BOHN’S STANDARD LIBRARY
—————
THE POEMS OF HEINE
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
LONDON: PORTUGAL ST., LINCOLN’S INN.
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE POEMS OF HEINE
COMPLETE
TRANSLATED INTO THE ORIGINAL METRES
WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE
BY
EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING, C.B.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1908
[Reprinted from Stereotype plates.]
CONTENTS.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
A NEW edition of this work having been called for, owing to the first edition having been for some time out of print, I have taken advantage of the opportunity to add translations of a remarkable collection of Poems by Heine, published for the first time since the appearance of my work in 1859. They consist of as many as twelve hundred lines, described partly as “Early Poems,” which will be found at the beginning of the volume, and partly as “Posthumous Poems,” which are placed at the end. The metres of the original have been again retained throughout.
Various errors discovered by me in the first edition have now been corrected; and it only remains for me to express my thanks for the kind manner in which the critical and the general public, both in England and abroad, have received the work, and for the indulgence extended by them to its many imperfections.
E. A. B.
PREFACE.
IT may perhaps be thought that I exhibit something of the brazen-facedness of a hardened offender in venturing once more (but, I hope, for the last time) to present myself to the public in the guise of a translator,—and, what is more, a translator of a great poet. The favourable reception, however, that my previous translations of the Poems of Schiller and Goethe have met with at the hands of the public, may possibly be admitted as some excuse for this new attempt to make that public acquainted with the works of a third great German minstrel. Comparatively little known and little appreciated in England, the name of Heine is in Germany familiar as a household word; and while, on the one hand, many of his charming minor poems have become dear to the hearts of thousands and tens of thousands of his fellow-countrymen, and are sung alike in the palace and the cottage, in the country and the town, on the other his sterner works have done much to influence the political and religious tendencies of the modern German school.
Having prefixed to this Volume a brief memoir of Heine, accompanied by a few observations on his various works and their distinguishing characteristics, I will here confine myself to stating that I have adhered with the utmost strictness to the principles laid down by me for my guidance in the case of the previous translations attempted by me,—those principles being (1) As close and literal an adherence to the original as is consistent with good English and with poetry, and (2) the preservation throughout the work of the original metres, of which Heine presents an almost unprecedented variety. I have, on the occasion of my former publications, fully explained my reasons for adopting this course, and will not weary the reader with repeating them. I have sufficient evidence before me of the approval of the public in this respect to induce me to frame my translation of Heine’s Poems on the same model.
In addition to thus preserving both the language and the metre of the original, I have in one other respect endeavoured to reproduce my author precisely as I found him, and that is in the important particular of completeness. There are doubtless many poems written by Heine that one could wish had never been written, and that one would willingly refrain from translating. But the omission of these would hide from the reader some of Heine’s chief peculiarities, and would tend to give him an incomplete if not incorrect notion of what the poet was. A translator no more assumes the responsibility of his author’s words than a faithful Editor does, and he goes beyond his province if he omits whatever does not happen to agree with his own notions.
In claiming for the present work (extending over more than 20,000 verses) the abstract merits of literalness, completeness, and rigid adherence to the metrical peculiarities of the original, it is very far from my intention to claim any credit for the manner in which I have executed that difficult task, or to pretend that I have been successful in it. That is a question for the reader alone to decide. The credit of conscientiousness and close application in the matter is all that I would venture to assert for myself. All beyond is left exclusively to the candid, and, I would fain hope, generous, appreciation of those whom I now voluntarily constitute my judges.{xv}
HEINRICH HEINE.
ALTHOUGH little more than three years have elapsed since Heinrich Heine was first numbered amongst the dead, his name has long been enrolled in the lists of fame. Even during his lifetime he had the good fortune,—and, in a poet, the most unusual good fortune,—of being generally accepted as a Representative Man, and of passing as the National Bard of Young Germany. Although perhaps scarcely entitled to rank with Goethe and Schiller in the very highest order of poets, the name of Heine will assuredly always occupy a prominent place amongst the minstrels not only of Germany, but of the world.
It is only recently that his works have been for the first time published in an absolutely complete form, the poetry extending over more than two of the six volumes of which they consist. Universally known and read in his native land, and highly popular in France, which was for so many years his adopted country, the works of Heine are to the generality of Englishmen (as stated in the Preface) almost entirely unknown. As the present volume is, as far as I am aware, the only attempt that has been made to bring the far-famed poems of Heine in their integrity before the English reader,[1] it seems desirable to preface it by a brief sketch of his life, so that in seeing what Heine is as a poet, we may be able to form some idea as to who he was as a man. One who has been compared in turns to Aristophanes, Rabelais, Burns, Cervantes, Sterne, Jean Paul, Voltaire, Swift, Byron, and Béranger{xvi} (and to all these has he been likened), can be of no common stamp. The discrepancies both as to facts and dates that occur between the various biographies of Heine are, however, so numerous, that it has been no easy task to avoid error in the following brief sketch of his life.
Heinrich (or Henry) Heine was born in the Bolkerstrasse, at Dusseldorf, on the 12th of December, 1799; but, singularly enough, the exact date of his birth was, until recently, unknown to his biographers, who, on the authority of a saying of his own, assigned it to the 1st of January, 1800, which he boasted made him “the first man of the century.” In reply, however, to a specific inquiry addressed to him by a friend on this subject a few years before his death, he stated that he was really born on the day first mentioned, and that the date of 1800 usually given by his biographers was the result of an error voluntarily committed by his family in his favour at the time of the Prussian invasion, in order to exempt him from the service of the king of Prussia.
By birth he was a Jew, both of his parents having been of that persuasion. He was the eldest of four children, and his two brothers are (or were recently) still alive, the one being a physician in Russia, and the other an officer in the Austrian service. The famous Solomon Heine, the banker of Hamburg, whose wealth was only equalled by his philanthropy, was his uncle. His father, however, was far from being in opulent circumstances. When quite a child, he took delight in reading Don Quixote, and used to cry with anger at seeing how ill the heroism of that valiant knight was requited. He says somewhere, speaking of his boyish days, “apple-tarts” were then my passion. Now it is love, truth, freedom, and “crab-soup.” He received his earliest education at the Franciscan convent in his native town, and while there had the misfortune to be the innocent cause of the death by drowning of a schoolfellow, an incident recorded in one of the poems in his “Romancero.” He mentions the great effect produced upon him by the sorrowful face of a large wooden Christ which was constantly before his eyes in the Convent. Even at that early age the germs of what has been called “his fantastic sensibility, the food for infinite irony,” seem to{xiii} have been developing themselves. A visit of the Emperor Napoleon to Dusseldorf when he was a boy affected him in a singular manner, and had probably much to do with the formation of those imperialist tendencies which are often to be noticed in his character and writings. He was next placed in the Lyceum of Dusseldorf, and in 1816 was sent to Hamburg to study commerce, being intended for mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he was removed to the University at Bonn which had been founded in the previous year, and there he had the advantage of studying under Augustus Schlegel. He seems, however, to have remained there only six months, and to have then gone to the University of Göttingen, where, as he tells us, he was rusticated soon after matriculation. He next took up his abode at Berlin, where he applied himself to the study of philosophy, under the direction of the great Hegel, whose influence, combined with that of the works of Spinosa, undoubtedly had much to do with the formation of Heine’s mind, and also determined his future career. From this time we hear no more of his turning merchant; and it is from the date of his residence at Berlin that we may date the rise of that spirit of universal indifference and reckless daring that so strongly characterizes the writings of Heine. Amongst his associates at this period may be mentioned, in addition to Hegel, Chamisso, Varnhagen von Ense and his well-known wife Rachel, Bopp the philologist, and Grabbe, the eccentricities of whose works were only equalled by the eccentricities of his life.
Heine’s first volume of poetry, entitled “Gedichte” or Poems, was published in 1822, the poems being those which, under the name of “Youthful Sorrows,” now form the opening of his “Book of Songs.” Notwithstanding the extraordinary success afterwards obtained by this latter work, his first publication was very coldly received. Some of the poems in it were written as far back as 1817,[2] and originally{xiv} appeared in the Hamburg periodical “Der Wachter” or “Watchman.” Offended at this result, he left Berlin and returned to Göttingen in 1823, where he took to studying law, and received the degree of Doctor in 1825. He was baptized into the Lutheran Church in the same year, at Heiligenstadt, near that place. He afterwards said jocularly that he took this course to prevent M. de Rothschild treating him too fa-millionairely. It is to be feared, however, from the tone of all his works, that his nominal religious opinions sat very lightly upon him through life. He writes as follows on this subject in 1852: “My ancestors belonged to the Jewish religion, but I was never proud of this descent; neither did I ever set store upon my quality of Lutheran, although I belong to the evangelical confession quite as much as the greatest devotees amongst my Berlin enemies, who always reproach me with a want of religion. I rather felt humiliated at passing for a purely human creature,—I whom the philosophy of Hegel led to suppose that I was a god. How proud I then was of my divinity! What an idea I had of my grandeur! Alas! that charming time has long passed away, and I cannot think of it without sadness, now that I am lying stretched on my back, whilst my disease is making terrible progress.”
Previous to this date, and whilst living at Berlin, Heine published (in 1823) his only two plays, “Almanzor” and “Ratcliff,” which were equally unsuccessful on the stage and in print, and which are certainly the least worthy of all his works. Between these two plays he inserted a collection of poetry entitled “Lyrical Interlude,” which attracted little attention at the time. In the year 1827, however, he republished this collection at Hamburg, in conjunction with his “Youthful Sorrows,” giving to the whole the title of the “Book of Songs.” In proportion to the indifference with which his poems had been received on their first appearance, was the enthusiasm which they now excited. They were read with avidity in every direction, especially in the various universities, where their influence upon the minds of the students was very great. In the year 1852, this work had reached the tenth edition.{xix}
Heine’s next great work, his “Reisebilder,” or Pictures of Travel, written partly in poetry and partly in prose, was published at Hamburg at various intervals from 1826 to 1831, and, as its name implies, is descriptive of his travels in different countries, especially in England and Italy. The poetical portion of the “Reisebilder,” the whole of which is translated in this volume, is divided into three parts,—“The Return Home,” the “Hartz-Journey,” and “The Baltic,” written between 1823 and 1826. This work again met with an almost unprecedented success, and from the date of its publication and that of the “Book of Songs,” may be reckoned the commencement of a new era in German literature. These remarkable poems exhibit the whole nature of Heine, free from all disguise. The striking originality, the exuberance of fancy, and, above all, the singular beauty and feeling of the versification that characterize nearly the whole of them, stand out in as yet unheard-of contrast to the intense and bitter irony that pervades them,—an irony that spared nobody, that spared nothing, not even the most sacred subjects being exempt from the poet’s mocking sarcasm. This characteristic of Heine only increased as years passed on. In the later years of his life, which were one long-continued agony, his bodily sufferings offer some excuse, it may be, for what would otherwise have been inexcusable in the writings of a great poet. There was doubtless much affectation in the want of all religious and political faith that is so signally apparent in the works of Heine, and yet they betray a real bitterness of feeling that cannot be mistaken. At every page may be traced the malicious pleasure felt by him in exciting the sympathy and admiration of the reader to the highest pitch, and then with a few words,—with the last line or the last verse of a long poem, it may be,—rudely insulting them, and dashing them to the ground. No better parody of this favourite amusement of Heine can be given than by citing two well-known verses of Dr. Johnson:
The exuberance of Heine’s heart, as has been well said, was only equalled by the dryness of his spirit; a real enthusiasm was blended with an unquenchable love of satire; “his exquisite dilettanteism made him adore the gods and goddesses of Greece at the expense even of Christianity.” In short, qualities scarcely ever found in combination, were combined in him; in one weak, suffering body two distinct and opposite natures, each equally mighty, were united. Perhaps the best name ever applied to him is that of the “Julian of poetry.”
The French Revolution in 1830 determined Heine’s future life. He was then living at Berlin again, after having resided at Hamburg and Munich. He now turned politician and newspaper writer. His Essay on Nobility was written at this time. He presently (in May 1831) went to live in Paris, where he resided until his death, with the exception of making one or two short visits to his native land. Though the fact is not exactly stated, there can be no doubt that he received some very broad hints from the authorities of Prussia to leave that country. From that time, France became his adopted fatherland, and he himself was thenceforward more of a Frenchman than a German. The Germans have indeed always reproached him as being frivolous and French; he has often been called the Voltaire of Germany; but Thiers perhaps described him the most accurately when he spoke of him as being “the wittiest Frenchman since Voltaire.” He wrote French as fluently as German; and the translations of his various works that were published in Paris in the Revue des deux Mondes and the Bibliothèque Contemporaine, or as separate works, were either written by himself, or by his personal friends under his own immediate superintendence.
Some of his more important prose works were written soon after he took up his abode in Paris. He wrote, in 1831, a series of articles for the Augsburg Gazette on the State of{xxi} France, which he subsequently collected and published both in French and German. In 1833 appeared his well-known “History of Modern Literature in Germany,” republished afterwards under the title of “The Romantic School,” and in French under that of “L’Allemagne.” This may be looked upon as his most remarkable prose work, and as the one that most exhibits his characteristic peculiarities. The following lively description of it is from the pen of an eminent French critic: “According to M. Heine, the whole of the intellectual movement of Germany since Lessing and Kant has been a death-struggle against Deism. This struggle he describes with passion, and it may be said that he heads it in person. He ranges his army in order of battle, he gives the signals, and marches the Titans against heaven,—Kant, Fichte, Hegel, all those formidable spirits whose every thought is a victory, whose every formula is a cosmogonic bouleversement. Around them, in front or behind, are grouped a crowd of writers, theologians and poets, romance writers and savans. If one of the combatants stops short, like Schelling, the author overwhelms him with invectives. If a timid and poetic band of dreamers, such as Tieck, Novalis, Brentanc, and Arnim, try to bring back this feverish Germany to the fresh poetry of the middle ages, he throws himself upon them and disperses them, like those Cobolds in the ‘Book of Songs’ who overthrew the angels of paradise. And when the philosophical conflict is over, he predicts its consequences with a sort of savage delirium.... He compares Kant to the bloodthirsty dictators of ’93, and proclaims the gospel of pantheism. His theory of the intellectual history of the Germans is altogether false, and should only be consulted as an illustration—alas, too positive!—of the fever at once mystical and sensual of a certain period of our age.” This book produced a perfect storm of fury in Germany. “Denounced by Menzel and the pietists as an emissary of Modern Babylon, cursed by the austere teutomaniacs as a representative of Parisian corruption, Heine was not the less suspected by the democrats, who accused him of treason. To this was added official persecution.”
Proceeding to his next work, the publication of his “Salon,”{xviii} consisting of an interesting series of essays, &c., commenced at Hamburg in 1834, its fourth and last volume not appearing till 1840. A long essay on the Women of Shakespeare appeared in 1839, and in 1840 a violent personal attack on his old friend, the republican poet Börne, then only recently dead,—a work which, with all its talent, did great injury to his reputation. His remaining great prose work, entitled “Lutezia,” or Paris, consists of a collection of valuable articles on French politics, arts, and manners, written by him as the correspondent of the Augsburg Gazette between 1840 and 1844. The only other writings of his in prose that need be specified, entitled respectively “Confessions,” “Dr. Faust,” and the “Gods in Exile,” were written a few years before his death.
After the publication of the “Reisebilder,” Heine’s next poetical production was the charming poem of “Atta Troll,” which appeared in 1841, written in a simple trochaic metre,—“four-footed solemn trochees,” as he himself expresses it. This poem has been described as the work of a German Ariosto, combining gaiety and poetry, irony and imagination in perfect proportions. Much worldly wisdom is to be learnt from the instructive history of Atta Troll, the dancing bear of the Pyrenees. The striking interlude in it of the vision of Herodias amongst the spirit huntsmen should not be overlooked.
The marriage of Heine seems to have taken place at about this period. His wife, who is often spoken of in his poems in terms of deep affection, and whose name was Mathilde, was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic, and they were married according to the rites of that church. With all his love for Madame Heine, however, he seems to have been very jealous of her, and it is recorded that on one occasion he took it into his head that she had run away from him. He was reassured by hearing the voice of her favourite parrot “Cocotte,” which led him to say, that she would never have gone off without taking “Cocotte” with her. In spite of the bitterness of spirit that pervades all his writings, it is clear that he possessed deep natural affections. His mother survived him; and though almost entirely separated from her for the last twenty-five years of his life, he often introduces her name in his works with expressions of filial reverence. His last visit{xxiii} to Germany in the winter of 1843 seems to have been for the special purpose of visiting her at Hamburg, where she resided. His friends fancied that the “old woman at the Dammthor” (one of the gates of Hamburg), of whom he used to speak, was a myth, but she was no other than his mother. Nothing can be more charming than the manner in which he speaks of both her and his wife in the beautiful little poem called “Night Thoughts.” (See page 179.)
In 1844 he published a fresh collection of poems under the title of “New Poems,” to which was added as an appendix “Germany, a Winter Tale.” The former of these was subsequently added by him to his “Book of Songs,” and will be found in its place accordingly in the present volume, as well as his “New Spring,” which formed a part of the same work. The “Germany” is one of his most remarkable works, and contains an account of his journey to Hamburg the previous winter to see his mother that has just been referred to. None of his productions are more thoroughly impregnated with the spirit of satire. Every stage of his journey, from its commencement at the Prussian frontier, to its termination at Hamburg, gives occasion for the display of his wit and sarcastic raillery. It will be seen that many of the passages in the poem were struck out of the original edition by the official Censors. Perhaps the most amusing portions are the episode of the author’s adventures in the Cavern of Kyffhauser with the famous Emperor Barbarossa (not omitting their little conversation respecting the guillotine), and the rencontre with the Goddess Hammonia in the streets of Hamburg, and his subsequent tête-à-tête with her. The extravagance (slightly coarse it must be confessed) of the latter scene is quite worthy of Rabelais, though the poet takes care to tell us that it is intended to imitate Aristophanes. The remonstrances to the King of Prussia, with which the poem concludes, should also not he passed over.
In the year 1848, after a premonitory attack in 1847 that passed away, that terrible disease which eventually destroyed Heine’s life, first assailed him in an aggravated form. Commencing with a paralysis of the left eyelid, it extended presently to both eyes and finally terminated in paralysis and{xxiv} atrophy of the legs. The last time he ever left his house was in May, 1848. For eight long years he was confined to his couch, to use his own expression, in a state of “death without its repose, and without the privileges of the dead, who have no need to spend money, and no letters or books to write.” But despite his bodily sufferings, his good spirits never seemed to leave him, his love of raillery did but increase, and little did that public whose interest he continued to excite by the wonderful products of his genius know of his distressing state.
In the years 1850 and 1851, in the midst of his fearful malady, Heine composed his last great poetical work entitled “Romancero.” This singular volume is divided into three Books, called respectively “Histories,” “Lamentations,” and “Hebrew Melodies.” The first of these contains a large number of romantic ballads and poems of the most dissimilar character, but all bearing the stamp of the author’s peculiar genius; the second opens with several miscellaneous pieces, including some literary satires, and concludes with twenty pieces bearing the lively title of “Lazarus,” and comprising, as some one has observed, the journal of his impressions as a sick man. The “Hebrew Melodies” are subdivided into three, entitled by Heine “Princess Sabbath,” “Jehuda ben Halevy,” a poem itself in three parts, and “Disputation.” The Jewish descent and Jewish sympathies of the poet are plainly discernible in these Melodies, the most interesting of which, and probably the best of the whole collection contained in the “Romancero,” is that which sets forth the life of Jehuda ben Halevy, the great Hebrew poet of the middle ages. Some critics rank this poem amongst Heine’s very best productions. The concluding piece, “Disputation,” is in Heine’s wildest style, and seems written for the express purpose of destroying the pleasure excited by the one that precedes it. In none of his works is his mocking spirit more plainly discernible. “It is the most Voltairian scene ever imagined by the sceptical demon of his mind.” No one can read this polemical poem without seeing how little Heine himself cared for any received form of religion,—for the Christian faith as professed by him, or the Jewish faith into which he was born. The piece terminates{xxv} in Heine’s favourite manner, namely, with an unexpected joke in the last line.
The collection entitled “Latest Poems” was written three years afterwards. Its name shows that the end was now not far off. The hand of a master is still visible in all these poems, the most interesting of which is perhaps the “Slave Ship,” one of the most powerful productions of Heine’s pen. In the year 1855, he published a French translation of his “New Spring” in the Revue des deux Mondes. And now the end really arrived.
On the 17th February, 1856, Henry Heine was at length released from his sufferings in his house in the Avenue Matignon, No. 3, as appears from the obituary notice. The smallness of the attendance at his funeral would seem to show that there was some truth in the saying that he had many admirers but few friends. The only names of note that are recorded as having been present on the occasion are Mignet, Gautier, and Dumas. And this was the man who was recognized as the successor of Goethe in the throne of poetry in Germany, and whose songs were already household words in all parts of that country! His humour did not leave him till the very last. A few days before his death Hector Berlioz called on him just as a tiresome German professor was leaving the room after wearying him with his uninteresting conversation. “I am afraid you will find me very stupid, my dear fellow! The fact is, I have just been exchanging thoughts with Dr. ——” was his remark. Only a day or two before he expired, he sent back to the printer the last proofs of a new edition of the “Reisebilder.”
Heine left a singular will behind him, in which he begged that all religious solemnities should be dispensed with at his funeral, and that, although he called himself a Lutheran, no Lutheran minister should officiate on the occasion. He added that this was not a mere freak of a freethinker, for that he had for the last four years dismissed all the pride with which philosophy had filled him, and felt once more the power of religious truth. He also begged for forgiveness for any offence which, in his ignorance, he might have given to good manners and morals.{xxvi}
When the private papers of Louis Philippe fell into the hands of the populace at the sack of the Tuileries in February, 1848, it was discovered that Heine had for many years enjoyed a pension of some 200l. a year on the Civil List. This discovery gave an opening to the republicans for violent attacks on him; but there does not appear to have been anything in the circumstances of the case to make this transaction discreditable to either the giver or the receiver of the pension.
Heine is described as having lived in the simplest manner, occupying three small rooms on the third floor, the ménage comprising, in addition to his wife and himself, no one but an old negress as a servant, and “Cocotte,” who has been already alluded to.
Heine is beyond question the greatest poet that has appeared in Germany since the death of Goethe. Enough has been said in the course of this brief sketch of his life to show the singular, the unprecedented character of his genius, and to illustrate that combination in his person of two separate natures that we have stated to exist. What more touching trait of character was ever heard of, than the simple fact that although the last eight years of his life were spent in a state of intolerable agony, he left his mother in ignorance of his sufferings to the very last! Yes, when stricken with total blindness, and when dying literally by inches, all his letters to the “old woman at the Dammthor” were written in the most cheerful, happy tone, and he made her believe that his only reason for employing an amanuensis instead of writing with his own hand was that he had a slight affection in his eyes, which would be cured with a little care!
The following appreciation of the character of Heine, written while he was still alive, but when the shades of darkness and death were slowly gathering round him, may serve as a fitting termination to these few pages:—“It may be said that Heine bears within him all the misery of a mighty literature that has fallen from his ideal. Let this be his excuse. But now his eyes are closing on this perishable world, whose contradictions and wretchedness provoked his painful gaiety; another world is opening on his mind. There,{xxvii} no more misery, no more irritating contrasts, no more revolting disenchantments; there, all problems are resolved, all struggles cease. If irony, in the case of a capricious and ardent intelligence, could be the faithful mirror of things below, there is no room save for confidence and respect in that spiritual world that his soul’s looks are fast discovering. He sought for serenity in that light raillery which enveloped the whole universe, and played his part in it with grace; but this serenity was incomplete and false, and often suffered his ill-cured sorrows to break forth. True serenity is a higher thing; it is to be found in the intelligence and adoration of that ideal which nothing can affect, that truth which no shadow can obscure.” And so with these words of kindly sympathy, Heinrich Heine,—farewell!
