Appendix B. “The Wurmlinger Chapel”, a Poem

This is a loose translation of the 19^th-century poem by Gustav Schwab, “die Wurmlinger Kapelle” (The Wurmlinger Chapel) that tells of the origin of the 950-year-old St. Remigius Chapel near Wurmlingen in southern Germany as the burial site of Count Anselm of Calw.

The original chapel was destroyed by fire in the 30 Year War and was then reconstructed in the 17^th century. In 1911 an earthquake damaged the structure but it was soon rebuilt. Its present form is from ca. 1962. This poem is from his book of poems (“Gedichte”/Volume 1, Verlag der J.G. Cottaschen Buchhandlung) from 1828.

 

Count Anselm of Calw lay dying

a strong and pious count,

he went fully aware,

To his final sleep.

 

He saw with eyes so bright,

As though ready for the hunt.

He spoke with a tongue so clear,

As if calling to the field of battle.

 

He spoke, “I can see through the window,

The churchyard with the markers,

The sun with its light has not

Just once lighted their years.

 

“I’ve lived free in the mountains,

In battle and in victory.

Over mountains I traveled to hallowed lands,

And I want to lie in the mountains.

 

“Not a single day has passed,

That I did not travel away.

I would like to travel in death

Once more in the wide world.

 

“So harness before a wagen soon,

a pair of capable steers,

And send them out with my coffin

But no one should drive them.

 

“And if they stop upon a mountain,

Make me a grave at that place.

And in God’s honor

Build up a holy chapel.”

And as the count had passed,

According to his wishes,

On a black wagon two black steers,

Drew his stone coffin into the peaceful quiet.

 

They walked through the middle of a field,

No one tried to stop them.

The plowman stepped aside in pious prayer

To honor the dead count.

 

They drew from morning into the night,

And again into the morning.

The servants made their way out,

To search and with worry.

 

They asked after their erratic way,

With many words and searches

Until upon a steep mountain far

The team they finally saw.

 

The mountain jutted like a tower roof,

To where they had drawn him.

The steers brought him there well,

The coffin fell not from the wagen.

 

The servants stood beside the coffin,

And sang in praise of God

That he had let the count

Have so well this final trip.

 

From many villages came

The sound of pious funeral bells,

The mountains glowed in the golden sun

As though strewn with blossoms.

 

And as they opened the coffin still,

The eyes of the count were open

As though the mountain air and light

With awakening power had met him.

 

And too the afternoon sun shone

So red on his lips and cheeks.

It was as though the bleach of death

From its beams had passed away.

 

The servants according to his wish

Set the coffin at that place

As consecrated cornerstone

And raised a holy chapel.

 

Since then, from down below

Come many dead to sleep.

The whole low village seeks rest

On that high mountain by the count.