinando Albeggiani

This text was added to the website: 2004-08-03
Line count: 24
Word count: 158

Der Abend
Language: German (Deutsch)  after the English 
Die Sonne sinkt in's Ettrick-Tal 
an Weirdlaws hainumkränzter Höh',
der Westhauch flüstert mit dem Strahl,
zu meinen Füssen schläft der See.

Doch nicht entzückt mich wie zuvor 
der Landschaft glanzerfüllte Pracht,
wenn auch im reichsten Farbenflor 
auf Ettrick's Strand der Abend lacht.

Kalt bleibt mein Blick, wo grün umlaubt 
die Tweed in feuchtem Silber prangt,
auf hoher Trümmer stolzem Haupt 
Melrose's heil'ge Fahne schwankt.

Der stille See, die Balsamluft, 
der Berg, der Strom, die Burg, der Baum, 
hat sich's verwandelt?
oder ruft mein Ich: verschwunden ist der Traum?

Ach, ein zerrissen Pergament 
nimmt nicht des Künstlers Farben an, 
und dem gebrochnen Instrument 
kein Bard' ein Lied entlocken kann!

Ein wundes Auge sieht nur Nacht, 
dem Kranken haucht kein Zephyr lau, 
ach, ihm ist Edens Sonnenpracht 
wie dieser Heidehügel rauh!

Authorship

Based on

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Auditorium du Louvre

This text was added to the website: 2004-08-03
Line count: 24
Word count: 129