EARLY POEMS.
SONGS OF LOVE.
1. LOVE’S SALUTATION.
Ever found to equal thee?
To thy service joyfully
Shall my life be pledged by me.
Like soft moonbeams o’er the sea;
Lights of rosy harmony
O’er thy red cheeks wander free.
Rows of pearls peep charmingly;
But thy bosom’s drapery
Veils thy fairest jewelry.
That so sweetly thrill’d through me,
When I whilome gazed on thee,
Darling maid, so fair to see.
2. LOVE’S LAMENT.
Silently I breathe my woes;
From the haunts of mortals flying,
Where the cup of pleasure flows.
Silently, unceasingly;
But my bosom’s fiery yearning
Quench’ed by tears can never be.{2}
Many a merry game I play’d;
In life’s sunshine basking daily,
Knowing nought of grief or shade.
Was the world I then lived in,
Tending flowers my sole employment,
Roses, violets, jessamine.
Sweetly mused I in those days;
Now I see a pale thin shadow,
When upon the brook I gaze.
Since mine eyes upon her fell;
Secret sorrows now pervade me,
Wonderful and hard to tell.
Angel forms of peace and love,
Which have fled, their short joys perish’d,
To their starry home above.
Black night round mine eyes is thrown;
In my trembling breast is hidden
A sad whisp’ring voice unknown.
Toss me wildly to and fro,
And I pine away and languish,
Tortured by an unknown glow.
Rack’d by fiery torments now,—
Why from very grief I’m dying,—
Love, behold!—The cause art thou!
3. YEARNING.
Beneath the linden trees move;
But I, alas, poor desolate boy,
In utter solitude rove{3}
When happy lovers I see;
For a sweetheart by me is also possess’d,
But, alas, far distant is she.
But no longer can bear with the pain;
So pack up my bundle, my pilgrim’s staff take,
And start on my travels again.
Till I come to a city renown’d;
A noble river beneath it smiles,
With three stately towers ’tis crown’d.
Made happy at last is my love;
For there, with my sweetheart on arm, I with joy
Can beneath the sweet linden trees rove.
4. THE WHITE FLOWER
A flow’ret mournful and pale;
The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes,
Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale.
The poor pale flower looks still
Like a young bride that’s ill.
“Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!”
I answer pale flow’ret—“That must not be,
I never will take thee away.
I seek with anxious care
A purple flow’ret fair.”
Seek e’en till the day of thy death,
But still that purple flow’ret fair
Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith.
“But, prythee, pluck me now,
I am as ill as thou.”{4}
I tremblingly pluck her, and lo!
I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more,
Mine inward eye brightly doth glow.
Mute angel-rapture blest
Now fills my wounded breast.
5. PRESENTIMENT.
We shall find those joys smile brightly
Which on earth seem far away.
Only in Death’s cold embraces
Life grows warm, and light replaces
Night’s dark gloom at dawn of day.
6.
A happy youth am I;
So great the wealth within my mind,
I the whole world could buy.
In that sad hour of pain,
Away my boasted wealth doth flit,
And I am poor again.
7.
Had little flow’rets been;
I’d send them to my sweetheart
For her to smell, I ween.
Were kisses all unseen;
I’d send them all in secret
Upon her cheeks to glean.
Were little peas so green;
I’d make some capital pea-soup
All in a soup-tureen!
8.
Thou, loved one, long time hast bereft me;
And of the gifts that thou hast left me
Not one of these doth form a part.
To me a life-long sorrow given,
With bitter words commingled even,—
O take these back, my loved one, now.
9.
In which his trust the novice plac’d?
That long-denied first kiss of passion
The ardent lover stole in haste?
On which the fish is captive brought!
O kiss, thou charming rod of honey,
With which the bird is limed and caught!
10.
Of thy dear silken hair;
“Wear this, and I for ever thee
“Within my heart will wear.”
To act this loving part.
Now say: is not thy head yet bald?
And full thy little heart?
11.
I wellnigh fancied it true;
That you asserted it was so,
Was no sign of folly in you.
But that I almost believed it,
’Tis this that I so rue.
12.
Extracting my tears like magic;
But ’mongst them all, that touching scene
Had an end by far the most tragic,
While I at thy feet was panting,—
How well thou actedst the innocent one,
Thou actress most enchanting!
13.
Ask me rather what I am;
For but little wealth I boast of,
But I’m gentle as a lamb.
But for what, that ask of me;
For I live in want, and lonely,
Yet I live alone for thee.
Ask not of my bitter smart;
Pleasure ever flies his presence
Who doth own a broken heart.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
GERMANY. 1815.
Hearken to my noblest strains!
While my spirit tells the story,
Thrilling bliss runs through my veins.
All things that have happened here,
Good with Evil ever vying—
All before my gaze stands clear.{7}
Hell approach’d, with impious hand,
Bringing shame and desecration
On our much-loved German land.
All our heavenly yearnings fled,
All we deemed of worth, despoiling,—
Giving sin and pain instead.
Dark the German sun soon grew,
And a mournful voice accusing
Pierced the German oak trees through.
And the oak trees roar with joy;
The avengers are advancing,
Shame and sorrow to destroy.
Totter, fall with hideous sound;
Every German heart is grateful,
Free is German holy ground.
Say, what can that wild flame be?
Yes! that fire proclaims the blooming
Image pure of Germany.
Germany uninjured stands;
Wildly is the spot still surging,
Where that fair form burst her bands.
Glorious blossoms fast unfold;
Foreign blossoms fall, and tender
Breezes greet us as of old.
All that’s good appears once more
And the German, fondly yearning,
Is exulting as of yore.
Virtues, and heroic deeds!
Valiantly each son of Hermann[3]
Waves his sword and proudly bleeds.{8}
Lionlike is Hermann’s race;
Yet may love’s religion tender
Well near valour take its place.
Learnt Christ’s gentle word to prize;
Their land ’genders brethren only,
And humanity is wise.
Noble love of minstrel’s song,
Well becoming the victorious
Breasts of German heroes strong,
With the Frank to cross the sword,
To take signal vengeance glowing
For their perfidy abhorr’d.
Woman plies her gentle hand,
Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding
In defence of fatherland.
Looks the beauteous German dame,
Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing,
Diamond-girded, too, her frame.
Through me at her vision thrills,
When, beside the sick-bed kneeling,
Acts of mercy she fulfils.
When the last draught she supplies
To the wounded man, who trembles,
Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies.
On the battle-field, is blest;
But a foretaste ’tis of heaven,
Dying on a woman’s breast.
Unto you unkind has been;
On the Seine’s banks, beauty never
Save in search of gold is seen.{9}
What a charm the words convey!
German women! German women!
Flourish on for many a day!
All our sons like Frederick be!
Hear me in the grave, Louisa!
Ever flourish Germany!
DREAM. 1816.
When thy thoughts within thee burn;
But in life thy visions never
To reality will turn.
To a high mount on the Rhine;
Smiling lay the land before me,
Gloriously the sun did shine.
Wild and magic melodies;
In my inmost heart were ringing
Blissful strains in wondrous wise.
On the land—how sad its doom!
I but see a pigmy nation
Crawling on a giant’s tomb.
Deem themselves the nation’s flower;
Honours now are gain’d by payment,
Rogues possess both wealth and power.
’Tis their dress that makes them men;
Old coats now alone the spirit
Of old times bring back again;
Modestly went hand in hand;
When the youth with deference lowly
By the aged took his stand;{10}
Than an oath or written sheet;
When men, iron-clad, forth sallied,
And a heart inside them beat.
Many a thousand flow’rets fair;
In the fostering soil they flourish,
While the sun smiles on them there.
In our gardens ne’er is known,—
That one which, in days now olden,
On each rocky height was grown;
Men endued with iron frame
Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,—
Hospitality its name.
To the mountain’s fort-crown’d brow;
’Stead of warm and friendly chamber,
Cold, hard walls receive thee now.
Not a drawbridge is let fall;
For the castle’s lord and warders
In the cold tomb slumber all.
Those dear maids bards sang of old;
Shrines like these within them keeping
Greater wealth than pearls and gold.
Like sweet minnesinger’s lays;
To those dark vaults has descended
The fair love of olden days.
For they blossom like the May;
And delightful, too, their trade is,—
’Tis to dance, stitch, paint all day.
Of old love and loyalty,
Feeling all the time suspicious
Whether such things e’er could be.{11}
Used to think in days of yore,
That the gem above all others
Fair, man in his bosom bore.
What their daughters wisdom call;
In the present day our misses
Love the jewels most of all.
Rule,—life’s charms are thrown aside,
Whilst Rome’s sordid base ambition
Jordan’s pearls has falsified.
Visions of far happier days;
O’er a time which thus doth spurn you,
Vain laments no longer raise!
THE CONSECRATION.
At the image of the Virgin,
Lay a gentle, pallid stripling,
Bent in humble adoration.
On the threshold here be kneeling;
Thou wilt never drive me from thee,
To the world so cold and sinful.
Round thy head’s bright locks is gleaming,
And a mild sweet smile is playing
Round thy fair mouth’s holy roses.
Lightens me like stars in heaven;
While life’s bark doth drift at random,
Stars lead on for ever surely.
I have borne thy test of sorrow,
On kind love relying blindly,
In thy glow alone e’er glowing.{12}
Full of mercy, rich in wonders!
Grant me then a sign of favour,
Just one little sign of favour.
The forest and chapel were parted insunder;
The boy understood not the miracle strange,
For all around him did suddenly change.
Her rays were gone, as he gazed upon her;
She bore the form of a lovely maid,
Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.
She steals a lock, as she thus addresses
In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy:
The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!
Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding
Its sublime illumination,
O’er the wide horizon spreading?
Loudly do their pinions flutter;
Breathing music strange and loving,
Sweet the melodies they utter.
Through his frame that now doth quiver;
To that land his footsteps turning,
Where the myrtle blooms for ever.
THE MOOR’S SERENADE.
Bosom run, ye tears all burning!
Then will her sweet heart for Abdul
’Gin to beat with tender yearning.
Ear disport, ye tears of anguish!
Then will her fair head in vision
Sweet for Abdul’s love straight languish.{13}
Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing!
Then will her sweet hand bear on it
Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.
In its mouth no tongue is growing,
It hath only tears and sighing,
And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.
DREAM AND LIFE.
In silence I bore my sorrow’s load;
When night arrived, I hastened then
To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.
While tears my cheeks did secretly lave,
I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair,
And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.
When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep;
The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d;
A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.
To a golden cottage the prize I bore;
Strange goings-on in the cottage I found,—
Small elves are dancing in graceful round.
And closely their hands together are press’d;
And soon as a dance has come to a close,
Another begins, and each merrily goes.
“The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear,
“The whole of thy life was only a dream,
“And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”
I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup.
Alas! in the place of the glimmering light,
A nasty insect meets my sight.
THE LESSON.
Yonder wax taper flee;
But for his mother’s prayers
Little bee little cares.
Humming all merrily;
Mother’s cry hears not he,
Little bee! Little bee!
Poor little simpleton!
In the flame rusheth he,
Little bee! Little bee!
In the flame he must die:
’Ware of the maidens, then,
Sons of men! Sons of men!
TO FRANCIS V. Z——.
Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far;
To poetry ever faithful abide,
And never desert that charming bride.
As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast
The German language so fair and blest;
And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand
O listen awhile at that Northern strand;
And list till thou hearest a ringing remote
That over the silent waters doth float.
When this thou hearest, expect ere long
The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song.
Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord,
And give me news that may pleasure afford;
How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go,
And with the others whom I loved so;
And how it fares with the lovely girl
Who set so many young hearts in a whirl,
And filled so many with yearnings divine—
The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine.
And give me news of my fatherland too,
If still ’tis the land of affection true;
If still the old God in Germany lives,
And none to the Evil One homage now gives.{15}
And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings,
And joyous stories with it thus brings
Far over the waves to the distant strand,
The bard will rejoice in the far North land.
A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.
All that soul and heart found pleasing,
All that gave me food for cavilling,
All that tedious was or teasing;
Both of simpletons and sages,—
All shall swell the long indictment
Of my travels in these pages.
When at home one lives once only;
Wouldst thou nobler ends discover,
Thou must leave thy closet lonely.
Is a mimic or a puppet,
Rides his hobby his own way, or
Bids the others clamber up it.
Riding in this curious fashion,
Let us him in turn belabour,
Jeering him without compassion.
And the sense in which I’m writing;
Each one has his fav’rite banner
Under which he fancies fighting.
DEFEND NOT.
This wretched world below;
Defend its gaping people not,
Who care for nought but pomp and show.
Who cause us such ennui;
The learned ones, defend them not,
In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.{16}
Though good ones may be there;
The best amongst them scorneth not
The man she loves not, to ensnare.
Count not thyself one now;
For thou those friends resemblest not,—
No! firm, and good, and true art thou.
A PARODY.
And made me exceedingly sad,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
What little senses I had,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
They most have stirr’d up my bile,
Who write in neither prosaic
Nor true poetical style.
WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN.
Thy yearnings may satisfied be;
The fairest of womankind here, friend,
All walking together, thou’lt see.
In gay silken garments all dress’d!
A certain poet judicious
“Walking flowers” has named them in jest.
Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams!
Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it!
Each neck, how swanlike it seems!
EVENING SONGS.
1.
And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea;
The charming flowers look’d pallid,
And spectre-like gazed upon me.{17}
And tell my dull tale I began;
They ask’d me, what was the matter
With me, poor sad-looking man.
No love in the world can I find;
And as I have lost all my credit,
With want of cash ’tis combin’d.
2.
Two swans all white as snow;
Sweet voices mysteriously wailing
Pierce through me as onward they go.
Sweet melody rises on high,
And when the swans begin singing,
They presently must die.
3.
However mournful their mood,
For the swan, like the soul of the poet,
By the dull world is ill understood.
The air, and break into song;
And, unless my ears are mistaken,
They sing now, while sailing along.
4.
O’er the blue Atlantic sea;
And mid the twilight there hovers
A shadowy figure o’er me.
With old-time-recalling eye,
Like a glimpse of joys long buried,
And happiness long gone by.
Methinks I know it full well;
’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary,
Who on earth no longer doth dwell.{18}
And clasps me with gentle despair;
But I seize hold of my glasses,
To have a better stare!
SONNETS.
1. TO AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL.
The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power—
These struggled my life’s marrow to devour;
I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out.
Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour,
And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about;
To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout,
Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower.
O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace,
That as a tree the garden it may grace
Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert.
My nurse used of that garden to assert
That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells,
Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.
2. TO THE SAME.
The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal,
The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,—
The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee,
Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal,
The Seine paid tribute to thine industry,
Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary,
Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal.
Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content
With that which seldom unto man is lent;
Instead of adding more, to spend prepare!
And with the treasures which thou with such ease
From North and South accustom’d wert to seize,
Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.
3. TO COUNCILLOR GEORGE S——, OF GOTTINGEN.
Yet round the lips may gentleness play still;
Though the eye gleam and every muscle thrill,
Yet may the voice with calmness be endow’d.
Thus art thou in the rostrum, when aloud
Thou speak’st of governments and of the skill
Of cabinets, and of the people’s will,
Of Germany’s long strifes and ends avow’d.
Ne’er be thine image blotted from my mind!
In times of barbarous self-love like these,
How doth an image of such greatness please!
What thou, in fashion fatherly and kind,
Spak’st to my heart, while hours flew swiftly by,
Deep in my heart I still bear faithfully.
4. TO J. B. ROUSSEAU.
And the dark chambers of my heart unbar;
Home visions greet me like some radiant star,
And magic pinions fan me into rest.
Once more the Rhine flows by me, on its crest
Of waters mount and castle mirror’d are;
On vine-clad hills gold clusters gleam afar,
Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest.
Could I but see thee, truest friend of all,
Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings
The ivy green around a crumbling wall!
Could I but be with thee, and to thy song
In silence listen, while the redbreast sings,
And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!
5.
Where I suspended by the feet did hang;
Hot pincers gave my body many a pang,
A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully.
I wildly cried in nameless agony,
From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang,—
A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang,
And presently the coup-de-grace gave she.{20}
My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye,
My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh,
From out my bleeding mouth,—a ghastly sight,
My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight;
My last death-rattle music is the while
To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.
6. THE NIGHT WATCH ON THE DRACHENFELS. TO FRITZ VON B——.
The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d,
And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d,
They sang of Germany’s renown in fight.
Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright,
The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d,
Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d,
And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight.
And from the ruins there arose low moans,
Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans;
A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully.
Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass
On the high Drachenfels,—but I, alas,
A wretched cold and cough took home with me!
7. IN FRITZ STEINMANN’S ALBUM.
The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry,
Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh,
Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.—
In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow,
Image on image, flower on flower pile high,
In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die,
Unless, before the egg is laid, you know
How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on,
Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con,
And your own trumpet blow with decent pride.
Write for the mob, not for posterity,
Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be,—
You’ll then be by the public deified.
8. TO HER.
Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound,
Into a lovely nosegay I have bound,
And offer unto thee, my mistress dear.
By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d!
I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear,
Till I have left a sign of love sincere.
Remember me when I my death have found.
Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me;
My life of grief was enviable e’en,—
For in my heart I bore thee lovingly.
And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I
Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen,
Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.
9. GOETHE’S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON-THE MAIN. 1821.
Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,
The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed
To build a monument to Goethe here.
“At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear
“To foreign traders that we’re of his breed,
“That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed,
“And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.”
O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never,
And keep your money in your pockets too;
’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise.
He dwelt amongst you in his infant days,
But half a world now severs him from you,
Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen[4] sever!
10. DRESDEN POETRY.
Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made,
They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid)
A music-club and music warehouse pretty.{22}
There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty,
Herr Kuhn,[5] Miss Nostitz [5a]—adepts at the trade,—
Spout verses, calling action to their aid.
How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!—more’s the pity!
Next day the paper tells us all the facts,
Bright’s[6] brightness flies, Child’s [6a] childishness is childlike,
The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike.
Arnoldi [5b] takes the cash, as salesman acts;
Then Böttiger [5c] appears, with noise infernal—
’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal!
11. BREADLESS ART.
Could I the pencil use, and paint away,
The walls of castles proud and churches gay
Adorning with my pictures merrily!
How soon would wealth replace my penury,
Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play.
And with such elegance perform each day,
That lords and ladies all applauded me!
But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part,
For I have follow’d thee alone, alas!
Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art!
When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!)
Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass,
I needs must go without, or drink on credit!
BOOK OF SONGS.
PREFACE.
The linden blossoms smell sweetly,
The strange mysterious light of the moon
Enchants my senses completely.
A voice above me was ringing;—
’Tis surely the nightingale’s notes that I hear
Of love and love’s sorrows she’s singing.
She sings of smiling and aching,
She sadly exults, she joyfully sobs,
Forgotten visions awaking.
I saw before me lying,
On open ground, a castle vast,
With gables in loftiness vying.
To stillness and sadness converted;
It seem’d as though silent death had his home
Within those walls deserted.
Part comical, part not human;
Its body and paws a lion’s were,
With the breasts and head of a woman.
Of yearnings wild but tender;
Her lips, all mute, were closely arch’d,
And smiled a silent surrender.{24}
I found it in vain to resist it—
I kiss’d the beauteous face, and, ah!
Was ruined as soon as I kissed it.
The stone began sighing and groaning;
She drank my kisses’ tremulous glow
With thirsty and eager moaning.
And then, with sensual ardour,
Embraced me, while her lion’s paws press’d
My body harder and harder.
The pain, like the pleasure, unbounded!
For while the mouth’s kisses filled me with joy,
The paws most fearfully wounded.
“O loved one, explain the reason
“Why all thy raptures with pains of death
“Are mingled, in cruel treason?
“The riddle so full of wonder!
“I over it many a thousand years
“Have never ceased to ponder.”
YOUTHFUL SORROWS.
1817-21.
I. VISIONS.
1.
Of mignonette, fair locks, and myrtle twining,
Of lips so sweet, with bitter words combining,
Of mournful melodies of mournful lays.
My dearest vision fled for evermore,
And, save the burning glow I used to pour
Into my tender numbers, all is vanish’d.{25}
And seek that long-lost vision; shouldst thou meet it,
On my behalf in loving fashion greet it,—
An airy breath to that dim shade I blow.
2.
Once startled and delighted me;
The dismal vision haunts me still,
And in my heart doth wildly thrill.
I fain would wander gladly there;
The beauteous flowers upon me gazed,
And high I found my rapture raised.
Their joyous melodies of love;
The sun was red with rays of gold,
The flowers all lovely to behold.
And sweetly, softly blows the gale;
And all things glisten, all things smile,
And show their loveliness the while.
A marble fountain was at hand,
And there I saw a maiden fair
Washing a garment white with care.
Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child,
And as I gazed, she seem’d to be
So strange, yet so well known to me.
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Water, water, quickly run,
“Let the washing soon be done.”
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
“For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”{26}
“I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
Within a desert, gloomy wood:
To reach the skies the branches sought;
I stood amazed, and thought and thought.
Like axe-strokes fills the air around
Through waste and wood I speed apace,
Until I reach an open place.
A mighty oak tree rear’d its head;
And lo! the maiden, strange to see,
Was felling with an axe the tree.
Unceasing, as the axe she swings:
“Iron glittering, iron bright,
“Hew the oaken chest aright.”
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine,
“For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”
“To hew thy coffin is my sport!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
Around was barren, barren heath:
I felt in strange mysterious mood,
And shuddering inwardly I stood.
A whitish streak soon caught mine eye;
I hasten’d tow’rd it, and when there,
Behold, I found the maiden fair!
Digging the ground with sexton’s spade;
Scarce dared I gaze on her aright,
So fair yet fearful was the sight.{27}
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Spade, O spade, so sharp and tried,
“Dig a pit both deep and wide.”
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
“What means the pit that’s lying there?”
“A cold, cold grave I dig for thee.”
And when the fair maid thus replied,
Its mouth the pit straight opened wide.
A chilling shudder pierced me through,
And in the grave so dark and deep
Headlong I fell, and—woke from sleep.
3.
As for some festival, in ruffles dress’d,
In a black gala-coat and silken vest;—
My sweet and trusting love with scorn I eyed;
And bow’d low down, and said “Art thou a bride?”
“I wish thee joy, dear Madam, I protest!”
And yet my lips reluctantly express’d
The words so cold and tauntingly applied.
And bitter tears then suddenly ’gan falling
From her dear eyes, and in a sea of weeping
Wellnigh dissolved her image so enthralling.
O lovely eyes, ye stars of love so kindly,
What though ye, when awake, and e’en when sleeping
Deceived me oft, I trust ye still as blindly!
4.
Who went on stilts, with steps a yard apart;
White was his linen, and his dress was smart,
But he was coarse and most unclean within.
Yes, worthless inwardly, and full of sin;
Worthy to seem outside was his great art,
Of courage he discoursed, as from his heart,
Defiant, stubborn, ’neath a veil but thin.{28}
“And know’st thou who he is? Come here and see!”
So spake the dream-god, slily showing me
Within a mirror’s frame this vision then.
