'Lenore' he showed Percy's 'Reliques' the compliment of quoting from the
ballad of 'Sweet William,' which had supplied him with his theme, the
lines:--"Is there any room at your head, Willie, or any room at your
feet?" The first literary work of Walter Scott was the translation which
he made in 1775 of 'Lenore,' under the title of 'William and Helen';
this was quickly followed by a translation of 'The Wild Huntsman.'
Scott's romantic mind received in Buerger's ballads and in Goethe's
'Goetz,' which he translated four years later, just the nourishment it
craved. It is a curious coincidence that another great romantic writer,
Alexandre Dumas, should also have begun his literary career with a
translation of 'Lenore.' Buerger was not, however, a man of one poem. He
filled two goodly volumes, but the oft-quoted words of his friend
Schlegel contain the essential truth:--"'Lenore' will always be Buerger's
jewel, the precious ring with which, like the Doge of Venice espousing
the sea, he married himself to the folk-song forever."

WILLIAM AND HELEN

Walter Scott's Translation of 'Lenore'

From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red:--
"Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?"

With gallant Frederick's princely power
He sought the bold crusade;
But not a word from Judah's wars
Told Helen how he sped.

With Paynim and with Saracen
At length a truce was made,
And every knight returned to dry
The tears his love had shed.

Our gallant host was homeward bound
With many a song of joy;
Green waved the laurel in each plume,
The badge of victory.

And old and young, and sire and son,
To meet them crowd the way,
With shouts, and mirth, and melody,
The debt of love to pay.

Full many a maid her true-love met,
And sobbed in his embrace,
And fluttering joy in tears and smiles
Arrayed full many a face.

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad;
She sought the host in vain;
For none could tell her William's fate,
If faithless or if slain.

The martial band is past and gone;
She rends her raven hair,
And in distraction's bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair.

"O rise, my child," her mother said,
"Nor sorrow thus in vain:
A perjured lover's fleeting heart
No tears recall again."

"O mother, what is gone,