The manikin before an altar stood,
My love beside him, both said “Yes, they would,”
And thousand laughing devils cried “Amen!”
5.
Why burns my heart in furious mood?
My blood fast boils, and foams and fumes,
And passion fierce my heart consumes.
Because I’ve dreamt an evil dream:
Night’s gloomy son appear’d one day,
And bore me in his arms away.
Where sounded harp and revelry,
And torches gleam’d and tapers shone—
The hall I entered then alone.
The glad guests round the table press’d;
And when the bridal pair I spied,
O woe! my mistress was the bride.
A stranger claim’d her hand to-day.
Then close behind her chair of honour
I silent stood and gazed upon her.
Their joy but swell’d my mournful mood;
The bride she look’d so highly blest,
Her hand the while the bridegroom press’d.
And from it drank, then gave it up
Unto the bride; she smiled a thank;
O woe! my red blood ’twas she drank.
And gave it him with smiling look;
He took his knife, and cut a part;
O woe! it was indeed my heart.{29}
The bridegroom boldly clasp’d the bride,
And kissed her on her cheeks so red;
O woe! cold death kiss’d me instead.
Vainly I strove one word to say;
A noise was heard,—the dance began,
The bridal pair were in the van.
The dancers nimbly whirl’d around;
The bridegroom spoke a whisper’d word,—
She blush’d, well pleased with what she heard.
6.
There came to me, with magic might,
With magic might, my own sweet love,
Into my little room above.
I gazed, and she all-gently smiled,
And smiled until my heart swell’d high,
When stormlike daring words breath’d I:
“My All will I to thee resign,
“If I may be thy paramour
“From midnight till the morning hour.”
With looks that inward strife betray’d,
So sweet, so sad, while thus she said:
“Give me thy hope of heaven instead!”
“I’ll give with cheerful joyous mood,
“For thee, O maiden angel-fair,—
“But hope of heaven hereafter—ne’er!”
Yet ever fairer blossom’d she,
And still the beauteous maiden said
“Give me thy hope of heaven instead!”{30}
Then rush’d, like some fierce flowing sea,
Down to my spirit’s depth most deep,—
I scarce had power my breath to keep.
Graced with a golden halo bright,
But wildly follow’d in their track
A grisly train of goblins black.
And drove away those angels bright,
And then the gloomy squadron too
Melted like morning mist from view.—
My arms upheld my maiden fair;
She nestled near me like a roe,
But also wept with bitter woe.
Her rosy mouth to peace kiss’d I:
“O still, sweet love, that tearful flood,
“Surrender to my loving mood!
When sudden froze to ice my blood;
The earth beneath me groan’d and sigh’d,
A yawning chasm open’d wide.
Rose the black troop,—sweet love turn’d pale;
My arms were of sweet love bereft,
And I in solitude was left.
In wondrous circle, then advanced,
And seized and bore me to the ground,
While scornful laughter rose around.
7.
Thou dark scowling fellow, why lingering stay?
I sit in my chamber, and patiently wait,
And midnight is near, but the bride is still late.
Ye breezes, O say, has my bride met your eyes?
Pale demons come round me, and hard on me press,
Make curtsies with grinning, and nod their “O yes!”
Black villain, in liv’ry of fire trick’d out!
My mistress sends word that she soon will be here;
In a car drawn by dragons she’ll shortly appear.
Dead master of mine, what’s thy business, pray?
He gazes upon me with mute mournful mien,
Shakes his head, turns away, and no longer is seen.
All brightly the eye of the black tom-cat shines;
The women are howling with long flowing hair,—
Why sings my old nurse my old cradle-song there?
The eiapopeia is long at an end;
To-day I am keeping my gay wedding feast;
Only watch the arrival of each gallant guest!
Ye carry your heads, ’stead of hats, in your hand;
With your clattering bones, and like gallows-birds dress’d,
Why arrive here so late, when the wind is at rest?
Ah, bless me, good mother, I’m really thy son.
The mouth in her pale face beginning to twitch,
“For ever, amen,” soon replies the old witch.
The limping blind fiddler is seen in the throng
Jackpudding dress’d out in his motley array,
On the gravedigger’s back is grimacing away.{32}
The leering old procuress leading the dance;
Twelve merry young priests follow close in their train,
And sing their lewd songs in a church-going strain.
Your fur-coat will nothing avail you in hell;
’Tis heated for nought all the year with odd things,—
’Stead of wood, with the bones of dead beggars and kings.
Tumbling head over heels in the room as they went;
With your faces like owls, and a grasshopper’s leg,
That rattling of bones discontinue, I beg.
And bustle and hustle in fast-swelling crowds;
The waltz of damnation resounds in the ear,—
Hush, hush! my sweet love is at length drawing near.
I scarcely can hear e’en one word that I say;
Hark! Is’t not the sound of a chariot at hand?
Quick, open the door! Why thus loitering stand?
You’re welcome, good parson! stand up, I entreat!
Good parson, with hoof of a horse and with tail,
I’m your dutiful servant, and wish you all hail!
The parson to join us together has come;
Full dear, dear as blood, is the fee I must pay,
And yet to possess thee is merely child’s play.
She kneels and she sinks,—O what rapture I feel!—
She sinks on my heart, on my fast-heaving breast;
With shuddering pleasure I hold her close press’d.
’Gainst my heart beats the heart of the maiden so fair
They beat with a union of sorrow and love,
And soar to the regions of heaven above.{33}
In God’s holy realms, all untrammell’d and free,
On our heads, as a terrible sign and a brand,
Has hell in derision imposed her grim hand.
As parson bestows the priest’s blessing to-night;
From a bloody book breathes he the formula terse,
Each prayer execration, each blessing a curse.
Like rolling of thunder, like waves wildly stirr’d;
When sudden a bluish-tinged light brightly flames,
“For ever, amen!” the old mother exclaims.
8.
And wander’d, half frenzied, in midnight fear,
And when o’er the churchyard I mournfully trod,
In solemn silence the graves seem’d to nod.
’Tis the flickering light of the moon that I see.
There’s a whisper “Dear brother, I soon shall be here!”
Then a misty pale form from the tomb doth appear.
And perch’d himself high on the top of the tomb;
The chords of his lute he struck with good will,
And sang with a voice right hollow and shrill:
“That thrill’d the breast with passion strong,
“Ye chords so dull and unmoving?
“The angels they call it the joys of heaven,
“The devils they call it hell’s torments even,
“And mortals they call it—loving!”
When all the graves their mouths open’d wide;
Many airy figures step forward, and each
The musician draws near, while in chorus they screech:
“Brought us to this dreary plight,
“Closed our eyes in endless night,—
“To disturb us why delight?”{34}
With roaring and sighing and crashing and moaning;
The mad troop the musician surround as before,
And the chords the musician strikes wildly once more
“Welcome to ye!
“Plainly knew ye
“That I spake the magic word!
“Still as mice in prison drear,
“Let’s to-day be full of cheer!
“First, though, please
“See that no one else is here;
“Fools were we as long as living,
“To love’s maddening passion giving
“All our madden’d energies.
“Let, by way of recreation,
“Each one give a true narration
“Of his former history,—
“How devour’d,
“How o’erpower’d
“In love’s frantic chase was he.”
A wizen’d thin being, who hummingly spoke:
“With needle and with shears;
“None made a better impression
“With needle and with shears.
“With needle and with shears,
“And pierced my sorrowing bosom
“With needle and with shears.”
In solemn silence a second stepp’d aft:
“Schinderhanno, Orlandini,
“And Charles Moor especially,
“Were my patterns made by me.{35}
“Fell in love, I’ll not deny,
“And the fairest woman most
“Haunted me like any ghost.
“I was driven mad with love,
“And my fingers, by ill-luck,
“In my neighbour’s pocket stuck.
“And most cruelly ill-used me,
“And I sought to hide my grief
“In my neighbour’s handkerchief.
“Quietly around my waist,
“And the bridewell then and there
“Took me ’neath its tender care.
“Long time sat I, spinning wool,
“Till Rinaldo’s ghost one day
“Came and took my soul away.”
A third, all-berouged and bedizen’d, stepp’d aft:
“The part of the lover played I,
“Oft bellowed ‘Ye Gods,’ in a rage,
“Breath’d many a heart-rending sigh.
“Maria was always so fair;
“But despite the most natural winks,
“She never gave heed to my prayer.
“‘Maria, thou holy one!’ cried,
“The dagger I hastily took,
“And plunged it too deep in my side.”
A fourth in a white flowing garment stepp’d aft:
“He prated, and I went to sleep all the while;
“Yet my pleasure had certainly not been the lesser,
“Had I revell’d instead in his daughter’s sweet smile.{36}
“That flower of flowers, my life’s only light;
“Yet that flower of flowers was pluck’d in a second
“By a stupid old blockhead, an opulent wight.
“And mingled some poisonous herbs in my wine,
“And held with old Death a jollification,
“While he said: ‘Your good health! from this moment you’re mine!’”
A fifth, with a rope round his neck, next stepp’d aft:
“Of his daughter so fair, and his jewels so fine.
“What care I, Sir Count, for thy jewels so fine?
“Far rather would I that thy daughter were mine!
“And the Count many servants retain’d in his pay
“What cared I for servants, for bar, lock, or key?
“Up the rungs of the ladder I mounted with glee.
“Where curses beneath me saluted my ear.
“‘Stop, stop, my fine fellow! I too must be there,
“I’m likewise in love with the jewels so fair.’
“His servants came round me with shouts of delight.
“‘Pooh, nonsense, you rascals! No robber am I,
“I but came for my mistress—’tis really no lie.’
“They got ready the rope, threw it over my head,
“And the sun, when he rose, with amazement extreme
“Found me hanging, alas, from the gallows’ high beam!”
“A sixth, with his head in his hand, next stepp’d aft;
“Rifle in hand, I roam’d apace.
“Down from the tree, with hollow scoff,
“The raven cried: ‘head off! head off!’{37}
“I’d take it home for my sweet love!
“Thus thought I, and midst bush and tree
“With sportsman’s eye sought carefully.
“It sounds like turtle doves’ soft wooing.
“I stole up slily, cock’d my gun,
“And, lo, my own sweet love was one!
“A stranger clasp’d her waist with pride.
“Old gun, now let thy aim be good!—
“The stranger welter’d in his blood.
“With hangmen by my side, alas!
“Down from the tree, with bitter scoff,
“The raven cried: ‘head-off! head-off!’”
At length the musician in person stepp’d aft:
“That charming song’s at an end;
“When the heart is once broken, why surely
“The song may homeward wend!”
And the pale spectral troop in a circle swept round.
From the neighbouring church-tow’r the stroke of “One!” fell,
And the spirits rush’d back to their graves with a yell.
9.
All pain and grief allay’d;
A wondrous vision o’er me crept,
There came a lovely maid.
And, O, so passing fair!
Her eyes they swam with pearl-like grace,
And strangely waved her hair.
The pale-as-marble maid;
And on my heart herself she put,
The pale-as-marble maid.{38}
My heart, which hotly burn’d!
But neither shook nor throbb’d her breast,
Which into ice seem’d turn’d.
“And it is icy cold;
“And yet I know love’s yearning blest,
“Love’s mighty pow’r of old.
“No blood my veins doth swell;
“But start not, thus to hear me speak,
“I love thee, love thee well!”
And I was sore afraid;
Then crow’d the cock,—straight vanish’d she,
The pale-as-marble maid.
10.
Conjured with magical might;
They refuse to return any more now
To their former dwelling of night.
I forgot in my terror and fear;
My own spirits now seek my perdition,
Within their prison-house drear.
Away, nor to torment give birth!
Full many a joy still may linger
In the roseate light of this earth.
To reach the flower so fair;
O, what were the use of my living
If I may cherish her ne’er?
Would clasp her for once to my breast,
On her lips and her cheeks once caress her,
With sweetest of torments be blest.{39}
Could hear one fond whisper bestow’d,
I would follow thee, beckoning Spirit,
Yea, e’en to thy darksome abode.
And nod with terrific glee:
Sweet love, with an answer supply me,—
Sweet love, O lovest thou me?
2. SONGS.
1.
Comes my love to-day?
Then sink down at evening, sighing:
She is still away!
All night long I lie
Dreaming, half asleep; the morrow
Sadly wander I.
2.
But yet a few hours, I shall see her again,
Herself, the most fair of the fair maiden-train;—
True heart, what means thy throbbing so strong?
Lazily they move each day,
And with yawning go their way;—
Hasten on, ye slothful race!
Never in love have the hours delighted;
So, in a cruel bond strangely united,
Slily deride they the lovers’ wild speed.
3.
I wander’d under the trees;
That olden vision descended,
And stole to my heart by degrees.{40}
Ye birds in the branches on high?
O hush! when my heart hears it ringing,
It makes it more mournfully sigh.
“Who came here, and sang like a bird;
“And so we birds easily caught it,
“That pretty, golden word.”
Ye birds, so wondrously sly:
Of my sorrow ye fain would bereave me,
On your friendship I cannot rely.
4.
If thou hearest the knocks in that narrow cell?
There dwells there a carpenter, cunning is he,
And slily he’s hewing a coffin for me.
My slumber already has banish’d outright;
Oh, Master Carpenter, prythee make haste,
That I some slumber at length may taste.
5.
Beauteous grave of all my peace,
Beauteous town, we part to-morrow,
Fare thee well, our ties must cease!
Where my loved one sets her feet!
Fare thee well, thou spot so holy,
Where we chanced at first to meet!
Strangers, queen of hearts so fair!
Then it would have happen’d never
That I’m driven to despair.
For thy love I never pray’d;
Silently to live but sought I
Where thy breath its balm convey’d.{41}
Bitter words thy mouth doth speak,
In my senses riots madness,
And my heart is faint and weak
Sadly drag I, full of gloom,
Till I lay my head all weary
In a chilly distant tomb.
6.
To the port I’ll follow you;
From two maidens I’m departing,
From my love and Europe too.
Blood-spring, from my body flow,
So that I then, with my hot blood,
May write down my tale of woe.
Thus to-day my blood to see?
Many years before thee standing
Pale, heart-bleeding, saw’st thou me!
Of the snake in Paradise,
Who, a cursed apple giving,
Caused our parents endless sighs?
Death through Eve by apples came;
Flames on Troy were brought by Eris,—
Both thou broughtest, death and flame!
7.
O’er the clear and glassy Rhine,
And my bark is gaily dancing
In the sunlight all-divine.
Sportively, my calm eyes rest;
Gently are the feelings waking
That I nourish’d in my breast.{42}
Lure me those deep waters bright,
Yet I know their smoothness cheating
Hides beneath it death and night.
Thou’rt my loved one’s image, stream
Blissful is her smile’s seduction,
Kind and gentle can she seem.
8.
I can never stand the blow.—
Yet I did—strange contradiction!
How I did, ne’er seek to know.
9.
I fain would adorn in a charming way
This book, as though a coffin it were,
And in it my olden songs inter.
On love’s grave grows rest’s floweret fair;
’Tis there ’tis pluck’d in its sweetest bloom,—
For me ’twill not blossom till in my tomb.
As wild as the lava from Etna that flows,
From out the depths of my feelings true,
And glittering sparks around them threw!
And cold and pallid as mist they’ve become;
But the olden glow their revival will bring
When the spirit of love waves o’er them its wing.
The spirit of love will over them rise:
This book will hereafter come to thy hand,
My sweetest love, in a distant land.
The pallid letters will gaze on thee,
Imploringly gaze on thy beauteous eyes,
And whisper with sadness and loving sighs.
3. ROMANCES.
1. THE MOURNFUL ONE.
When they see the stripling pale,
Who upon his face bears written
Grief and sorrow’s mournful tale.
Fan his burning brow the while,
And his bosom many a sprightly
Damsel fair would fain beguile.
To the wood for peace he flies.
Merrily the leaves there rustle,
Merrier still the bird’s songs rise.
Sadly rustle leaf and tree,
When he, while his grief increases,
Nears the forest mournfully.
2. THE MOUNTAIN ECHO.
There rode a horseman brave:
“Ah! travel I now to my mistress’s arms,
Or but to the darksome grave?”
The echo answer gave:
“The darksome grave!”
With sighs his thoughts express’d:
“If I thus early must go to my grave,
Yet in the grave is rest.”
The answering voice confess’d:
“The grave is rest!”
3. THE TWO BROTHERS.
Lies the castle, veil’d in night;
Lights are in the valley sparkling,
Clashing swords are gleaming bright.
Fight, with wrath to fury fann’d;
Tell me why these brothers cruel
Strive thus madly, sword in hand?
Were they thus in strife array’d;
Both with glowing love adore her,—
Her, the noble, beauteous maid.
Is her heart the most inclined?
She her secret feelings smothers,—
Out, then, sword, the truth to find!
Blows exchange with savage might;
Take good heed, ye gallants daring,—
Mischief walks abroad by night.
Woe, O woe, thou vale abhorr’d!
Both fall victims in the duel,
Falling on each other’s sword.
Many centuries have flown,
And the castle, now deserted,
Sadly from the mount looks down.
Wondrous forms appear again;
At the stroke of twelve, forth sally
To the fight the brothers twain.
4. POOR PETER.
I.
And each of them loudly rejoices,
Poor Peter looks as pale as can be,
And perfectly mute his voice is.{45}
And glitter in smart ostentation,
Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide,
And bites his nails with vexation.
As he gazed on the couple sadly:
“Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf,
It had fared with my life but badly!”
II.
That seems my breast to sever;
Where’er I stand, where’er I go,
It drives me onward ever.
As if she could restore me;
Yet when I gaze upon her eye,
My sorrows rise before me.
In lonely sorrow creeping,
And standing silent on its brow,
I cannot cease from weeping.”
III.
Pale as a corpse, and stealthily;
The very people in the street
Stand still, when his sad form they meet.
“The grave he has this moment quitted.”
Ah no, my dear young maidens fair,
He’s just about to lie down there!
The grave’s the best place that is left,
Where he his aching heart may lay,
And sleep until the Judgment Day.
5. THE PRISONER’S SONG.
The mob would have burnt her quite readily;
But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl,
She refused to confess her crime steadily.{46}
She shouted and yell’d like a craven;
But when the black vapour arose, she at last
Flew up in the air as a raven.
O visit me soon in this tower!
Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here,
And bring me some cakes to devour!
O prythee protect me from sorrow!
For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear,
When I merrily soar hence to-morrow.
6. THE GRENADIERS
On leaving their prison in Russia,
And sadly they hung their heads in dismay
When they reach’d the frontiers of Prussia.
That France had utterly perish’d,
The grand army had met with an overthrow,
They had captured their Emperor cherish’d.
At hearing the terrible story;
And one of them said: “Alas! once more
My wounds are bleeding and gory.”
With thee I would die right gladly,
But I’ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend,
For without me they’ll fare but badly.
A heavier care has arisen;
Let them beg, if they’re hungry, all their life,—
My Emperor sighs in a prison!
If my hours I now must number,
O take my corpse to my country fair,
That there it may peacefully slumber.{47}
Upon my bosom place thou,
And put in my hand my musket dread,
And my sword around me brace thou.
And watch like a guard o’er the forces,
Until the roaring of cannon hear I,
And the trampling of neighing horses.
While the swords glitter brightly and rattle;
Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave,
For my Emperor hasting to battle!”
7. THE MESSAGE.
And leap upon thy steed,
And to King Duncan’s castle then
Through plain and forest speed.
’Till by the helper spied;
Then say: “Of Duncan’s daughters, which
Has just become a bride?”
The news bring quickly home;
But if he says: “The fair one ’tis,”
More slowly thou mayst come.
And buy a rope for me;
And riding slowly, bring it here,
And mute and silent be.
8. TAKING THE BRIDE HOME.
With me thou must go now
To the cheery, old, and cosy room
In the dreary cold abode of gloom,
Where at the door my mother keeps guard,
And for her son’s return looks hard.{48}
Who bid thee come hither?
Thy hand’s like ice, thine eye glows bright,
Thy breath is burning, thy cheek is white;—
But I would rather my time beguile
With smell of roses and sun’s sweet smile.”
My darling sweetheart!
Throw thy spreading white veil thy figure around,
Make the chords of the echoing lyre resound,
And sing a wedding song to me;
The night-wind pipes the melody.
9. DON RAMIRO.
Through long years the hotly-loved one
Thou hast will’d now my destruction,
Will’d it, too, without compassion.
Very sweet the gift of life is!
But beneath us all is fearful,
In the tomb so dark and chilly.
Will Fernando at the altar
As his wedded bride salute thee,—
Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?”
Bitterly thy words are sounding,
Bitt’rer than you stars’ decree is,
Scoffing at my heart’s own wishes.
Shake thy gloomy sadness from thee;
On the earth are many maidens,
But by God have we been parted.
Many Moors hast overpower’d,
Overpower now thyself too,—
Come to-morrow to my wedding.”{49}
Yes, I swear it, yes, I’ll come there!
And the dance will lead off with thee;—
So good night, I’ll come to-morrow.”
Sighing stood below Ramiro,
Seeming turn’d to stone long stood he;
Then he vanish’d in the darkness.
Night to day in turn surrender’d;
Like a blooming flowery garden
Lies extended fair Toledo.
Glitter in the radiant sunlight,
And the churches’ domes so lofty
Glisten proudly, as though gilded.
Merrily the bells are sounding;
Sweetly rise the solemn psalm-tunes
From the God-devoted churches.
Where from out the market chapel,
Midst the heaving crowd and uproar,
Streams the throng in chequer’d masses.
In gay courtly dresses sparkle,
And the clear-toned bells are ringing,
And the organ peals between times.
In the people’s midst are walking,
Nobly clad, the youthful couple,
Donna Clara, Don Fernando.
Slowly moves the gay procession;
There begin the ceremonies,
Stately, and in olden fashion.
Interchange with loud rejoicing;
Swiftly fly the hours thus gladly
Till the shades of night have fallen.{50}
In the hall, to hold the dances,
And their chequer’d gala dresses
Midst the glittering lights are sparkling.
Bride and bridegroom are reclining,
Donna Clara, Don Fernando,
Holding loving conversation.
All the festal crowd of people,
And the kettle-drums sound loudly,
And the trumpets, too, are crashing.
Are thy glances so directed
Tow’rd the hall’s most distant corner?”
Thus the knight exclaim’d with wonder.
Yonder man in dark cloak hidden?”
And the knight with smiling answered:
“Ah, ’tis nothing but a shadow.”
And a man was in the mantle,
And Ramiro recognising,
Clara greeted him with blushes.
And the dancers whirl round gaily
In the waltz’s giddy mazes,
And the ground beneath them trembles.
In the dance become thy partner,
But thou didst not well to come here
In a black and nightlike mantle.”
Looks Ramiro on the fair one;
Clasping her, with gloom thus speaks he:
“At thy bidding have I come here!”
In the dance’s giddy mazes,
And the kettle-drums sound loudly,
And the trumpets, too, are crashing.{51}
Clara speaks with secret trembling.
“At thy bidding have I come here!”
In a hollow voice replies he.
Through the ebbing, flowing masses,
And the kettle-drums sound loudly,
And the trumpets, too, are crashing.
Clara speaks with shudd’ring terror.
“At thy bidding have I come here!”
And within the whirl they vanish.
Ah, thy breath is like a corpse’s!”
Once again the dark words speaks he
“At thy bidding have I come here!”
Fiddle, viol sound right merry;
Like a wondrous weft of magic
All within the hall is whirling.
Sadly sounds amidst the tumult;
Don Ramiro ever answers:
“At thy bidding have I come here!”
Clara with a firm voice utters,
And the words she scarce had spoken
When Ramiro vanish’d from her.
Chilly, night-surrounded, stood there,
And a swoon her lightsome figure
To its darksome kingdom carries.
Yields, at last her eyelids open,
But again, with deep amazement,
Would she fain have closed her fair eyes.
From her seat had she not moved once,
And she still sits by the bridegroom,
And the anxious knight thus asks her{52}
Wherefore is thine eye so darksome?”—
“And Ramiro?”—stammers Clara,
And her tongue is mute with horror.
Is the bridegroom’s brow now furrow’d:
“Lady, bloody news why seek’st thou?
This day’s noontide died Ramiro.”
10. BELSHAZZAR.
In deathlike calm lay Babylon.
Held the monarch’s attendants gay revelry.
A regal feast Belshazzar shares.
And empty the goblets of sparkling wine.
Delighting the heart of the ruthless king.
The wine doth swell his ardour so.
The Godhead with blasphemous words he reviles.
Approvingly bellow the serving crowd.
The servant hastens and soon returns.
The spoils of Jehovah’s temple dread.
With impious hand, and fill’d it up.
And with foaming mouth exclaims at last:
The King of Babylon am I.”
And deathlike silence fills the hall.
A human hand appears in sight.
It wrote, and wrote, and vanish’d from sight.
As pale as death, and with trembling knees.
And silent sat, and utter’d no sound.
Could rightly interpret the words on the wall.
Was slain by his servants,—a ghastly sight.
11. THE MINNESINGERS.
Pass the Minnesingers by;
Strange the war that they are waging,
Strange the tourney where they vie.
Is the Minnesinger’s steed;
Art as trusty buckler serves him,
And his word’s a sword indeed.
From the balcony look down;
But the right one is not present
With the proper laurel crown.
To the lists, at least are sound;
Minnesingers must be bringing
To the fray a deadly wound.
Song’s blood from the inmost breast,—
He is victor, and obtaineth
From fair lips the praise most blest,
12. LOOKING FROM THE WINDOW.
If pale Henry would chance to detect her;
She said half aloud: “Why goodness me!
The man is as pale as a spectre!”
At her window, in hopes to detect her;
Fair Hedwig now felt the torments of love,
And she became pale as a spectre.
At her window, lest he should reject her;
But soon in pale Henry’s arms she lay
All night, at the time for a spectre.
13. THE WOUNDED KNIGHT.
A tale of the times of old;
A knight with love doth languish,
His mistress is faithless and cold.
Her whom in his heart he adored;
His loving pangs must he deem now
Disgraceful and abhorr’d.
And challenge to battle each knight;
“Let him who my mistress dares slander
Make ready at once for the fight!”
His grief, that so fiercely doth burn;
His lance he against his own lonely
Accusing bosom must turn.
14. THE SEA-VOYAGE.
And told each wave of ocean;
Farewell, my beauteous fatherland!
My bark, how swift thy motion!
The windows gleam’d all over;
But though I gazed and gazed and gazed,
No sign could I discover.{55}
On this too-painful morrow;
My love-sick heart, O do not break
With overweight of sorrow!
15. THE SONG OF REPENTANCE.
The leaves with joy seem laden;
He sees, the trees’ thick branches between,
The form of a beauteous maiden.
So blooming and glowing thy face is;
Alluringly ever encircles it me,
In deserts or crowded places.
Appear a pair of roses;
Yet many a hateful bitter word
That roguish mouth discloses.
Resembles very closely,
Where cunning poisonous serpents hiss
Amid the leaves morosely.
A sweet and beauteous dimple;
That is the grave where I fell by surprise,
Lured on by a yearning simple.
That once so lovingly pleased me;
That is the net so wondrous fair
Wherewith the Evil One seized me.
As clear as the ocean even,
It proved to be the portal of hell,
Though I thought it the gateway of heaven.”
The leaves make a rustling dreary,
A second figure afar he spied,
That seem’d so sad and weary.{56}
Who lov’dst me to distraction,
But to whom in life I caused many a tear,
By evil word and action!
My sorrow so fiercely glowing!
O could I but redden thy cheeks so pale
With the blood from my own heart flowing!”
The night o’er the forest is falling;
Many singular voices fill the air,
The evening breezes are calling.
Full often near him ringing;
’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birds
All twittering loudly and singing:
We call it the song of repentance:
And when he has reach’d the end of his song,
He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”
16. TO A SINGER, ON HER SINGING AN OLD ROMANCE.
How on her first my glances fell!
How her dear tones resounded sweetly,
How they my heart enthrall’d completely,
How down my cheeks the tears coursed fleetly
But how it chanced, I could not tell.
Methought I was again a child,
And in my mother’s chamber sitting
In silence, by the lamp-light flitting,
And reading fairy tales befitting,
Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.
The knights arise from out the grave;
By Roncesvall the battle rages,
Sir Roland in the fight engages,
And with him many a valiant page is,—
And also Ganelon, the knave.{57}
He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath;
Scarce can his horn, at such far distance,
Call Charlemagne to his assistance:
So passed away the knight’s existence,
And, with him, sank my dream in death.
That from my vision wakened me.
The legend that she sang was ended,
The people heartily commended,
And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!”
Low bow’d the singer gracefully.
17. THE SONG OF THE DUCATS.
Tell me why ye are not here?
Which within the stream so gaily
Leap and splash and wriggle daily?
Which, o’er green fields scattered lightly,
In the morning dew gleam brightly?
Which we see in happy chorus
In the blue skies hov’ring o’er us?
Which in radiant crowds each even
Smile in yonder distant heaven?
Swim not in the streamlet bright,
Sparkle not on meadow green,
Hover not in skies serene,
Smile not in the heavens by night.—
Creditors, with greedy paws,
Hold you safely in their claws.
18. DIALOGUE ON PADERBORN HEATH.
As of double-bass and fiddle?
Many fair ones there are springing
Gaily up and down the middle.{58}
“Thus of fiddle and its brother;
“I but hear young porkers squeaking,
“And the grunting of their mother.”
Hunters in the chase are straying;
Gentle lambs are feeding, frugal
Shepherds on their pipes are playing.
“Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters;
“I can only see the sow-herd
“Slowly driving home his grunters.”
In sweet rivalry contending?
Many an angel blest rejoices
Strains like these to hear ascending.
“Is, my friend, no rival chorus;
“’Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing
“As they drive their geese before us.”
Sweet and clear, with deep emotion?
To the village-chapel slowly
Wend the people with devotion.
“Of the cows and oxen also,
“Who, with sunken heads and lonely,
“Go back to their gloomy stalls so.”
See’st thou not those soft advances?
There I see my mistress loving,
Humid sorrow in her glances.
“An old woman, Betsy namely;
“Pale and haggard, on her crutches
“O’er the meadow limps she lamely.”
At my questions, friend, each minute;
Wilt thou deem a mere illusion
What my bosom holds within it?
19. LIFE’S SALUTATIONS. (From an Album.)
We men are the trav’llers along it;
On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast,
And as runners or couriers throng it.
With our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches;
We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,
And speed on, despite all reproaches.
We scarcely have met at a station,
When the signal to start the postilions blow,
Compelling our sad separation.
20. QUITE TRUE.
The flowers then bud and blossom apace;
When the moon begins her radiant race,
Then the stars swim after her track so bright.
When the minstrel sees two beautiful eyes,
Then songs from his inmost bosom arise;—
But songs and stars and flowerets gay,
And eyes and moonbeams and sun’s bright ray,
However delightful they are,
Don’t make up the world, friend, by far.
4. SONNETS.
TO A. W. VON SCHLEGEL.
With beauty-patches on her painted face,
With pointed shoes all hung about with lace,
With tow’ring curls, and, wasp-like, fasten’d tight,—
Thus was the spurious muse equipp’d that night
When first she offer’d thee her fond embrace;
But thou eludedst her and leftst the place,
Led by a mystic impulse from her sight:{60}
A castle in the desert thou didst find,
Where, like a lovely marble image shrin’d,
Lay a fair maid, in magic slumber sunk;
But soon the spell was loosed,—when kiss’d by thee,
With smiles the lawful muse of Germany
Awoke, and sank within thine arms, love-drunk.
TO MY MOTHER, B. HEINE, née VON GELDERN.
1.
My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;
Even before a monarch’s cold rebuff
I would not timidly avert mine eye.
Yet, mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:
Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,
I feel submissive and subdued enough,
When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh.
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,
Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken,
And soaring to the light of heaven again?
By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d
That I have done so much that grieved thy breast,
Which loved me, more than all things else, the best.
2.
I fain would search the whole world through, to learn
If in it I perchance could love discern,
That I might love embrace right-lovingly.
I sought for love as far as eye could see,
My hands extending at each door in turn,
Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—
Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.
And ever search’d I after love; yes, ever
Search’d after love, but love discover’d never,
And so I homeward went, with troubled thought;
But thou wert there to welcome me again,
And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then
That was the sweet love I so long had sought.
TO H. S.
Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,
And many a golden image that I knew
In boyish dreams and days of infancy.
Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see
The pious dome, rotted by religion true,
I bear the sound of bell and organ too,
Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.
Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,
The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy
The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.
But though the oak of foliage we may strip,
And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,
When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.
FRESCO-SONNETS TO CHRISTIAN S—.
1.
Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand;
I never offer to that rogue my hand
Who secretly would injure my good name;
I bow not to the harlots who proclaim
Boldly their infamy throughout the land;
And when in victor-cars the rabble band
Draw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came.
Well know I that the oak must fall indeed,
Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reed
Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not;
But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot?
What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy,
Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.
2.
As country clown, so that the rabble rot
Who in their proud disguises strut about
May not suppose me one of their vile trade.
Give me low manners, words on purpose made
To show vulgarity beyond all doubt;
All sparks of spirit I’ll with care put out
Wherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid.{62}
So will I dance then at the great mask’d ball,
By German knights, monks, kings surrounded too,
By Harlequin saluted, known to few.
With wooden swords they’ll strike me, one and all.
That is the joke. For if I show my face,
The rascals will be silenced in disgrace.
3.
And whom with prying goat-like face I see;
I laugh at every fox who knavishly
And idly snuffs me like a very grape;
I laugh at every vain pretentious ape,
Who a proud judge of genius claims to be;
I laugh at all the knaves who threaten me
With poisonous weapons whence there’s no escape.
For when the charming fancies joy once gave
Are wrested from us by the hands of fate,
And at our feet in thousand atoms cast,
And when our very heart is torn at last,
All torn and cut and pierced and desolate,
A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save.
4.
Wherein a song the leading part assumes,
And in the song there lives and twines and blooms
A lovely specimen of womankind;
And in this maiden is a heart enshrined,
And yet no love that little heart illumes;
Her loveless frosty disposition dooms
Her life to suffer from her pride so blind.
Hear’st thou how in my head the tale comes back?
And how the song sounds solemnly and sad?
And how the maiden titters softly yet?
I only fear lest my poor head should crack.
Alas! it would indeed be far too bad,
If my unlucky reason were upset.
5.
Long buried songs around me take their place,
And burning tears course swiftly down my face,
And my old heart-wounds bleed with greater power.{63}
My love’s dear image like a beauteous flower
As in a magic glass again I trace;
In bodice red she sits and sews apace,
And silence reigns around her blissful bower.
But on a sudden springs she from her seat,
And cuts from her dear head a beauteous lock,
And gives it me—the very joy’s a shock.
The Evil One soon spoilt my rapture sweet:
The hair he twisted in a rope full strong,
And many a year has dragg’d me thus along.
6.
“No kiss thou gav’st me in that moment blest;”—
Thus spake I, and my love a kiss impress’d
With rosy mouth upon my lips with glee.
With a sweet smile she from a myrtle tree
Hard by us pluck’d a twig, and said in jest:
“Take thou this twig, in fresh earth let it rest,
“And o’er it place a glass,”—then nodded she.
Twas long ago. The twig died in the pot.
’Tis many a year since she hath cross’d my sight;
Yet in my head that kiss still burneth hot.
Lately returning home, I sought the place
Where dwells my love. Before her house all night
I stood, and left when morning show’d its face.
7.
But gentle angels’-brats more hearts will break;
Once such a one a sweet kiss bid me take,
But when I came, I felt sharp talons there.
Of black and ancient cats, my friend, take care,
But white young kittens are still more awake;
Once such a one my sweetheart did I make,—
My heart my sweetheart savagely did tear.
O darling brat! O maiden passing sweet!
How could thy clear eye e’er deceive me so?
How could thy paw e’er give me such a blow?
O my dear kitten’s paw so soft and neat!
Could I but press thee to my glowing lip!
And could my life-blood meanwhile cease to drip!
8.
Both spectacled old fop and painted dame,—
Who gladly would destroy my honest name,
And gladly see my last expiring throes.
Thou oft hast seen bow pedants round me close,
How fools with cap and bells my life defame,
How poisonous serpents gnaw my sinking frame,
Whilst from a thousand wounds my life-blood flows
But firm as any tower there stood thy form;
Thy head a lighthouse was amid the storm,
Thy faithful heart a haven was for me;
Though round that haven roars the raging main,
And few the ships the landing place that gain,
Once there, we slumber in security.
9.
Fain would I upwards full of vigour spring
But cannot; to the earth I needs must cling,
Spurn’d by the reptiles that around me creep.
Fain would I near my beauteous mistress keep,
Near my bright light of life be hovering,
And in her dear sweet breath be revelling,
But cannot; for my heart with sorrow deep
Is breaking; from my broken heart doth flow
My burning blood, my strength within me fades
And darker, darker grows the world to me.
With secret awe I yearn unceasingly
For yonder misty realm, where silent shades
Their gentle loving arms around me throw.
LYRICAL INTERLUDE.
1822-23.
PROLOGUE.
His cheeks white as snow were, and hollow;
He totter’d and stagger’d wherever he went,
A vain vision attempting to follow.
He seem’d so clumsy and awkward and gauche,
That the flowers and girls, when they saw him approach,
Their merriment scarcely could swallow.
Esteeming the sight of men shocking,
And extended his arms, without speaking a word,
As though some vain phantom were mocking.
But scarce had the hour of midnight drawn near,
When a wonderful singing and noise met his ear,
And he heard at the door a strange knocking.
In a dress made of foam of the ocean;
She glows like a rosebud, so sweet is her bloom,
Her jewell’d veil’s ever in motion;
Her golden locks play round her form slim and tall,
Their eyes meet with rapture, and straightway they fall
In each other’s arms with devotion.
The dullard with passion is glowing;
He reddens, the dreamer awakens at last,
And bolder and bolder he’s growing.
But she grows more saucy and mocking instead,
And gently and softly she covers his head,
Her white jewell’d veil o’er him throwing.
The knight on a sudden is taken;
His eyes are dazzled by radiant light,
By his wits he is well-nigh forsaken.
But the nymph holds him closely embraced by her side
The knight is the bridegroom, the nymph is the bride
While her maidens the lute’s notes awaken.{66}
In the dance they are moving so lightly,
That the knight before long finds his senses take wing,
He embraces his sweet one more tightly—
When all of a sudden the lights disappear,
And the knight’s once more sitting in solitude drear
In his poet’s low garret unsightly.
1.
When all the flowers were springing,
That first within my bosom
I heard love’s echo ringing.
When all the birds were singing,
That first I to my sweetheart
My vows of love was bringing.
2.
Many blooming flowerets break,
And all my sighs combining
A chorus of nightingales make.
To thee shall the flowerets belong;
Before thy window shall echo
The nightingale’s tuneful song.
3.
I loved them all dearly once, every one;
I love them no longer, I love now alone
The small one, the neat one, the pure one, mine own.
Yes, she herself, the fount of all love,
Is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove.
4.
5.
In vision I have lately seen;
So like an angel’s ’tis, and meek,
Though bitter grief has blanch’d thy cheek.
Death soon will kiss them pale and dead;
The heavenly light will soon be o’er
That from thine eyes is wont to pour.
6.
That our tears together may mingle!
Against my bosom press thou thine,
That their flames may no longer be single
The stream of our tears all burning,
And mine arm is lovingly round thee cast,—
I’ll die of my love’s sweet yearning.
7.
In the cup of the lily down here;
The lily shall sing to me sweetly
A song of my mistress dear.
Like that delicious kiss,
Of which her mouth was the giver
In a wondrous moment of bliss.
8.
Immovably have stood
For thousands of years, regarding
Each other in sad loving mood.{68}
That’s rich and sweet to the ear;
Yet no philologist living
Can make its meaning clear.
Whatever the time and place;
As my grammar I used for the purpose
My own dear mistress’s face.
9.
I’ll bear thee, my sweetheart fair,
Where Ganges holds his dominion,—
The sweetest of spots know I there.
In the moonlight silent and clear;
The lotos flowers are sighing
For their sister so pretty and dear
And gaze on the stars high above
The roses mysteriously twitter
Their fragrant stories of love.
Skip lightly in frolicsome mood
And in the distance roars ever
The holy river’s loud flood.
Beneath the palm by the stream,
And love and repose while drinking
Of blissful visions we’ll dream.
10.
At the sun’s resplendent light
With sunken head and sadly
She dreamily waits for the night.
She wakes at his fond embrace;
For him she kindly uncovers
Her sweetly flowering face.{69}
And mutely gazes above;
She weeps and exhales and trembles
With love and the sorrows of love.
11.
The sacred town of Cologne,
With its vast cathedral, is ever
Full clearly mirror’d and shown.
In that fair cathedral is seen;
On my life, so sad altogether,
It hath cast its rays serene.
Round our dear Lady there;
Her eyes, lips, cheeks, all over
Resemble my mistress fair.
12.
It troubles me but slightly;
But when thy beauteous face I see,
No king’s heart beats more lightly.
With well-pretended snarling;
But when sweet kisses they convey,
I’m comforted, my darling.
13.
My mistress beauteous and sweet!
With pliant form interlace me,
And with thine arms and thy feet.
With vigour encircles anon,
And clasps and twines round the elated
And happy Laocoon.
14.
I’ll credit all that thou dost say;
And when I sink upon thy breast,
I’ll think that I am truly blest;
I’ll think that, love, eternally
And even longer, thou’lt love me.
15.
I write the fairest cantatas;
Upon my mistress’s mouth sincere
I write the best of terzinas;
Upon my mistress’s cheeks so dear
I write the cleverest stanzas;
And had my mistress a heart, upon it
I soon would write a charming sonnet.
16.
And grows more stupid daily:
It says, my darling child, of thee,—
Thou livest far too gaily.
Thy character not knowing;
It knows not how sweet thy kisses be,
How rapturously glowing.
17.
Art thou but a vision fair,
Such as in his brain the poet
Loves in summer to prepare?
Lips so rosy and so warm,
Such a child, so sweet and tender,
Never did the poet form.
Dragons, monsters of the earth,
Suchlike evil beasts of story
In the poet’s fire have birth.{71}
And thy face, so sweet and staid,
And thy kindly looks perfidious,—
These the poet never made.
18.
Like the child of ocean foam;
As his bride my mistress tender
Is a stranger taking home.
Heart, thou much-enduring one!
Bear it, bear it, and excuse it,
What the beauteous fool hath done.
19.
Evermore lost one! no complaint I’ll make.
Though thou may’st sparkle ’neath thy diamonds bright,
No ray can pierce thy heart’s unceasing night.
How night thy heart doth fill unceasingly,
And how the serpent at thy heart doth gnaw,—
How wretched, love, thou art, too well I saw.
20.
My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!
Till death our poor afflicted hearts doth break,
My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!
I see thine eyes that glance so haughtily,
I see the pride that doth thy bosom sway,—
Yet thou art wretched, wretched e’en as I.
With hidden tears thine eyes can scarcely see,
And secret wounds on thy proud bosom feed—
My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!
21.
The trumpets ringing clear;
In the wedding dance is bounding
My heart’s own mistress dear.
In noisy chorus I hear;
But meanwhile good angels are sighing
And weeping many a tear.
22.
That I of thine heart so long was the master;
Thine heart so false, so small, and so sweet,
A sweeter and falser I never shall meet.
That made my heart throb all the faster;
I know not if love was the greatest, or woe;
That both were great, full well I know.
23.
But knew of my wounded heart,
Their tears, like mine, in showers
Would fall, to cure the smart.
That I’m so mournful and sad,
They would cheer my misery lonely
With their notes so tuneful and glad.
But knew of my bitter woe,
They would speak words of comfort in chorus,
Descending hither below.
One only knows of my smart;
’Tis she, I grieve to say it,
Who thus hath wounded my heart.
24.
Sweet love, O tell me why?
Why mutely thus do the violets blue
In the verdant meadows sigh?{73}
With a voice so mournful sing?
O why doth each fragrant floweret fair
Exhale like a poisonous thing?
On the fields, so full of gloom?
O why doth the earth appear so grey,
And dreary as a tomb?
Sweet love, I put it to thee?
My own sweet darling, sweet love, O speak,—
O wherefore leavest thou me?
25.
And loud complaints preferred;
But how my soul was tormented,
Of this they said not a word.
And mournfully shook their head;
They liken’d poor me to the devil,
And thou didst believe what they said.
Of this they nothing knew;
The saddest and the maddest
In my heart was hidden from view.
26.
The sun was laughing with radiance bright;
Thou kissed’st me then, while thine arm round me clung,
To thy heaving bosom thou pressed’st me tight.
The sun gazed cheerlessly down on the sight;
We coldly said to each other “Farewell!”
Thou politely didst make me a curtsey polite.
27.
And yet our tempers always were matching,
At “man and wife” we have play’d full oft,
And yet ne’er took to fighting and scratching.
We have shouted together, together been gay,
And tenderly kiss’d and fondled away.{74}
At last we play’d in forest and dell
At hide and seek, like sister and brother.
And managed to hide ourselves so well,
That never since then have we seen each other.
28.
Of which the parsons rave;
In thine eyes believe I only,
In their heavenly light I lave.
Of whom the parsons rave;
In thine heart believe I only,
No other God will I have.
In hell or the pains of hell;
In thine eyes believe I only,
And thine evil heart as well.
29.
And madest for me supplication;
In my troubles and sad tribulation
Thy comfort always was ready.
And plenty of money didst lend me,
And also a passport didst send me,
As well as some changes of raiment.
May heaven, my dear one, long guard thee,
And may it never reward thee
The kindness shown me at present!
30.
But May, when she came, gave with great prodigality,
And all things now smile with rapture delicious,
But I for laughter have no partiality.
The birds, as in fables, talk sentimentality;
I take no pleasure in all they are saying,
And I am quite wretched in sober reality.{75}
Not even my friend, with the least cordiality,
And this all because my amiable sweet one
They “madam” entitle, with chilling formality.
31.
In foreign lands had in reveries stay’d,
My loved one found it too long to wait,
And sew’d herself a wedding-dress straight,
And then embraced in her arms, willy-nilly,
As bridegroom, the youth in the world the most silly.
Before me still hovers her image oft;
Her rosy cheeks, her violet eyes
That all the year round glow bright as the skies.
That I could fly from such charming attractions
Was the silliest far of my silliest actions.
32.
The beauteous cheeks of rosy hue,
The hands so like white lilies too,—
All these still sweetly blossom and bloom,
The heart alone is cold as the tomb.
33.
The breezes are breathing with soothing might
The blooming fields with flowers are dight,
In the morning dew all radiant with light,
All men are rejoicing that meet my sight—
My bed in the grave I fain would be pressing,
The corpse of my mistress dear caressing.
34.
The chilly tomb, thou must hide thee.
I’ll soon descend to rejoin thee there,
And fondly nestle beside thee.
My pale, cold, fearful-to-see love!
I’ll tremble, weep, shout with rapturous bliss,
And soon be a corpse like thee, love.{76}
And dance in airy troops lightly;
But we in the tomb will quietly lie,
Thine arms embracing me tightly.
To bliss or to torment is calling;
But regardless of all, we’ll remain in the tomb,
Still clasp’d in embraces enthralling.
35.
On a northern barren height;
It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift
Cast round it a garment of white.
Which far in the Eastern land
Beside a precipice scorching
In silent sorrow doth stand.
36.
Seek my love’s far habitation;
Tell her that I still am true,
Sick at heart and palefaced too.
37.
On which my loved one’s foot doth rest,
I ne’er to grumble should be seen,
However hard I might be press’d.
Wherein her pins she’s wont to stick,
And ’twere her will to prick me oft,
I should rejoice at every prick.
Wherewith she’s wont her hair to curl,
I’d gently whisper in her ear
The thoughts that in me live and whirl.
38.
Power of laughing is bereft me;
Blockheads fain would raise a joke,
But no laughter can provoke.
Power of weeping, too, is gone;
Though my heart with sorrow deep
Wellnigh breaks, I cannot weep.
39.
From out of my great, great sorrow;
Some tinkling pinions they borrow,
And tow’rd her bosom they flutter.
But soon return’d they, complaining,
And yet to tell me disdaining
What they in her bosom discover’d.
40.
The thoughts in my memory dwell
That once I possess’d thee wholly,
Thy soul and body as well.
I need, beyond all doubt;
Thy soul to the tomb I’ll surrender,
I’ve plenty of soul without.
And half of it breathe into thee,
And when I embrace thee,—O wonder!—
One soul and body we’ll be.
41.
Are walking through forest and plain;
They shout, and like kittens are leaping,
And hail sweet Nature again.
On each romantic thing;
With ears like asses they listen
To hear the sparrows sing.{78}
With black cloth I hang it by day;
To the signal my spirits straight hearken,
Day-visits they hasten to pay.
From the realms of the dead she appears;
She, weeping, sits gently close by me,
And softens my bosom to tears.
42.
Arise from out of their tomb,
And show me how once in thy presence
I lived in my life’s young bloom.
Through the streets, as though in a dream
The people gazed on me with wonder,
So silent and sad did I seem.
Deserted the streets were then,
And I and my shadow together
We wandered in silence again.
I wander’d over the bridge;
The moon with solemn look hail’d me
As she burst through the cloudy ridge.
And fondly gazed up on high;
I gazed up towards thy window,
My heart breathed many a sigh.
Full often hast gazed below,
And in the moonlight hast seen me
Stand fix’d, the image of woe.
43.
Who loved another instead;
The other himself loved another,
And with the latter did wed.{79}
The maiden, in scornful anger,
Straight married the first of the men
Who happened to come across her,—
The youth was heart-broken then.
’Tis only an old, old story,
And yet it ever seems new;
The heart of him whom it pictures
Will soon be broken in two.
44.
These three things men value alone.
I, too, valued and sought them ever,
But, alas, discovered them never.
45.
That my loved one sang to me erst,
With torments fierce and appalling
My heart is ready to burst.
Impell’d by a gloomy yearning
I seek in the forest relief,
And there in tears hotly burning
I quench my anguish and grief.
46.
How tear-stain’d and pallid her face is,
As we quietly sit ’neath the linden green,
Held fast in each other’s embraces!
Nor yet his sceptre all golden,
And diamond crown; for nothing but thee,
Sweet love, will I be beholden.”
For I in my grave am lying,
And only by night can I be by thy side,
To thy loving caresses replying.”
47.
In the light canoe sat we,
Still the night was, and calm was the weather,
As we skimm’d o’er the wide-spreading sea.{80}
In the glimmering moonlight lay;
Sweet tones came floating o’er us,
While the mists were dancing in play.
And sweeter still sounded the song;
But over the boundless ocean
We mournfully floated along.
48.
Appears a snow-white band
With joyous strains, and singing,
From some far magic-land,
Pine in the evening sun,
And bridal glances tender
Cast sweetly every one;
In chorus, shout below,
And bubbling brooks delighting
The ear, like music flow;
Unheard of bliss impart,
Till sweet and wondrous yearning
Befools the throbbing heart.
And ease my aching breast,
And all my grief unravel,
And there be free and blest!
Are banish’d, that in dreams
Oft see I, like a bubble
Dissolves, when morning beams.
49.
And e’en if the world were shatter’d,
My glowing love would glisten and thrill,
Though widely earth’s ruins were scatter’d.
. . . . . . . . . .
{81} And when I thus have loved thee so well
Till the hour of death has sounded,
I’ll take with me e’en to my tomb’s dark cell
My love-pangs fierce and unbounded.
50.
I pace the garden alone;
The flowers are whisp’ring and speaking,
But silently wander I on.
My form with compassion they scan:
O pray be kind to our sister,
Thou mournful and pale-faced man!
51.
My love appears to my sight
Like a tale of sorrow despairing
That’s told in the long summer night:
“Two lovers mute and alone;
“Sweet sing the nightingales yonder,
“The moonbeams are over them thrown.
“At her feet the faithful knight lies;
“The forest giant comes wildly,
“The sorrowing maiden soon flies.
“The giant goes home at his ease—”
And when I am buried, the story
Is ended as soon as you please.
52.
And worried me early and late;
While some with their love have annoy’d me,
The others pursued me with hate.
And poison’d my cup too of late;
While some with their love have annoy’d me,
The others pursued me with hate.{82}
Has vex’d me, and worried, and chafed,
She only with hate ne’er pursued me,
She only her love ne’er vouchsafed.
53.
Upon thy cheek confess’d,
And in thine heart cold winter
Has made its place of rest.
My dearest love and best,
The winter on thy cheek be,
The summer in thy breast!
54.
They give each other the hand,
To weep and to sigh beginning,
And losing all self-command.
No Ah! or Alas! did we sigh;
Our tears and our sighs both together
Too surely came by-and-by.
55.
And speaking of love a great deal;
The men of æsthetics were thinking,
The ladies more prone were to feel.
The wither’d old counsellor said;
His wife by a smile quite ironical
Rejoin’d, and then sighed “Ah!” instead.
“Love ne’er should be suffered to go
“Too far, or the health is affected;”
The maiden then simper’d: “How so?”
Said “Love is a passion, I’m sure,”
And then to the Baron presented
His cup with politeness demure.{83}
My darling, ’twas thou wert away;
Thou hadst been so especially able
The tale of thy love, sweet, to say.
56.
But how could it otherwise be?
My blossoming life thou hast poison’d,
And made it hateful to me.
But how could it otherwise be?
In my heart many serpents I carry,
And thee too, my dearest love, thee.
57.
The time was a fair May even,
We sat ’neath the linden, and there we swore
To be faithful, in presence of heaven.
And titter’d, caress’d, kiss’d so dearly;
And lest I should fail to remember my oath,
My hand thou then bittest severely.
O sweet one, so fair and so biteful!
The swearing was doubtless all proper and right
But the biting was rather too spiteful!
58.
And sentimentally sigh.
“O were I only a bird now!”
I many a thousand times cry.
My darling, to thee would I fly,
And soon a nest would I build me,
Thy lattice window hard by.
I would fly, my darling, to thee,
And sing my sweet songs by night-time
Perch’d high in the green linden tree.{84}
I would fly straight into thy heart;
To the bullfinch thou always wert kindly,
And healest the bullfinch’s smart.[7]
59.
The greenwood merry and bright,
Through flowering valleys, like magic
Illumed by the sun’s glowing light.
And muse on my mistress dear;
When, nodding their heads at the window,
Three shadowy figures appear.
So scoffing and yet so shy;
And twirling mist-like together,
They titter and haste swiftly by.
60.
I dreamt thou wert laid in thy grave;
I awoke, and the tears unceasing
My cheeks continued to lave.
I dreamt I was left, love, by thee;
I awoke, and weeping continued
Both long and bitterly.
I dreamt thou wert kind as of yore;
I awoke, and my tears in torrents
Continued to flow as before.
61.
And see thee greeting me kindly;
And loudly weeping then throw I me
Before thy sweet feet blindly.{85}
Thy fair locks mournfully shaking;
While teardrops bright of pearly hue
From thy dear eyes are breaking.
And givest a cypress-wreath sweetly;
I awake, and the wreath has vanish’d away,
And the word is forgotten completely.
62.
With rain and tempest above;
Where tarries,—O tell it unto me,—
My poor and sorrowing love?
In her chamber lonely and drear,
And out in the night, sadly pining,
She looks with many a tear.
63.
The night is humid and cold;
I ride all alone in the forest,
And round me my grey cloak I fold.
My thoughts unrestrainedly roam;
They lightly and airily bear me
To my own dear mistress’s home.
With glittering torches appear;
I climb up the winding staircase,
My spurs ring loudly and clear.
So full of magical charms,
My own sweet darling awaits me,
I hasten into her arms.
64.
From its shining home in the air;
The star of love ’tis surely
That I see falling there.
From the apple tree fall each day;
The merry breezes approach them,
And with them merrily play.
And up and down doth he steer,
And, singing gently ever,
Dips under the water clear.
The leaves and blossoms decay,
The star has crumbled and vanish’d,
The song of the swan died away.
65.
Where magic fragrance reign’d and lights were gleaming,
And through its mazy-winding chambers pass’d
A chequer’d throng, still onward, onward streaming.
The pale crowd seek the exit-portal fast,
Wringing their hands, and full of terror screaming,
And knights and maidens mingle in the throng,
And I myself am with them borne along.
The crowd hath vanish’d and from sight departed;
I wander on, and through the chambers go,
All strangely winding, silent and deserted;
My foot is leaden, and I scarcely know
How to escape, thus sadden’d and faint-hearted.
At length the farthest portal I descry,
And seek to pass—great heavens, what meets mine eye!
Grief on her lips, her brow in tribulation.
I sought to fly,—she beckon’d with her hand,
Whether to warn me, or in indignation;{87}
Yet gleam’d her eye like some sweet glowing brand,
Setting my heart and brain in conflagration.
And as she gazed with looks of passion deep,
Blended with sternness, I awoke from sleep.
66.
I wander’d mournfully through the wood;
I shook the trees from out of their sleep,
They shook their heads with pity deep.
67.
The suicide lies here,
Where grows a charming blue flow’ret,
The culprit-flower so dear.
The night was chilly and drear,
While slowly moved in the moonlight
The culprit-flower so dear.
68.
Round me gloom and utter night,
Now that there no longer sparkles
On me, love, thine eyes’ sweet light.
That love’s star upon me smil’d;
’Neath my feet the dread abyss is,—
Night primeval, take thy child!
69.
Upon my mouth lay lead;
I in my grave was lying,
With frozen heart and head.
That I in slumber lay;
I woke and heard a knocking
Upon my grave one day.{88}
“The Judgment Day is this,
“The dead have all arisen,
“To taste of endless bliss.”
For I have lost my sight;
Mine eyes, through very weeping,
Are veil’d in darkest night.
“My Henry, from thine eyes;
“The angels shalt thou see then,
“The glory of the skies.”
The wound is bleeding yet,
Made by thee in my bosom
With one sharp word and threat.
“I’ll lay upon thy heart;
“It then will bleed no longer,
“And heal’d will be the smart.”
My head still bleeds amain!
’Twas there the bullet enter’d,
When thou wert from me ta’en.
“I’ll stanch the bleeding wound,
“And drive the blood-stream backwards,
“And make thy head thus sound.”
I could not spurn her prayer;
I sought to rise and hasten
To join my mistress fair.
Then, wildly rushing, broke
From head and breast the bloodstream,
And lo!—from sleep I woke.
70.
The dreams so harrowing,
Let’s bury all together,—
A mighty coffin bring!
What ’tis, till all is done;
The coffin must be larger
Than Heidelberg’s vast tun.
Of boards full stout and sound;
They also must be longer
Than Mayence bridge renown’d.
Whose strength of limb excels
Saint Christopher’s, whose shrine in
Cologne Cathedral dwells.
And sink beneath the wave;
For such a mighty coffin
Must have a mighty grave.
So great and hard to move?
I in it placed my sorrows,
And in it placed my love.
THE GODS’ TWILIGHT.
And silken gales and fragrant spicy odours,
And kindly lures us with her snowy blossoms,
And from a thousand blue-eyed violets greets us,
And spreads abroad her flowery verdant carpet,
With morning dew and sunshine interwoven,
And summons all her favourite human children.
At her first call the bashful people come;
The men in haste put on their nankeen breeches,
And Sunday coats with golden glassy buttons;
The women don the white of innocence,
The youths take care to curl their spring-mustachios,
The maidens bid their bosoms softly heave;{90}
The city poets cram into their pockets
Paper, lead-pencil, and lorgnette; and gaily
The eddying moving crowd draw near the gateway,
And lie at ease on the green turf beyond,
Amazed to see how much the trees have sprouted,—
Play with the tender colour’d flowerets fair,
List to the song of merry birds above them,
And shout exulting tow’rds the vault of heaven.
Against my door and cried: “Behold sweet May!
“Thou palefaced dreamer, come, I fain would kiss thee!”
But I my door kept bolted, and I cried:
“In vain thou seek’st to tempt me, evil stranger.
“I long have seen thee through, I’ve seen through also
“The fabric of the world, and seen too much,
“And much too deep, and fled is all my pleasure,
“And endless torments quiver in my heart.
“I see through all the stony hard outsides
“Of human houses and of human bosoms,
“And see in both deceit and woe and falsehood.
“I’ve learnt to read the thoughts on every face,—
“All evil! In the maiden’s shamefaced blushes
“I see the trembling of a secret lust;
“On the inspired and haughty head of youth
“I see the laughing chequer’d fool’s cap jingling;
“And caric’tures alone and sickly shadows
“I see upon this earth, and live in doubt
“Whether a madhouse ’tis, or hospital.
“The old earth’s crust I see through but too plainly
“As though it were of crystal,—see the horrors
“Which May is vainly striving to conceal
“With pleasing verdure. There I see the dead;
“They lie beneath, in their small coffins prison’d,
“With hands together folded, eyes wide open,
“White is their garment, white their face as well,
“And yellow worms from out their lips are crawling.
“I see the son with his loved mistress sitting
“And toying with her on his father’s grave.
“Derisive songs the nightingales are singing,
“The gentle meadow flow’rets laugh with malice,
“And the dead father moveth in his grave,
“While the old mother-earth with pain doth shudder.”{91}
O thou poor earth, thy sorrows know I well!
I see the glow that in thy breast is heaving,
Thy thousand veins I see all bleeding freely,
And see thy gaping wounds all, all torn open,
While flames and smoke and blood stream wildly forth.
I see thy proud defiant giant-children,
Primeval monsters, from dark gulfs arising
And swinging ruddy torches in their hands.
Their iron scaling-ladders they advance,
And wildly rush to storm the forts of heaven,
And swarthy dwarfs climb after them; with crackling
Each golden star on high like dust is scatter’d.
With daring hand they tear the golden curtain
From God’s own tent; the blessèd troops of angels
Fall headlong down with howling at the sight.
The pale God sits upon his awful throne,
Tears from his head his crown, and tears his hair.—
Still onward, onward press the savage crew,
The giants fiercely hurl their blazing torches
Into the realms of heaven, the dwarfs strike wildly
With flaming scourges on the angels’ backs,
Who twist and writhe in ecstasy of anguish,
And by the hair are seized and whirl’d away.
And my own angel likewise see I there,
With his blond locks, his sweet expressive features,
With everlasting love around his mouth,
And with beatitude in his blue eyes.
A fearful hideous swarthy goblin comes,
Tears him from off the ground, my poor pale angel,
Grins as he ogles his fair noble limbs,
And clasps him firmly in his soft embraces,—
A yell re-echoes through the universe,
The pillars crash, and earth and heaven are hurl’d
Headlong together, and old night is lord.
RATCLIFF.[8]
Where weeping willows nodded me a welcome
With their long verdant arms, and where the flowers
Gazed on me mutely with wise sisters’ eyes,{92}
Where the birds’ twittering resounded sweetly,
Where the dogs’ barking seem’d to me familiar,
And voices kindly greeted me, and figures,
Like an old friend, and yet where everything
Appear’d so strange, beyond description strange.
Before a pretty country-house I stood,
My bosom in me moving, but my head
All peaceful, and the dust with calmness shook I
From off my travelling garments; shrilly sounded
The bell I rang, and then the door was open’d.
To me well known. Still sorrow lay on all,
And secret fearful grief. With strange emotion,
Wellnigh with looks of pity, on me gazed they
Till my own soul with terror was pervaded,
As though foreboding some unknown misfortune.
Old Margaret I straightway recognized,
Gazed on her fixedly, but yet she spake not.
“Where is Maria?” ask’d I, yet she spake not,
But softly seized my hand, and led me on
Through many a long and brightly-lighted chamber,
Where splendour, pomp, and deathlike silence reign’d
And to a darksome room at length she brought me,
And, with her face averted from me, pointed
Toward the form that sat upon the sofa.
“Art thou Maria?” ask’d I. Inwardly
I was myself astounded at the firmness
With which I spoke. Like stone and hollow
Sounded a voice: “That is the name they call me.”
A piercing agony straight froze me through,
For that cold hollow tone, alas, was yet
The once enchanting voice of my Maria!
And yonder woman in pale lilac dress,
In negligent attire, with unveil’d bosom,
With glassy staring eyes, like leather seeming
The muscles of the cheeks of her white face,—
Alas, that woman once was the most lovely,
The blooming, pleasing, sweet and kind Maria!
“Your travels have been long” she said aloud
In cold, unpleasing, but familiar accents,—
“You look no longer languishing, my friend,
“You’re well in health, your loins and calves elastic.{93}
“Show your solidity.” A silly smile
Play’d the while round her yellow, pallid mouth.
In my confusion utter’d I these accents:
“I’ve been inform’d that thou art married now?”
“Ah yes!” she carelessly replied with laughing:
“I have a stick of wood that’s cover’d over
“With leather, call’d a husband. Still, for all that,
“Wood is but wood!” And then she laugh’d perversely
Till chilling anguish through my spirit ran,
And doubt upon me seized:—are those the modest,
The flowery-modest lips of my Maria?
But presently she rose, took quickly up
From off the chair her cashmere shawl, and threw it
Around her neck, my arm took hold of then,
Drew me away, and through the open housedoor,
And led me on through thicket, field, and meadow.
Was hast’ning, and its purple rays were beaming
Over the trees and flowers, and o’er the river
That flow’d majestically in the distance.
“See’st thou the large and golden eye that’s floating
“In the blue water?” cried Maria quickly.
“Hush, thou poor creature!” said I, as I spied
In the dim twilight a strange wondrous motion.
Figures of mist arose from out the plain,
And with white tender arms embraced each other;
The violets eyed each other tenderly,
The lily cups with yearning bent together;
A loving glow in every rose was gleaming,
The pinks would fain in their own breath be kindled,
In blissful odours revell’d every flower,
And every one wept silent tears of rapture,
And all exulting shouted: Love! Love! Love!
The butterflies were fluttering, and the shining
Gold beetles humm’d their gentle fairy songs,
The winds of evening whisper’d, and the oaks
All rustled, and the nightingale sang sweetly;
And amid all the whispering, rustling, singing,
Prated away, with thin cold soundless voice,
The faded woman hanging on my arm:
“I know your nightly longing for the castle;
“Every long shadow is a simpleton,{94}
“That nods and signs precisely as one wishes;
“The blue coat is an angel; but the red coat
“With his drawn sword, is very hostile to you.”
And many other things in this strange fashion
Continued she to say, till, tired at length,
She sat down with me on the mossy bank
That stands beneath the ancient noble oak-tree.
Together there we sat, both sad and silent,
And gazed upon each other, growing sadder.
The oak, as with a dying sigh, was murmuring;
Deep-grieving, sang the nightingale down on us.
But through the leaves a ruddy light was piercing,
And flicker’d round Maria’s pallid face,
And lured a glow from out her rigid eyes,
Until with her old darling voice thus spoke she:
“How knewest thou that I am so unhappy?
“I read it lately in thy strange wild numbers.”
At my own mad delirium, which the future
Saw through, my brain grew giddy with alarm,
And through sheer terror I awoke from sleep.
DONNA CLARA.
Rambles the Alcalde’s daughter;
Kettle-drums and trumpets loudly
Echo from the lofty castle.
“And the honied words of flatt’ry,
“And the knights, who so gallantly
“Tell me I the sun resemble.
“Since I by the beaming moonlight
“Saw the Knight whose lute allured me
“To the window every evening.
“And his eyes shot lightning glances
“From his pale and noble features,
“Truly he Saint George resembled.”{95}
Thought, and on the ground then looked she;
When she raised her eyes, the handsome
Unknown Knight was standing by her.
Wander they beneath the moonlight,
And the zephyr gently woos them,
Wondrously the roses greet them.
Like love’s messengers all glowing.—
“But, my loved one, prythee tell me
“Why so suddenly thou redden’st?”
“And the flies are, all the summer,
“Quite as much detested by me
“As the long-nosed Jewish fellows.”
Said the Knight, with fond caresses.
From the almond-trees are falling
Thousand white and fleecy blossoms.
Their sweet fragrance shed around them.
“But, my loved one, prythee tell me
“Is thy heart devoted to me?”
“And I swear it by the Saviour
“Whom the God-detested Jews erst
“Wickedly and vilely murder’d.”
Said the Knight, with fond caresses.
In the distance snow-white lilies
Dreamily, light-bathed, are bending.
Gaze upon the stars above them:
“But, my loved one, prythee tell me
“Hast thou not a false oath taken?”
“Since within my breast there flows not
“E’en one single drop of Moor’s blood,
“Or of dirty Jew’s blood either.”{96}
Said the Knight, with fond caresses;
And he to a myrtle bower
Leads the fair Alcalde’s daughter.
He hath secretly enclosed her!
Short their words and long their kisses,
And their hearts are overflowing.
Sings the nightingale, the dear one;
Glowworms on the ground are moving,
As if in the torch-dance circling.
Nought is heard except the stealthy
Whispers of the cunning myrtles,
And the breathing of the flowerets.
Echo from the lofty castle,
And, awakening, Clara quickly
From the Knight’s arm frees her person.
Yet before we part, thou need’st must
Thy dear name to me discover
Which thou hast so long concealèd.”
Kiss’d the fingers of his Donna,
Kiss’d her lips and kiss’d her forehead,
And at last these words he uttered:
Am the son of the much honour’d
Great and learned scribe, the Rabbi
Israel of Saragossa.”
ALMANSOR.
1.
Stand the columns, thirteen hundred,—
Thirteen hundred giant-columns
Bear the mighty dome in safety.{97}
From the very top to bottom
The Koran’s Arabian proverbs
Twine in wise and flowery fashion.
This vast house to Allah’s glory,
Yet in many parts ’tis alter’d
In the darksome whirl of ages.
Summon’d unto prayer the people,
Now the Christian bell is sounding
With its melancholy murmur.
Used to sing the Prophet’s sayings,
Now baldpated priests exhibit
All the mass’s trivial wonders.
Puppets, full of antic capers,
Midst the incense smoke and ringing,
While the senseless tapers sparkle!
Stands Almansor ben Abdullah,
Viewing silently the columns,
And these words in silence murmuring:
“Once adorn’d in Allah’s glory,
“Now must ye pay humble homage
“To this Christendom detested.
“And ye bear the burden calmly;
“Still more reason for the weaker
“To be patient all the sooner.”
Bent his head with face unruffled
O’er the font so decorated
In fair Cordova’s cathedral.
2.
On his wild steed speeding onward,
While his moist locks and the feathers
In his hat the wind is moving.
By the side of Guadalquivir,
Where the snowy almond blossoms,
And the fragrant golden orange,
Piping, singing, laughing gaily,
And the birds all swell the chorus,
And the torrent’s noisy waters.
Dwelleth Clara de Alvares;
In Navarre her sire is fighting,
And she revels in her freedom.
Sounds of kettle-drums and trumpets,
And the castle lights beholds he
Glittering through the trees’ dark shadows.
Dance twelve gaily trick’d-out ladies
With twelve knights attired as gaily,
But Almansor’s the best dancer.
Round about the hall he flutters,
Knowing how to all the ladies
To address sweet flattering speeches.
Kisses quickly, and then leaves her,
And before Elvira stands he,
Looking in her face so archly.
That he heartily adores her;
“On the true faith of a Christian”
Swears he thirty times that evening.
3.
Merriment and noise have ceased now
Knights and ladies all have vanish’d,
And the lights are all extinguish’d.
In the hall above still linger,
And one single lamp is throwing
On them both its feeble lustre.
And the knight upon the footstool,
And his head, by sleep o’erpower’d,
On her darling knees is resting.
Pours the lady, sadly musing,
On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,—
From his inmost bosom sighs he.
Gives a sweet kiss, sadly musing,
On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,—
And his brow is clouded over.
Weeps the lady, sadly musing,
On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,—
And his lips begin to quiver.
With his head bent down and weeping
In fair Cordova’s cathedral,
Many gloomy voices hearing.
Hears he murmuring full of anger,—
That no longer will they bear it,
And they totter and they tremble.
Pale turn all the priests and people,
Crashing falls the dome upon them,
And the Christian gods wail loudly.
THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR
1.
The son in bed lay he.
“Wilt thou not rise up, William,
“The fair procession to see?”—
“I neither see nor hear;
“I think of my poor dead Gretchen,
“My heart is breaking near.”
“Take book and rosary too;
“The mother of God will heal thee,
“And cure thy sick heart anew.”
The banners flutter on high;
At Cologne on the Rhine this happens,
The proud procession moves by.
Her son she leadeth now,
And both of them sing in chorus:
“O Mary, blessed be thou!”
2.
Her best dress wears to-day;
Full much hath she to accomplish,
So great the sick folks’ array.
As offerings fitting and meet,
Strange limbs of wax all fashion’d,
Yes, waxen hands and feet.
Finds cured in his hand the wound,
And he who a wax foot proffers,
Straight finds his foot grow sound.
Who now on the tight rope skip,
And many a palsied finger
O’er the viol doth merrily trip.{101}
And out of it fashion’d a heart:
“My son, take that to God’s mother,
“And she will cure thy smart.”
Went with sighs to the shrine so blest,
The tears burst forth from his eyelids,
The words burst forth from his breast:
“Thou pure and godlike maid!
“Thou mighty queen of heaven,
“To thee my woes be display’d!
“In yonder town of Cologne,
“The town that many a hundred
“Fair churches and chapels doth own.
“Who, alas! is dead to-day;
“O, Mary, I bring thee a wax-heart,
“My heart’s wounds cure, I pray.
“And early and late my vow
“I’ll pay, and sing with devotion:
“‘O Mary, blessed be thou!’”
3.
In their little chamber slept,
The mother of God to their chamber
All lightly, lightly crept.
Her hand with action light
Upon his heart placed softly,
Smiled sweetly and vanish’d from sight.
Saw this and saw much more;
From out of her slumber woke she,
The hounds were baying full sore.{102}
And dead her son he lay,
While over his pale cheeks gently
The light of morning did play.
She felt she knew not how;
With meekness sang she and softly:
“O Mary, blessed be thou!”
THE DREAM.
(From Salon.)
She wore her hair in tresses;
In the blue nights of summer so calm and mild
We sat in the greenwood’s recesses.
We loved and exchanged loving kisses;
The yellow stars in the heavens all sigh’d
And seem’d to envy our blisses.
In the darkness, alone and despairing;
The stars in the heavens are shedding their rays
In silence and all-uncaring.
NEW POEMS.
1. SERAPHINA.
1.
In the dreamlike wood I rove,
Ever doth thy slender figure
Close beside me softly move.
Is it not thy veil that stirs?
Can it be the moonlight only
Breaking through the gloomy firs?
That I hear all-lightly flow?
Or my loved one, dost thou really
Close beside me weeping go?
2.
Night appears in gloomy splendour
From the clouds the moon is breaking,
As the waves these whispers send her
“Or is he by love tormented,
“That he looks so sad, yet joyous,
“So distress’d, yet so contented?”
Loudly said: “Full well I know it;
“He is both in love and foolish,
“And moreover is a poet.”
3.
That I see fluttering there
Just over the darksome billows;
The moon stands high in the air.
From out of the wave, and stare;
The seamew is rising and falling,
The moon stands high in the air.
So sad and full of despair!
Too near art thou to the water,
The moon stands high in the air.
4.
I knew it long, dear maid;
Yet when thou didst confess it
I felt full sore afraid.
With loud exulting song,
At sunset rambled weeping
The ocean shore along.
So flaming to the sight,
And in a loving ocean
It setteth, great and bright.
5.
Looks over at us, dear,
Because against thy lips I
So firmly press my ear!
What from thy mouth did flow,—
If words alone or kisses
Thou in my ear didst throw.
What ’tis that fills my mind!
The words are with the kisses
So wondrously combined.
6.
And with its fleetness vying;
She clamber’d on from crag to crag
Her hair behind her flying.
At length I caught the rover;
And gently there with gentle words
Her coy heart soon won over.
With heavenly blest emotion;
Beneath us by degrees the sun
Sank in the dark deep ocean.
The beauteous sun sank proudly;
The billows with impetuous joy
Were meanwhile roaring loudly.
Hath not for ever perish’d,
But lieth hidden in my heart,
Where all its glow is cherish’d.
7.
Which (type of our to-morrow)
Proclaims the third New Testament,
And ended is our sorrow.{105}
Deceived us, is abolish’d;
Our olden fierce corporeal pangs
Are now at length demolish’d.
He speaks with thousand voices;
See’st thou how overhead God’s sky
With thousand lights rejoices?
As in the dark abysses,
And everything there is, is God,
He is in all our kisses.
8.
And the tiny stars are sparkling;
Long protracted voices oft-times
Sound from out the billows darkling.
With the glassy waves of ocean,
Which like organ pipes are skipping
With a never-ceasing motion.
Strangely doth this music move us,
As it rises boldly upwards,
Gladdening e’en the stars above us.
With a radiant joy are gleaming,
And at length around the heavens
Roam, with sunlike lustre beaming
They revolve in madden’d legions
Sunny nightingales are circling
In those fair and blissful regions.
Sea and heaven alike are singing,
And I feel a giant-rapture
Wildly through my bosom ringing
9.
Shadowy life, how wondrous strange!
Fool, dost think, then, that all this is
Ever true and free from change?
All we loved with love so deep;
Memory from the heart is banish’d,
And the eyes are closed in sleep.
10.
And long and deep sigh’d she
With heartfelt sad emotion,
The setting sun to see.
An olden trick is here;
Although before us setting,
He rises in our rear.
11.
Far over the raging sea;
Thou know’st full well how sad am I,
And yet tormentest me.
And flutters ceaselessly;
With sails all black my ship sails on
Far over the raging sea.
12.
To no man would I e’er unfold it,
But travell’d far over the billows,
And unto the fishes I told it.
With earth and the beings upon her,
But every depth of the ocean
Knows fully thy tale of dishonour.
13.
High on the strand;
They’re swelling and they’re crashing
Over the sand.
Unceasingly,—
At length burst into passion,—
But what care we?
14.
There sit I, with thoughts far roaming;
The wind pipes loudly, the seamews cry,
The billows are curling and foaming.
Loved many a comrade proudly—
Where are they now? The billows curl
And foam, and the wind pipes loudly.
15.
Beneath the sunlit sky,
O let me there be buried,
My brethren, when I die.
It oft hath cool’d my breast
With its refreshing billows,
Each in the other’s love blest.
2. ANGELICA.
1.
Why be dumb, like mutes inglorious,—
I who, when unhappy, chanted
Of my woe with noise uproarious,
Sang like me with voices hollow,
And the song I sang uncaring
Made still greater mischief follow?{108}
That I bear within my spirit,
Let your song of joy rise o’er us
Merrily, that all may hear it.
2.
Swiftly as thou didst past me glide,
With open mouth, as if inquiring,
And in thy look a stormy pride.
That flowing robe of snowy white!
The little foot’s enchanting traces,
O that they ne’er had met my sight!
Like other women tame art thou,
And mild, and somewhat over-civil,
And, ah, thou even lov’st me now.
3.
What thy bashful lips may say;
Eyes so black and large and rolling
Are not much in virtue’s way.
Well and truly love I thee;
Let thy white heart kiss me, dearest—
White heart, understand’st thou me?
4.
And close her either eye;
She gives me now no peace for this,
But asks the reason why.
This is her constant cry:
“When on my mouth thou giv’st a kiss,
“Why close my either eye?”
Nor know the reason why,
Yet on her mouth I give a kiss,
And close her either eye.
5.
And lie in thine arms, O in that happy season
Thou ne’er must discourse of Germany, dearest,—
It spoils my digestion,—there’s plenty of reason.
Thou must not torment me with question on question
Of home and relations and manner of living,—
There’s plenty of reason,—it spoils my digestion.
Of German women; they sigh as they please on
The blisses of love and of hope and religion,—
It spoils my digestion,—there’s plenty of reason.
6.
And their treasures have been prying,
And with ever-restless yearning,
At strange doors of love been spying,
Have been taking their own pleasure
Similarly, and been ogling
At my window my own treasure.
In our every action guard us!
God in heaven give us blessings,
And with happiness reward us!
7.
I’ve often confirmed it till dizzy
With kisses and oaths unnumber’d in truth;—
To-day I however am busy.
And then a fresh-kindled passion
Shall prove my love, and afterwards we
Will dine in a friendly fashion.
We’ll join in a merry revel,
And go to the Opera, where I believe
They’re playing Robert the Devil.{110}
With devils’ loves and curses;
The music is by Meyerbeer;
By Scribe the wretched verses.
8.
The pleasant draught has still’d;
Some three months longer keep me on,
Till I too have been fill’d.
O be my friend, I pray;
For when one has outloved one’s love,
Friendship may have its way.
9.
This delirium of our bosoms
Comes unto an end, and now we
Soberly gape on each other!
Brimming with intoxication,
Foaming, glowing to the margin;
Drain’d the cup is to the bottom.
Which for dancing gave the signal,
Signal for the dance of passion;
Yes, the fiddles too are silent.
Which their wild light shed so brightly
On the masquerade exciting;
Yes, the lamps too are extinguish’d.
When I’ll sign upon thy forehead
With the cross of ashes, saying:
“Woman, that thou’rt dust, forget not.”
10.
From mere fugitive sensations
Passions that are fierce and boundless,
Tenderest associations!{111}
Of my heart on each occasion,
And that I’m enamoured of her
Has become my firm persuasion.
Thus I learn to rise superior
To the overpowering beauty
Of her form and mere exterior.
Ah, what nose! Could aught serener
Be than this sweet smile she’s wearing?
And how noble her demeanour!
11.
Thou thy mind disclosest sweetly,
And thy language with the grandest
Sentiments o’erflows discreetly!
Worthily and nobly thoughtest;
How unto thy pride of heart thou
Greatest sacrifices broughtest!
Men could woo and win thee never;
Sooner than be sold for money
Thou wouldst quit this world for ever.
To the end with due emotion;
Like an image mute of faith, I
Fold my hands with meek devotion.
12.
Thou art safe here evermore;
Fear not lest they’ll take away thee,
For I’ll forthwith bar the door.
It will do no mischief here;
That a fire may not confound us,
Let us put the light out, dear!{112}
Thy enchanting neck enfold;
In the absence of a shawl, one
Gets so very quickly cold.
3. DIANA.
1.
Of colossal womanhood,
Now are, in a yielding mood,
Under my embraces passive.
Trusting in my strength drawn near,
I had soon had cause for fear!
She had thrashed me in strange fashion.
(Higher I can scarcely see);
Ere alone I’d with her be,
Pray I that she may not harm me.
2.
That she first saw the light;
Two kittens in the cradle
She squeezed to death outright.
With feet uncover’d ran;
Then for her size gigantic
Was shown at Perpignan.
The Faubourg Saint-Denis,
Where unto small Sir William
Some thousand pounds costs she.
3.
4. HORTENSE.
1.
Gives us, or receives instead,
By some influence superhuman
Was from old predestinèd.
Kisses then as earnestly
As if I were but fulfilling
Actions of necessity.
Have discover’d on life’s stage,
And with small concern now kiss I,
Heedless of the surplusage.
2.
We stood in fond communion
For full an hour, and talked about
Our spirits’ loving union.
A hundred times repeating;
Beside the corner of the street
We stood, and went on greeting.
As waiting maids, and sprightly,
Pass’d by that way and saw us stand
And smiled, and went on lightly.
3.
In all my watchings nightly,
Thy sweet delicious laughter
Rings through my spirit lightly.{114}
Where, on the donkey riding,
Thou fell’st among the thistles,
From off the saddle gliding?
Demurely looking after,—
I never shall forget, love,
Thy sweet delicious laughter.
4.
(She speaks.)
And an apple hangeth there,
And around the trunk a serpent
Coils himself, and I can ne’er
From the serpent’s eyes enchanting
Turn away my troubled sight,
And he whispers words alluring,
And enthrals me with delight.
Its delicious flavour taste,
That thy life until thou diest
May not be for ever waste!
Darling dove, sweet child, no sighing!
Quickly taste, and never fear;
Follow my advice, relying
On thy aunt’s sage counsel, dear.
5.
Play new tunes that seem much fitter
Old the text is, for the words are
Solomon’s: A woman’s bitter.
And she treats her friend with malice;
Wormwood are the last remaining
Drops in love’s once-golden chalice.{115}
Of the curse of sin no libel?
Did the serpent bring it on thee,
As recorded in the Bible?
Lurks in every bush around thee,
Still, as formerly, caresses,
And her hisses still confound thee.
Round the sun the ravens hover
Croakingly, and love and rapture
Now for evermore are over.
6.
For but a short time cheated;
Thine image, like a vision false,
Soon from my bosom fleeted.
Before the sun’s rays splendid;
And wellnigh ere it had commenced,
Our passing fondness ended.
5. CLARISSA.
1.
Thou art eagerly declining;
If I say: “Is this refusal?”
Thou at once beginnest whining.
Gracious God! O help this maiden!
Dry her sweet tears, and enlighten
Her poor brains so sorrow-laden!
2.
3.
And thy father, for their cruel
Conduct at the play, in hiding
Thee from me, my precious jewel!
Leaving but few spaces only
Through the which to spy thee sitting
In the box’s rear, all lonely.
Both destroy’d, with eyes admiring;
And they clapp’d a loud approval
When they saw them both expiring.
4.
Where the pretty eyes are living;
Ah, they fain would spare their lightnings
With a semblance of forgiving.
In a loving way they greet thee,
Smiling kindly (death and devil!)
Sisterlike their glances meet thee.
And in vain is all thy striving;
Thou wilt have a very breastful
Of distress, when home arriving.
5.
It comes too late, thy present sigh!
The feelings all long since have perish’d
That thou didst spurn so cruelly.{117}
My heart thou vainly seek’st to stir
With burning looks of love, all falling
Like sunbeams on a sepulchre.
* * *
This would I learn: when life is ended,
O whither doth our spirit go?
Where is the flame when once extinguish’d?
The wind, when it hath ceased to blow?
6.
On a lovely summer’s morrow
Men I fly, and bury quickly
In the wood my bitter sorrow.
All the noisy birds are vying;
At my grief in wondrous fashion
Each dark linden-tree is sighing.
Some green bank, sweet balm exhaling:
“Kitten! O my pretty kitten!”
And the hills repeat my wailing.
Why delightest thou to do ill?
Sadly is my poor heart smitten
By thy tiger-talons cruel.
Long had been to joy a stranger,
Till by new love I was gladden’d
At thy sight, and fear’d no danger.
“Have no fear of being bitten;
“Prythee trust me when I sue thus,
“I’m a very gentle kitten.”
* * *
7.
Woods at random sings and wildly,
Thou preferrest the canary
Doubtless, as it flutters mildly.{118}
This small bird, so tame and yellow,
And it picks thy fingers, pleading
For some sugar, pretty fellow!
Angels must enjoy the notion!
I myself, with look approving,
Drop a tear of deep emotion.
8.
With music and exultation;
It brings the bridegroom and the bride
Its hearty congratulation.
And jasmine and herbs sweet-scented,
And for the bride asparagus too,—
The bridegroom’s with salad contented.
9.
And thy heart from palpitation,
Keep thee from excessive eating,
And excessive perspiration.
May thy love be ever blessèd!
Ne’er the bridal yoke disparage!
Be thy frame with health possessèd!
10.
Thou mayst now thus think anent me
This man’s conduct is unkind,
For he’s seeking to torment me;—
That could possibly offend him;
Who, when others’ blame I heard,
Did my utmost to befriend him.
By-and-by to love him dearly,
Had he not begun to act
As if he were frantic nearly!
11.
How thou in ill humour twistest,
When thou, to all love a stranger,
Yet on jealousy existest!
Thou dost smell and love so dearly;
No, amongst the thorns thou sniffest,
Till they scratch thy nose severely.
6. YOLANTE AND MARY.
1.
How a poet well to treat,
For they ask’d me and my genius
Luncheon with them once to eat.
And the wine was old and rare,
And the game was really heavenly,
And well-larded was the hare.
Till I had enough at last,
And I thank’d them for the honour
Of this very kind repast.
2.
Since both are loveable and mild?
The mother’s still a pretty woman,
The daughter is a pretty child.
Are very pleasant to the view,
And yet the genial eyes that answer
Our tenderness are charming too.
Who when twixt two hay bundles placed,
Eyes them with hesitation, doubting
Which of the two the best will taste.
3.
The ladies are gay and impassion’d;
They open their corsets in right merry mood,
Methinks they with point lace are fashion’d.
My heart is soon trembling all over;
They presently jump on the bed with delight,
And hide themselves under the cover.
And snore away, free from intrusion;
I stand in the chamber alone, like a fool,
And stare at the bed in confusion.
4.
Youth’s by keener fire replaced,
And my arm, becoming bolder,
Circles many a loving waist.
Yet they soon were reconcil’d;
Modest doubts and wrath united
Were o’ercome by flattery mild.
When I taste my victory;
Can it be my youth’s enchanting
Bashful weak stupidity?
5.
In my breast, to show I’m free,
Proving that my heart freeborn is,
And a foe to slavery.
In my heart hast fix’d, pray list:
Many of earth’s fairest daughters
There have reign’d, then been dismiss’d.
7. EMMA.
1.
In heat and tempest and frost;
His toes in the ground are planted,
His arms are heavenward toss’d.
And Brama his torments would end;
He makes the mighty Ganges
Down from the heavens descend.
Tormented and stricken with woe;
From out of thine heavenly eyelids
No drops of pity e’er flow.
2.
Wait, to see my bliss complete,
As her sidelong glances tell me,
Glances, O how dazzling sweet!
Words are awkward and in vain;
Soon as they are said, the pretty
Butterfly flies off again.
And with joy may fill thy breast,
Making it like some wide heaven,
Full of starry rapture blest.
3.
After months of loving passion,
So my mouth must still continue
Dry, in very wretched fashion.
And her breath I e’en felt nigh me
But without my lips e’er touching,
She, alas! soon fleeted by me.
4.
Say if I’m distracted driven,
By my love, or is love only
The result of my distraction?
Not alone by my mad loving,
Not alone by loving madness,
But besides by this dilemma.
5.
So I on my travels started;
Yet my life, when from thee parted,
Is no life, but death indeed.
I ’twixt death and hell lay choosing—
Ah, methinks this strife confusing
Now has driv’n me mad outright!
6.
Night with many a ghostly shape,
And our souls are growing weary,
And we at each other gape.
And our spring has ceased to bloom;
Thou art cold, and I still colder,
At th’ approach of winter’s gloom.
After love’s sweet cares are past,
Cares draw nigh, by love ungladden’d,
After life comes death at last.
8. FREDERICA.
1.
Weak tea, and men who seem so much to know
That they both God, themselves, and all below
With Hegel’s reason only understand.{123}
Where flowers ambrosial their sweet fragrance throw
Where pilgrim troops on tow’rd the Ganges go
With reverence, in white robes, a festal band.
And on the sacred bank the lotos-tree
Soars up to Indra’s castle blue,—yes there,
And press against thy foot, and say to thee:
“Madam, thou art the fairest of the fair!”
2.
The sharp eyes of the antelope, who springs
Disdainfully along; their colour’d wings
The peacocks as they move, show haughtily.
Rises a newborn race of flowers, sweet things;
With yearning-madden’d voice Cocila sings—
Yes, thou art fair, no woman’s like to thee!
He dwells within thy bosom’s tents so white,
And breathes to thee the sweetest songs he knows.
I find within thine eyes new worlds of light,
In my own world no more I find repose.
3.
The Himalaya glows in evening’s light,
And from the banyan-forest’s gloomy night
The elephantine herd breaks forth and yells.
A typo of thee, so lovely to the sight,
Thee the incomparable, good and bright,
So that sweet rapture in my bosom dwells.{124}
See’st me with feelings struggle, and with rhyme,
And, ah, thou smilest at my pangs of love!
Seize on the sweet guitar, and all the time
Sing in the golden sunny halls above.
9. CATHERINE.
1.
A star which smiles down on me comfort bright,
And new life pledges to supply,—
O do not lie!
So gladly, wildly, doth my spirit soar
Up to thy blissful light on high,—
O do not lie!
2.
The duchess whisper’d once to me.
“On no account! for I to woo her
“Methinks have too much modesty.”
I fancy, when I near her go,
A newborn life is stealing o’er me,
With newborn joy and newborn woe.
While yearning drives me to draw near;
Her eyes, as they so sweetly languish,
The wild stars of my fate appear.
The future lightning gathers there,
The storm which, spite of all resistance,
My spirit’s deepest seat will tear.
I see beneath the roses hiss
The serpents which will prove my error,
With honied scorn and treach’rous kiss.{125}
Draw to the dear but dangerous place;
Her darling voice already hear I—
Bright flames her every sentence grace.
These words—“Of her whose voice I heard?”
I only answer with a stutter:
“Madam, I did not hear one word!”
3.
Like sage Merlin, am held fast
In my magic ring at last,
In disconsolate condition.
I am lying all the while,
Gazing on her eyes’ sweet smile,
And the hours are passing fleetly.
Like a vision time has fled,
Scarcely know I what I said,
And I know not what she told me.
Press’d to mine, beyond control
I am stirr’d, till in my soul
I can trace the flames full clearly.
4.
So gladly thou lie’st on my heart!
I am thy one sole heaven,
My dearest star thou art.
Is swarming far below;
They’re shouting and storming and scolding,
(And each one is right, I well know)
And quarrel without a cause,
And with their heavy club-sticks
They break each other’s jaws.{126}
That we so far away are;
Thou hidest in thy heaven
Thy head, my dearest star!
5.
The thin veil of a spirit tender,
Wild and large eyes, a brow encompass’d
With flowing locks of swarthy splendour.
Whom I in every land have sought for,
While girls like thee a man of honour
Like me have always cared and thought for.
Is found in me. At first thou’lt pay me
Richly with sentiments and kisses,
And then, as usual, wilt betray me.
6.
With looks my care beguiling;
The country round appeareth straight
A flower-garden smiling.
In carriage onward fleeting;
She looks on me with tender pride,
Her heart, I feel it beating.
Like jewels the verdure is gleaming,
His snowy-blossoming head soon shakes
The sapling with joyous seeming.
With longing in every feature,
The lovely woman won by me,
And me, the happy creature.
To-morrow will pass the sickle,
The beauteous spring wither, and I all forlorn
Be left by the woman fickle.
7.
In the happy realms of heaven,
Walking with thee, for without thee,
Heaven itself would be a hell.
All the righteous and the godly,
Who had for their souls’ salvation
Mortified on earth their bodies.
Capuchins and holy hermits,
Strange old fellows, some strange young ones—
’Twas the latter look’d the ugliest!
Ample bald pates, also grey beards
(Various Jews were of the number)
Pass’d us, looking stern and solemn.
Although thou, my pretty darling,
On my arm wert hanging, toying,
Toying, smiling, and coquetting.
And he was the only handsome,
Handsome man of all the number;
And majestic were his features.
In his eyes divine repose,
And he mildly gazed upon thee
As upon the Magdalene.
None was e’er so pure and noble,
But I, I was notwithstanding
Moved as by an envious feeling;
Far from pleasant up in heaven—
May God pardon me! Our Saviour
Jesus Christ I deem’d intrusive.
8.
His mistress takes, and with delight
Roams in the blooming summer night.
I wander alone, for my loved one is wanting.
And far from the mirth and dancing go,
The music sweet and the lamps’ bright glow
My thoughts are away, and in England only.
Distractedly and full of woe,
And know not on whom the flow’rs to bestow;
My heart soon withers along with the posies.
9.
I now compose again with yearning!
Like tears that from us burst with madness
My songs are suddenly returning.
Of great love and still greater sorrow;
Of hearts which, to each other odious
To-day, when parted break to-morrow.
Of German oak trees waving o’er me,
With whispers of a glad re-meeting—
A dream! they vanish from before me.
Of German nightingales once cherish’d;
Sweetly their notes are round me clinging—
A dream! the vision soon has perish’d.
Perfume once bless’d me? Every blossom
Long since has died! With taint pernicious
Their ghostly scent still haunts my bosom.
10. SONGS OF CREATION.
1.
Then each nightly constellation;
From the sweat of his own forehead
Oxen were his next creation.
Lions with their paws so furious;
In the image of the lion
Made he kittens small and curious.
Man to spring to being bade he,
And in man’s attractive image
Interesting monkeys made he.
“Copies from himself he’s taking!
“In the image of his oxen
“Calves he finally is making.”
2.
Copies of myself I’m taking;
After sun come constellations,
After oxen, calves I’m making.
Paws, I’m making kittens curious,
After men come monkeys clever:
Thou canst nothing make, however.
3.
Men, lions, and oxen, and sunlight splendid;
But calves, cats, monkeys, and each constellation
For nought but my own delight I intended.
4.
The whole of the world was made by me
And yet I work’d out the plan of creation
For thousands of years full thoughtfully.{130}
That’s easily done in a very short time;
And yet the plan, the primary notion,—
’Tis that that proves the artist sublime.
In solving the question by slow degrees
As to which was the proper manner of making
Both Doctors of Law and little fleas.
5.
I have finish’d finally
All this vast and fair creation,
And that all is good, I see.
O’er the ocean brightly gleam!
Every tree is green and glittering,
And enamell’d all things seem.
Are like alabaster white;
O how natural and perfect
Nature seemeth to the sight!
With my glorious majesty,
And through long and endless ages
Man will praise and worship me.
6.
Is not to be suck’d from the finger;
No God created the world from nought
Any more than an earthly singer.
Whence the body of man I created,
And from the ribs of man in due course
Fair woman I separated.
And angels from women completed;
The raw material first gets its worth
From being artist’cally treated.
7.
The earth, I will confess with gladness:
Within my soul, like fiery madness,
A burning call to do so play’d.
Of my creative inclination;
I might recover by creation,
Creation made me once more sound.
11. ABROAD.
1.
Thou scarcely knowest why;
A gentle word the wind doth fill,—
Thou look’st round wond’ringly.
Is calling softly now:
“Return, I love thee, O be kind,
My only joy art thou!”
Thou never still mayst be;
What thou of yore didst love the best,
Thou ne’er again shalt see.
2.
Than thou hast been for long before;
Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming,
Thy sighs wax louder more and more.
That thou art thinking, full of pain?
Wouldst thou not joyfully revisit
Thy much-loved fatherland again?
With tiny rage enchanted thee?
Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completely
Were reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.{132}
Impell’d to fall upon thy breast?
Within the heart the thoughts were burning,
And yet the lips remain’d at rest.
Art thinking, who approved thy suit?
Methinks within thy breast, good brother,
Wild passions fast are growing mute.
Its birds and trees, where love’s young dream
Ofttimes sustain’d thy spirits sinking,
And hope shone forth with trembling beam?
Bright night illumes the humid mass;
I now must go, and hasten quickly
To dress for company,—Alas!
3.
Beside the stream
The oak soar’d high, the violets gently bow’d;
It was a dream.
(Sweet then did seem
The sound) they spake the words: “Yes, I love you!”—
It was a dream.
12. TRAGEDY
1.
And to my heart for comfort come!
Far, far away hence be my heart,
Thy fatherland and father’s home.
And all alone abandon thee;
And if thou in thy father’s home
Dost stay, thou’lt seem abroad to be.
2.
A genuine national song, heard by Heine on the Rhine.
It fell on the tender flowerets blue,
They all soon wither’d and faded.{133}
They secretly fled away from the house,
Unknown to father and mother.
And neither joy nor star could they find,
And so they droop’d and they perish’d.
3.
Where birds and the evening breeze are singing,
And on the green sward under it
The miller’s boy and his sweetheart sit.
The birds are singing so sadly and sweetly,
The prattling lovers are mute by-and-by,
They weep and they know not the reason why.
13. THE TANNHAUSER.
A Legend.
(Written in 1836.)
1.
Lest Satan’s wiles ensnare you!
I’ll sing you the song of the Tannhauser bold,
That ye may duly beware you.
For love and pleasure yearning,
To the Venus’ mount travell’d, and there he dwelt
Seven years without returning.
“Though much thou mayst enchant me,
“No longer will I tarry with thee,
“Permission to leave now grant me.”
“To-day you have kept from kissing;
“So kiss me quickly and tell me true,
“What is there in me you find missing?
“Not pour’d out for you gaily?
“And have I not always crown’d your head
“With fragrant roses daily?”{134}—
“My soul no longer finds pleasing
“These endless kisses and luscious wine,—
“I long for something that’s teasing.
“My heart for tears has long panted;
“Each rose on my head I fain would see
“By pointed thorns supplanted.”—
“You fain would vex and grieve me;
“An oath you have sworn a thousand times
“That you would never leave me.
“To taste of love’s rapture and gladness,
“And there my fair and lily-white form
“Shall drive away thy sadness.”—
“Will bloom for ever and ever;
“As many already have glow’d for thee,
“So men will forget thee never!
“Who erst have taken their pleasure
“In clasping thy fair and lily-white form
“My anger knows no measure.
“Is filling me even this minute,
“When thinking how many in after times
“Will still take pleasure in it!”—
“You should not utter such treason;
“’T’were better to beat me, as you have before
“Oft done for many a season.
“Of insult thus to have spoken,
“Whereby, O Christian ungrateful and cold,
“The pride in my bosom is broken.
2.
With singing and ringing and blowing
A grand procession is moving on,
The Pope in the middle is going.
The triple crown he is wearing,
He wears a red and purple robe,
And Barons his train are bearing.
“I will not move from my station,
“Until thou hast saved my soul from hell,
“And heard my supplication!”—
The people fall backwards dumbly;
O who is the pilgrim pale and wild
Who bends to the Pope so humbly?
“To bind and to loose not too much is,
“O save me from the pangs of hell,
“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!
“For love and pleasure yearning,
“To the Venus’ mount I travell’d and dwelt
“Seven years there without returning.
“With charms of dazzling splendour;
Like light of sun and flowers’ sweet scent
“Her voice is gentle and tender.
“And from its calyx sips too,
So flutters my soul for evermore
“Around her rosy lips too.
“Her blooming black locks wildly;
Thy breath would be gone if once her great eyes
“Were fix’d upon thee mildly.
“They surely would harass thee greatly;
’Twas with the greatest trouble that I
“Escaped from the mountain lately.{136}
“And yet for ever pursue me
“The looks of the beautiful woman, which seem
“To say ‘O hasten back to me!’
“At night I vainly would hide me
“In sleep, for I dream that my mistress dear
“Is sitting and laughing beside me.
“Her white teeth all the while showing!
“Whenever I think of that laugh, in streams
“The tears from my eyes begin flowing.
“That scorches me up to a cinder;
“’Tis like a wild waterfall, whose fierce flood
“No barrier ever can hinder.
“With noisy foaming and boiling;
“Its neck it may break a thousand times,
“Yet on, still on, it keeps toiling.
“To Venus the whole I’d surrender;
“I’d give her the sun, I’d give her the moon,
“I’d give her the stars in their splendour.
“Whose flame within me rages;
“O say can this be the fire of hell,
“The glow that will last through all ages?
“To bind and to loose not too much is,
“O save me from the pangs of hell,
“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!—”
And sigh’d till these words he had spoken:
“Tannhauser, most unhappy knight,
“The charm can never be broken.
“Is mighty for hurting and harming;
“I’m powerless quite to rescue thee
“From out of his talons so charming.{137}
Thy fleshly lusts infernal;
Yes, thou art rejected, yes, thou art condemn’d
To suffer hell’s torments eternal.”
3.
Were sore with his wanderings dreary.
At midnight’s hour he came at length
To the Venus’ mountain, full weary.
And out of her bed sprang lightly,
And clasp’d her fair and lily-white arms
Around her beloved one tightly.
The tears from her eyes descended;
She cover’d the face of her darling knight
With blood and tears closely blended.
And not one word has he spoken;
While Venus went to the kitchen, to make
Some soup, that his fast might be broken.
She wash’d his wounded feet, too;
She comb’d his rough and matted hair,
And laugh’d with a laugh full sweet, too.
“Full long hast thou been wandering;
“O say in what lands hast thou thy time
“So far from hence been squandering?”
“In Italy I have been staying;
“I’ve had some bus’ness in Rome, and now
“Return without further delaying.
“Where seven hills are meeting;
“In Rome I also beheld the Pope,—
“The Pope he sends thee his greeting.{138}
“And then through Milan I hasted,
“And next through Switzerland scrambled fast,
“And not one moment wasted.
“The snow already was falling;
“The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled,
“The eagles were circling and calling.
“Below me snored Germany loudly;
“Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings
“It slumber’d calmly and proudly.
“Of dear little simpleton creatures;
“They sat together all ranged in a row,
“With very diminutive features.
“A sprig of the aristocracy;
“His teeth he had lost, and bark’d and yell’d
“Like one of the vulgar democracy.
“I heard them their sentiments giving;
“They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead,
“And Eckermann still ’mongst the living!
“I said in amaze: ‘What’s the matter?’—
“’Tis Gans[11] at Berlin, who last century’s tale
“Is reading and making this clatter.’
“But bringing no fruit to perfection;
“’Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night,
“No light was in any direction.
“Were confined; at our next Reformation
“A national bridewell and one common lash
“We must have for the whole German nation.{139}
“Many terrible rascals dwell still;
“And when I wander’d about the Exchange,
“I fancied myself in Zell still!
“In a charming situation;
“And all my adventures that there I met
“I’ll tell on another occasion.”[12]
14. ROMANCES.
1. A WOMAN.
The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief;
At each piece of knavery, daily
She fell on the bed, laughing gaily.
Upon his bosom all night she lay;
When they carried him off to Old Bailey,
At the window she stood, laughing gaily.
I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee;
I want thee, I pine, and look palely,—
Her head she but shook, laughing gaily.
At seven they laid him down in his grave;
At eight on her ears this fell stalely,
And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily.
2. CELEBRATION OF SPRING.
In savage troops the maidens fair
Are rushing along with fluttering hair,
And howls of anguish and naked breast:—
Adonis! Adonis!
They sadly explore each forest track,
Which mournful answers is echoing back
Of laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear:—
Adonis! Adonis!{140}
Now lies on the ground all pale and dead;
His blood has dyed each floweret red,
And mournful sighs resound through the air:—
Adonis! Adonis!
3. CHILDE HAROLD.
Stout black bark the stream along;
Visors wearing, all-uncaring,
Funeral mutes the benches throng.
Face upturn’d, the dead bard lies;
Living seeming, toward the beaming
Light of heaven still turn his eyes.
Of the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,
And with wailing unavailing
’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.
4. THE EXORCISM.
In his cloister silent and lonely;
He reads a magical book, which speaks
Of exorcisms only.
An impulse resistless came o’er him;
The underground spirits with pallid lips
He summon’d to rise up before him:
The corpse of my mistress cherish’d;
For this one night restore her to life,
Rekindling joys long perish’d.”
He breathes, and his wish is granted;
The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes white
Appears to his vision enchanted.
Her sighs of grief cannot smother;
The dead one sits herself down by the monk,
In silence they gaze on each other.
5. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER.
It is the well-known right of the sun
To shed down his rays on ev’ry one;
I beam because ’tis proper for me.
Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf;
Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself,
And so a German worthy be!
I wander up and down in the sky,
From mere ennui I peep from on high—
What matter all my looks to thee?
That I can bear thy radiant light,
Pledge of an endless youthful spirit,
Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright.
On my poor eyelids fast are falling,
Like a black covering, the dreary
Dark shades of night with gloom appalling.
Like impudent flunkies,
Stare at the sun,
Who can’t prevent its being done.
But also much wetter
Than ’tis in the air,
And merrily there
We love to gaze
On the sun’s bright rays.{142}
Of beams and sunny rays bewitching
With us, they but produce an itching
We scratch it and so end the matter.
His very fleeting daily rays!
But I’m not so immodest quite,
And yet I’m an important light,—
I mean by night, I mean by night!
6. THE EVIL STAR.
From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,
What is the love by poets sung?
A star amid a heap of dung.
Beneath all this filth it is lying;
Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,
And wallows in the fearful slough.
By fair flowerets lovingly tended,
Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,
A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!
7. ANNO 1829.
Where I may perish decently!
O let me in this narrow world
Of shops be not condemned to die!
And revel in their mole-like bliss;
Their magnanimity’s as great
As any poor-box opening is.
Their hands we in their breeches view,
And their digestive powers are great,—
O could we but digest them too!{143}
Upon the earth, yet we can trace,
Despite their spices, in the air
The odour of a grovelling race.
Colossal bloody crimes but see,—
Aught but this virtue flat and tame,
This solvent strict morality!
To some far spot without delay!
To Lapland or to Africa,
To Pomerania e’en—away!
The clouds on high so prudent are!
They fly above this town, to seek
With trembling haste some region far.
8. ANNO 1839.
I weep when I remember thee!
Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,
Her merry race gives pain to me.
’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;
O bells of folly and religion,
How sweetly sound at home your strains!
I yet return with feelings sad;
The rudeness shown in every station
In my own country made me glad!
Like millwheels, never seems to cease;
The Germans (not to mince the matter)
Prefer I, who lie down in peace.
Keep whirling, like some madden’d dream;
With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,
And well-nigh void of motion seem.{144}
Of the soft bugle’s notes serene;
The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,
With Philomel’s sweet strains between.
In Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;
From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant
My tender verses there I wove.
9. AT DAWN.
Lay the mist this very morning,
Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,
And a white-hued night resembling.
I beheld before me gliding
An enchanting female form
Which the moon’s sweet light resembled.
Lightly floating, tender, graceful;
Such a slender shape of limbs
I had here in France ne’er witness’d.
Who with some young dear and handsome
Fond Endymion had to-day
In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?
Wherefore fled she when she saw me?
Did the Goddess think that I
Was perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?
10. SIR OLAVE.
I.
Stand two men, both wearing red coats,
And the first one is the monarch,
And the headsman is the other.
“By the priest’s song I can gather
“That the wedding is now finish’d—
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”{145}
From the church the people issue
In a motley throng, and ’mongst them
Move the gay-dress’d bridal couple.
Looks the monarch’s lovely daughter;
Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,
And his ruddy lips are smiling.
Thus the gloomy king addresses:
“Father of my wife, good morning!
“Forfeited to-day my head is.
“Suffer me to live till midnight,
“That I may with feast and torch-dance
“Celebrate my happy wedding!
“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,
“Till the final dance is finish’d—
“Suffer me to live till midnight!”
“To our son-in-law a respite
“Of his life we grant till midnight—
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”
II.
And every goblet is drained at last;
Upon his shoulder reclines
His wife and pines—
At the door the headsman is standing.
Of his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’d
They dance by the torches’ glow
Their last dance below—
At the door the headsman is standing.
The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;
Whoever their dancing then saw
Was filled with awe—
At the door the headsman is standing.{146}
To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:
“My love will be ne’er known to thee—
“The grave yawns for me—”
At the door the headsman is standing.
III.
Thy days of life are number’d;
In a king’s daughter’s arms instead
Thou thoughtest to have slumber’d.
The man the red coat wearing
Already before the black block stands,
His polish’d hatchet bearing.
Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;
The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,
And he speaks with a countenance beaming:
“And the stars in the heavens before me;
“I bless too the little birds that sing
“In the air so merrily o’er me.
“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;
“I bless the violets, which are as soft
“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.
“My life for your sakes I surrender!
“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade
“We plighted our vows of love tender.”
11. THE WATER NYMPHS.
The moon had risen lately,
The knight was lying upon the white sand,
In vision musing greatly.
Their veils around them floated;
They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleep
The youth’s repose denoted.{147}
To see if perchance it would harm her;
The second took hold of his shoulder belt,
And handled his heavy chain armour.
As the sword from the scabbard drew she;
On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,
And heartfelt pleasure knew she.
And breath’d from her inmost bosom:
“O would that I thy mistress were,
“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”
On the hand of the knight kept planting;
The sixth one tarried, and kissed at length
His lips and his cheeks enchanting.
To open his eyes midst such blisses;
He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweet
Continue their loving kisses.
12. BERTRAND DE BORN.
His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,
He could subdue each mortal creature,
Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.
Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!
Both sons as well as lovely daughter
He sang into his net, I ween.
Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scorn
On hearing him discourse so sweetly,
The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.
13. SPRING.
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,
And twines her garlands so tender.{148}
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom
“Shall I my garlands surrender?”
A kindly greeting he utters;
The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,
The plume in his hat gaily flutters.
Her flowery garlands so tender;
Of kisses and love the nightingale sings—
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
14. ALI BEY.
Happy lies in maids’ embraces;
Allah granteth him a foretaste
Here on earth of heavenly rapture.
Like gazelles in every motion—
While the first his beard is curling,
See, the second smoothes his forehead.
Singing, dancing, and with laughter
Kissing him upon his bosom,
Where the flames of bliss are glowing.
Sound outside, the swords are rattling,
Calls to arms, and shots of muskets—
Lord, the Franks are marching on us!
Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;
For he fancies he is lying
As before in maids’ embraces.
He is cutting off by dozens,
He is smiling like a lover,
Yes, he softly smiles and gently.
15. PSYCHE.
Mighty passion in her breast,
Psyche creepeth to the couch where
Her dear sleeper takes his rest.
When his beauty she descries!
He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,
Soon awakes and quickly flies.
And the poor thing nearly died!
Psyche fasts and whips herself still,
For she Amor naked spied.
16. THE UNKNOWN ONE.
With my golden-tressèd beauty
In the Tuileries’ fair garden
Underneath the chesnuts’ shadow.
With two old and ugly women—
Are they aunts? or else two soldiers
Muffled up in women’s garments?
Of her masculine attendants,
And still farther overawed too
By the feelings in my bosom,
Word to whisper as I pass’d her,
And with looks I scarcely ventured
Ever to proclaim my passion.
Learnt her name. Her name is Laura,
Like the Provençal fair maiden
Whom the famous poet loved so.
Just as far as Master Petrarch,
Who the fair one celebrated
In canzonas and in sonnets.{150}
I can now platonically
Revel in this name euphonious—
He himself no further ventured.
17. THE CHANGE.
And this year am once more fond
Of the eyes whose colour blue is,
Of the hair whose colour’s blond.
And in meekness quite a gem!
She would be some blest saint’s image,
Held her hand a lily stem.
Little flesh, much sympathy;
All her soul is glowing but for
Faith and hope and charity.
German,—but it can’t be so;
Hast ne’er read the heavenly poem
Klopstock wrote some time ago?
18. FORTUNE.
Act’st the coy one! I can gain
By my own exertions merely
All thy favours prized so dearly.
To the yoke I fasten thee;
Thou art mine beyond escaping—
But my bleeding wounds are gaping.
My life’s courage to the rout
Soon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,
And in victory’s hour am dying.
19. LAMENTATION OF AN OLD-GERMAN YOUTH.
He is lost who neglects her instructions;
Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’d
By evil companions’ seductions.{151}
My pockets of all their money;
At first the maidens consoled me
With smiles as luscious as honey.
And torn my garments, straightway
(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,
And bundled me out at the gateway.
Sad end to all my ambition!—
Poor youth that I am, I was filling
At Cassel a sentry’s position.
20. AWAY!
The springtime loves the winter,
And life’s in love with death,—
And thou, thou lovest me!
By fear-inspiring shadows,
And all thy blossoms fade,
To death thy soul is bleeding.
The butterflies, gay triflers,
Who in the sunlight sport—
Away from me and sorrow!
21. MADAM METTE.
(From the Danish.)
“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)
“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,
“My wife ’twill conquer never.”
“To your dog, or the devil is in it,
“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house
“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”
Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;
Right over the forest, right over the flood
His charming notes were ringing.{152}
The flood stood still and listen’d,
The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,
The wise stars joyously glisten’d.
“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”
She put on her dress, and left the house—
Alas, it proved her destruction!
She speeded onward straightway;
While Peter, with the might of his song,
Allured her inside his own gateway.
At the door her husband caught her:
“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!
“Your garments are dripping with water.”
“And heard the Future told by them;
“The mocking fairies wetted me through
“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”
“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;
“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,
“Your cheeks are also bloody.”
“To see the elfin dances;
“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns
“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”
“On flowery plains, but the chilly
“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,
“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”
“He sang so mightily to me,
“That through the forest, and through the flood
“He irresistibly drew me.
“To-night and perdition alluring;
“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,
“ A speedy death insuring.”{153}
The funeral bells are ringing,
Poor Madam Mette’s terrible death
To public notice bringing.
’Twas sad to hear him call so!—
“I now have lost my beautiful wife,
“And lost my true dog also.”
22. THE MEETING.
The boys and the maidens dance lightly;
Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,
Of figures noble and sightly.
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The maiden the youth thus addresses:
There nods a lily splendid,
That only grows in the depths of the sea,—
From Adam thou art not descended.
Would’st allure with thy arts of seduction;
I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The youth the maid thus addresses:
“Thy hand so icy cold is?
“And tell me why thy snow-white dress
“So moist in every fold is?
“By thy bantering salutation;
“Thou art no mortal child of man,
“But the water-nymph, my relation.”{154}
They part like sister and brother,
They know each other only too well,
And shun now the sight of each other.
23. KING HAROLD HARFAGAR.
In ocean’s depths is sitting,
Beside his lovely water-fay;
The years are over him flitting.
He is neither living nor dead now,
And while in this state of baneful bliss
Two hundred years have sped now.
Of the beautiful woman, and ever
He yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,
And looks away from her never.
His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)
Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,
His body is wither’d and broken.
He suddenly is waking,
For over him wildly rages the flood,
The castle of glass rudely shaking.
The Northmen shouting out gladly;
He raises his arms with joyous haste,
Then lets them fall again sadly.
The seamen their voices raising,
The great King Harold Harfagar
In songs heroical praising.
Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing,
When quickly the water-fay over him bends,
With loving kisses replying.
24. THE LOWER WORLD.
I.
“Were I but a single man!
“Since my married life began,
“Hell, I’ve learnt, was not a hell
“Till I to a wife was tied thus!
“Since I Proserpine did wed,
“Each day wish I I was dead!
“With the bark of Cerberus
“Her loud scoldings ever mingle.
“After peace. There’s not a ghost
“Half so sad in all my host,
“And I envy Sisyphus,
“And the Danaid’s labour bootless.”
II.
Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal,
Queen Proserpine’s sitting
With mien ill befitting
Her station, and sadly she’s sighing:
“Of Philomel’s song, and the sun’s sweet kisses;
“And here ’mongst the pallid
“Lemures and squalid
“Dead bodies, my youth’s days are flying.
“In this hole, which I’m sure e’en a rat would disparage
“And the spectres unsightly
“Through my window peep nightly,
“Their wails with the Styx’s groans vying.
III.
In the lower world found vent,
Ceres on the earth was wailing,
And the crazy goddess went,
With no cap on, with no collar,
And with loose dishevell’d hair,
Uttering, in a voice of dolour,
That lament known everywhere:[13]
“Hath the earth grown young again?
“Sunlit hills glow verdantly,
“Bursting through their icy chain.
“From the streamlet’s mirror blue
“Smiles the now-unclouded sky,
“Zephyr’s wings wave milder too,
“Youthful blossoms ope their eye.
“In the grove sweet songs resound,
“While the Oread thus doth speak:
“‘Once again thy flow’rs are found,
“Vain thy daughter ’tis to seek.’
“First in search o’er earth’s wide face!
“Titan, all thy rays I sent,
“Seeking for the loved one’s trace!
“Of that form so dear, no ray
“Hath as yet brought news to me,
“And the all-discerning Day
“Cannot yet the lost one see.
“Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?
“Or to Orcus’ gloomy stream,
“Hath she been by Pluto borne,
“Smitten by her beauty’s beams?
“Be the herald of my woe?
“Ever leaves the bark the land,
“Yet but shadows in it go.
“To each blest eye evermore
“Closed those night-like fields remain;{157}
“Styx no living form e’er bore,
“Since his stream first wash’d the plain.
“Thousand paths lead downward there,
“None lead up again to light;
“And her tears no witness e’er
“Brings to her sad mother’s sight.”
IV.
“Prythee cease to weep and call so!
“I now grant your application—
“I have suffer’d greatly also!
“Sweet society, and let her
“Have on earth six months her quarters
“Yearly, if you like it better.
“Can assist your rural labours,
“‘Neath a straw hat taking shelter,
“Flow’r-bedizen’d, like her neighbours’.
“Robe the evening sky in splendour,
“When beside the stream is blowing
“On his flute a bumpkin tender.
“At the harvest-home’s gay dances,
“And amongst the sheep and asses
“Be a lioness, the chance is.
“Here in Orcus in a canter,
“Mingled punch and Lethe drinking,
“And forget my wife instanter!”
V.
“With yearnings that in secret dwell;
“Thy hapless lot I know full well;
“Lost love, a life untimely faded!
15. MISCELLANIES.
1. MULEDOM.
A donkey was, beyond denial;
Thy mother on the other hand
A noble brood-mare proved on trial.
Though little liked, a thing of course is;
Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,
That thou belongest to the horses.
Thy fathers were with the invaders
Who to the Holy Sepulchre
Of old time went, the famed Crusaders.
The charger ridden by the glorious
Sir Godfrey of Bouillon the day
He took God’s town with arm victorious.
Thy cousin was, and say (andante)
Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,
The most heroic Rosinante.
As kin, he being much too lowly;
Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foal
That whilome bore the Saviour holy.
A long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;
Of thine own value be the judge,
And thou wilt never lay too much on.
2. THE SYMBOL OF MADNESS.
Of a Number of much reputation,
Known by the name of Number Three:
To joy succeeds vexation.
In Christian estimation
Nothing in Europe higher stood
Than this Number of proud reputation.{159}
How great was her indignation
At finding the man in bed with the maid!
She gave them a sound castigation.
She drank with much gratification,
In winter at nine, and slept all night
Without the least molestation.
To-day is changed to to-morrow,
And, sad to say, poor Number Three
Must suffer pain and sorrow.
“Of Number Three at present
“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top
“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.
“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;
“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,
“And also recals the Sabeans.
“Of the senior bonze of Babel,
“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth
“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”
Poor Number Three, he insisted,
Was nought but a name, and nowhere else
Except upon paper existed.
Like a duck in a state of distraction
She waddled here and waddled there,
Lamenting with vehement action:
“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;
“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,
“And nations rising and sinking.
“Of time for many long ages;
“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,
“Where everything rushes and rages.{160}
“Of darkness and sensuality,
“And safely preserved my virgin charms,
“Despite their cruel brutality.
“And the fools I am evil entreated;
“The world is wicked, and ne’er content
“Till every one is cheated.
“Thy faith and hope and charity,
“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum
“Above the reach of vulgarity.”
3. PRIDE.
Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renown
With not less than four horses contented,
At court you are duly presented;
In carriage of gold you go lightly
To the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;
Up the marble stairs rustle
Your clothes with their bustle,
And then at the top, on the landing
The servants in gay dresses standing
Shout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!
Through the chamber you wander on proudly;
With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,
In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,
Your snowy bosom with madness
Is heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.
What smiles, nods, polite interjections!
What curtsies and deep genuflexions!
The Duchess of Pavia
Calls you her cara mia;
The nobles and courtiers advancing
Invite you to join in the dancing;
And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)
Says loudly: How graceful and pretty
Are all the stern movements of Gudelfeld!{161}
The world would straightway show you its back;
The very lackeys with loathing
Would spit on your clothing;
’Stead of bows and civility,
Nought but vulgar scurrility;
The Duchess would cross herself rudely,
And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:
She smells of garlic—this Gudelfeld!
4. AWAY!
Another, and so forget her;
To pack up thy knapsack, and straight remove
From the town will be still better.
By weeping willows surrounded;
Thy trifling grief thou’lt weep away there,
Thy pangs so little founded.
Thou’lt pant and groan full loudly;
But when on the rocky summit at last,
Thou’lt hear the eagle scream proudly.
New life the change will bestow thee;
Thou’lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free,
Not much in the world below thee.
5. WINTER.
Like fire, and mortals hurry
Amidst the snowdrift madly,
With still-increasing flurry.
When frozen are our noses,
And piano-strumming silly
Our ears so discomposes!
When in the wood I’m roving
With my own griefs all-lonely,
And scanning verses loving.
6. THE OLD CHIMNEYPIECE.
Through the night, loud raves the storm
In my room the fire glows brightly,
And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.
By the firelight’s cheerful blaze,
Listening to the busy kettle
Humming long-forgotten lays.
Warming at the blaze her feet;
Strangely are my senses smitten
As the flickering flames they meet.
O’er me soon begins to rise,
But with dead and faded glory,
And in strange and mask’d disguise.
Greet me with a secret smile,
Then the harlequins run races,
Laughing merrily the while.
Dreamily beside them grow
Fable-flow’rs, whose leaves wave blindly
In the moonlight to and fro.
Ruin’d now, in sight appear;
Knights in armour, squires attendant
Quickly follow in their rear.
As with shadowy haste they pass,—
Ah, the kettle’s boiling over,
And the kitten’s burnt, alas!
7. LONGING.
Fable’s silent flow’rs before thee,
And a yearning wild steals o’er thee
At their fragrant scent elysian.{163}
By a gulf both deep and fearful;
Thou becomest sad and tearful,
And at last art broken-hearted.
Could I but the gulf pass over!
How the secret to discover,
And a bridge across procure me?
8. HELENA.
By means of thy magic will now,
And fill’d me full of love’s fierce glow—
This glow thou never canst still now.
Man’s breath with heaven is scented;
Thy very soul I’ll drain to the dregs,
The dead are never contented.
9. THE WISE STARS.
Full soon, and perish despairing;
One passes by, and they must die,
The modest as well as the daring.
Where one finds them, despite wind and weather
A hole is soon bored and they’re strung on a cord,
And there fast yoked together.
And hold the earth at a distance;
They shed their light in the heavens so bright,
In safe and endless existence.
10. THE ANGELS.
Could I in the heaven believe
Which both Jew and Priest endeavour
To compel men to receive.
I have never held in doubt;
Spotless, and of grace ideal,
On this earth they move about.{164}
Wing’d is, it must be confess’d;
I have recently been seeing
Wingless angels, I protest.
With their loving hands so white
Men they guard, and all advances
Of misfortune put to flight.
From their favour and regard;
Most of all that child of sorrow
Whom the people call a bard.
16. POEMS FOR THE TIMES.
1. SOUND DOCTRINE.
The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss;
This is the whole of knowledge, in truth,
The deepest book-learning lies in this.
And drum the réveille with the ardour of youth,
And as you march, continue to drum—
This is the whole of knowledge, in truth.
The deepest book-learning lies in this;
I’ve found it out, because I’m no fool,
And also because I drum not amiss.
2. ADAM THE FIRST.
Thou sent’st in cruel fashion,
And drov’st me out of Paradise
Without the least compassion.
And my wife from Eden hasted;
Thou canst not alter the fact that there
The tree of knowledge I tasted.{165}
Thy weakness and many blunders,
However mighty thou seemest to be
When wielding death and thunders.
Consilium abeundi!
I call it a Magnificus
Of earth, a Lumen Mundi.
Of Paradise one minute.
It is no genuine Paradise
When trees forbidden are in it.
The slightest limitation
Changes my Paradise at once
To hell and desolation.
3. WARNING.
Books like this to think of printing!
Wouldst thou money earn or honour
Thou must bend in meek submission.
Shouldest thou before the public
Thus have spoken of the parsons
And of monarchs high and mighty!
Princes have long arms, the parsons
Have long tongues, and then the public
Have long ears, or I’m mistaken!
4. TO A QUONDAM FOLLOWER OF GOETHE.
(1832.)
To the chilly dream of glory
Which great Weimar’s poet hoary
Wove around thee, like a prison?
Clara, Gretchen,—names familiar,—
Serlo’s chaste maid, and Ottilia
In the “Wahlverwandschaft” noted?{166}
Art become a Mignon-hater,
And thou seek’st for freedom greater
Than Philina ever granted.
Thou dost battle for the nation,
Holding up to execration
Kings, as causing all disaster.
What a pitch thy praises grow to,
And how thou’rt a Mirabeau, too,
At each Luneburg tea-party!
5. THE SECRET.
We laugh at times, we often smile;
In not a look, in not a gesture
The secret comes to light the while.
It lies in silent misery;
If in our wild heart it finds language,
The mouth’s still closed convulsively.
Ask of the dead man in the grave;
They may perchance disclose the secret
To which I never utt’rance gave.
6. ON THE WATCHMAN’S ARRIVAL IN PARIS.
“Why runnest thou hither with headlong speed?
“My dear fellow-countrymen, how are they faring?
“My fatherland, is it from tyranny freed?”
Is showering silently on us its stores,
And Germany, calmly and safely progressing,
Unfolds and develops herself within doors.
There freedom but touches the outside of life;
’Tis but in the depths of their innermost bosoms
That freedom with Germans is found to be rife.{167}
The Hohenzollerns[A] have brought this to pass;
A Hapsburg[A] has shown himself equally zealous,
A Wittelsbach[14] gives it some fine painted glass.
They’ve promised, and surely their promise they’ll keep;
A king’s word’s a prize, without circumlocution,—
Like the Nibelung stone in the Rhine it lies deep.
Can never remove him from out of his bed;
The Dutchman his feet have fasten’d securely,
The Switzers securely are holding his head.
Our patriotic exuberant strength
Will find a vent in sailing and steering,
The pain of imprisonment ending at length.
We draw a free breath at this time of the year;
If permission to print is denied us completely,
The censorship will of itself disappear.
7. THE DRUM-MAJOR.[15]
Poor fellow, he’s pull’d down sadly!
In the Emperor’s time a youngster was he,
And merrily lived and gladly.
While a smile on his face play’d lightly;
The silver-lace on his tunic so thick
In the rays of the sun gleam’d brightly.
He enter’d a village or city,
He caused an echo responsive to come
In the heart of each girl, plain or pretty.{168}
Each fair one welcomed him in;
His black moustache was wetted through
With tears of German women.
That the foreign invaders came to,
The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, and
The drum-major each maiden and dame too.
Like oaks, with no one to heed ’em,
Until the Authorities gave us once more
The signal to battle for freedom.
We toss’d our horns up proudly,
The yoke of France we cast away,
The songs of Körner sang loudly.
At their awful sound revolted;
The Emperor and the drum-major in fear
Precipitately bolted.
And came to an end inglorious;
The Emperor Napoleon tumbled in
The hands of the Britons victorious.
In martyrdom, banish’d from France, Sir,
And, after long suff’ring, died at last
Of that terrible ailment cancer.
And lost his situation;
In our hotel he took the place
Of boots,—what degradation!
And wood and water fetches;
His grey head wags as he wheezingly trots
Up the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.
Inclined to jeer and rally
The comical lanky poor old elf
And his motions shilly-shally.{169}
The sons of Germany never
Should fallen greatness love to tease,
Or to torment endeavour.
And filial piety rather;
Perchance upon the mother’s side
The old man is your father!
8. DEGENERACY.
And human faults assuming, then?
The very plants and beasts, I fancy,
Now lie as much as mortal men.
The colour’d fop, the butterfly,
Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters,
Till lost is all her purity.
I hold full cheap. The little flower
With the coquettish breezes trifles,
In secret pants for fame and power.
The time she sings with pompous mien;
She overdoes it, sobs, and warbles
Methinks from nought but pure routine.
The days of Faith are also o’er;
The dogs still wag their tails, smell bully
And yet are faithful now no more.
9. HENRY.
Stands the German Cæsar Henry,
Barefoot, clad in penitential
Shirt—the night is cold and rainy.
Peep two figures, and the moonlight
Gregory’s bald head illumines
And the bosom of Mathilda.{170}
Murmurs pious paternosters;
Yet in his imperial heart he
Secretly revolts and speaks thus:
“Upward rise the sturdy mountains;
“In the mountain-pits in silence
“Grows the iron for the war-axe.
“Upward rise the fine oak-forests;
“In the loftiest oak-stem ’mongst them
“Grows the handle for the war-axe.
“Wilt beget the hero also
“Who in time will crush the serpent
“Of my sorrows with his war-axe.”
10. LIFE’S JOURNEY.
Each other gleam brightly; the billows are tossing
The joyous bark, and there I reclined
With friends beloved and lightsome mind.
My friends were poor swimmers, and soon were scatter’d,
And all were drown’d, in our fatherland;
I was thrown by the storm on the Seine’s far strand.
My journey by new companions attended;
By strange waves toss’d and rock’d, I depart—
How far my home! how heavy my heart!
The wind pipes loud, the planks crack soon after—
In heaven is quench’d the last last star—
How heavy my heart! My home how far!
11. THE NEW JEWISH HOSPITAL AT HAMBURG.
For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow,
Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunes
Of poverty, disease, and Judaism.{171}
That family misfortune, thousand years old,
That plague which had its birth in Nile’s far valley,
The old Egyptian and unsound religion.
Nor douche nor vapour-bath, the apparatus
Of surgery, nor all the means of healing
Which this house offers to its sickly inmates.
This glowing ill, descending from the father
Upon the son,—and will the grandson ever
Be cured, and rational become and happy?
Extol that heart which lovingly and wisely
Sought to alleviate pain as far as may be,
Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring.
For sorrows which by the physician’s science
(Or else by death’s!) are curable, providing
Cushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and nurses.
Devoted to good works his hard-earned savings
In his life’s evening, kindly and humanely,
Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy.
His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling,
Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploring
His brethren’s great, incurable misfortune.
12. GEORGE HERWEGH.[16]
You then were her obedient vassal,
Believing in each pipe-bowl still,
And in its black-red-golden tassel.
Good friend, how great your consternation!
The public seem’d a very beast,
After its sweet intoxication!{172}
With rotten apples, in disorder,
Under an escort of gendarmes
You reach’d at length the German border.
Away, the well-known posts on spying
Which like the zebra’s back are striped,
With heavy heart as follows sighing:—
“Once stay’d I in thy halls so splendid,
“When I before King Philip stood,
“By all his proud grandees attended.
“When I the Marquis Posa acted;
“My prose he could not relish, while
“My verses his applause attracted.”[17]
13. THE TENDENCY.
German freedom, that thy lay
May possess our souls, and fire us,
And to mighty deeds inspire us,
Like the Marseillaise notorious.
Who for Lotte sigh’d all day;
Thou shouldst tell the people proudly
What the bells proclaim so loudly,—
Speak of dirks, swords, no surrender.
Be not so idyllic, pray!
Fire the mortars, beat to quarters,
Crash, kill, thunder, make them tremble.
Till the last foe flies away;
To this cause devote thy singing,
Thy poetic efforts bringing
To the common public’s level.
14. THE CHILD.
How did it fare with thee?
Scarce feeling it, you’ve got a boy,
Poor virgin Germany!
Ere long shall we behold;
A first-rate archer he’ll become,
As Cupid was of old.
And, proudly though he fly,
The double-headed eagle too
Struck by his bolt, shall die.
Will he resemble not
In wearing neither clothes nor glove,
Nor be a sans-culotte.
With morals and police
To make both old and young incline
To wear their clothes in peace.
15. THE PROMISE.
Through the dirt, poor German freedom!
Stockings (as you find you need ’em)
You shall have, and stout boots also.
To protect your ears from freezin’
In the chilly winter-season
You shall have a nice warm bonnet.
Grand the future that’s before you!
Let no Satyr, I implore you,
Lure you onward to excesses!
Render, as becomes inferiors,
Due respect to your superiors
And the worthy burgomaster.
16. THE CHANGELING.
Grey pigtail, and moustache light red,
With lanky arms and yet stupendous,
No bowels, yet with maw tremendous,—
A changeling which a Corporal
Into our cradle had let fall
On stealing from it our own baby—
This monster, falsehood’s child, (or may be
’Twas in reality the son
Of his own favourite dog alone)—
What need to say how much we spurn it?
For heaven’s sake, drown it or else burn it!
17. THE EMPEROR OF CHINA.[18]
A good-for-nothing dandy;
But I’m a mighty Emperor,
And love a bumper of brandy.
In this, their magical power:
As soon as I have drain’d my glass,
All China bursts into flower.
A blossoming meadow seeming;
A man I wellnigh become, and my wife
Soon gives me signs of teeming.
The sick no longer need potions;
Confucius, Court-philosopher, gains
Distinct and positive notions.
Of almond cakes is made now;
The very vagabonds in the street
In silk and satin parade now.
Those weak old invalids, daily
Are gaining strength and filling their skins,
And shaking their pigtails gaily.{175}
Is ready for those who’re believing;
The last of the Jews are here baptized,
The Dragon’s order receiving.
From the presence of revolution:
“The bastinado is all that we need,
“We want no constitution!”
May tell me that drink’s dissipation;
But I continue to drink my Schnaps,
To benefit the nation.
It tastes like very manna!
My people are happy, and drink their beer
And join in shouting Hosanna!
18. CHURCH-COUNSELLOR PROMETHEUS.
All the gods are on thee gazing
With their brows in anger knitted,
Furious at the theft amazing
Thou hast practised in Olympus—
Sorry for it they will make thee!
Fear the fate of poor Prometheus
If Jove’s bailiffs overtake thee!
Worse indeed his theft, because he
Stole the light in heaven dwelling
To enlighten us weak mortals—
Thou didst steal the works of Schelling,
Just the opposite of light,—nay,
Darkness we can feel and handle
Like the old Egyptian darkness,—
Not one solitary candle!
19. TO THE WATCHMAN.
(On a recent occasion.)
I’ll not object, whatever you do.
My friend, I never will mistake you,
E’en though a Counsellor they make you.
Because you’ve been sworn as a Counsellor in;
From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason,
For months they’ve declaim’d thus against your sad treason:
To progress backward; O, answer us straight—
On Swabian crabs are you really riding?
Is’t only court-ladies you now take pride in?
All night on your horn you’ve been blowing your best
And now on a nail you quietly stow it;
No longer for Germany’s hobby you’ll blow it.
Your eyes, but vainly you seek for repose;
Before the window the mockers salute us:
Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus?
The best of watchmen ceases to cry;
These young braggadocios cannot discover
Why man his exertions at length gives over.
No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere’s clear;
The weathercocks all are perplex’d, not discerning
The proper direction in which to be turning.
20. CONSOLING THOUGHTS.
And yet he awoke, and ventured to bore
In Cæsar’s bosom his chilly dagger!
The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.—
Each nation its favourite taste can invoke;
Each nation its special merit possesses—
The finest dumplings Swabia dresses.{177}
We sleep as soundly as though in the grave;
And when we awake, our thirst is excessive,
But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive.
As heart of oak and linden too;
The land which oaks and lindens gives birth to
Can never produce a Brutus of worth too.
No Cæsar exists in the country round;
Despite all his search, he would find him never,—
We make good gingerbread however.
(Not one too many!) who wear their swords
And stars on their regal breasts to protect them;
The Ides of March can never affect them.
We call the country they command
By right of descent, and love to call so—
We love sour-crout and sausages also.
We take off our hats with reverence meet;
Our guileless Germany, injuring no man,
Is not a den of murderers Roman.
21. THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.
We walk feet-upwards in it;
The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down,
A dozen in a minute.
On men are riding the horses;
On freedom of teaching and laws of light
The Catholic owl discourses.
The truth is told by Bettina,
And puss-in-boots brings Sophocles
On the stage, with learned demeanour.{178}
A Pantheon, for glory zealous;[20]
And Massmann has lately been using a comb,
As German papers tell us.
Are atheists unbelieving,
And in their place the parrots of France
The Christian faith are receiving.
With equal frenzy seems smitten;
The dead have on the living there
The vilest epitaph written.[21]
Good friends! ’twould serve us but badly;
But let us ascend the Templehof hill,[22]
“Long life to the king!” shouting gladly.
22. ENLIGHTENMENT.
Fallen, Michael? Canst thou see
How they’re stealing in derision
All the choicest food from thee?
Promise they in realms above,
Where the angels’ sole employment
Is to cook us fleshless love.
Or thy appetite more strong?
Thou dost grasp life’s sparkling beaker,
And thou sing’st a hero-song.
While on earth, and eat what’s good;
When thou’rt dead, thou’lt have full leisure
To digest in peace thy food.
23. WAIT AWHILE!
You think that I can’t thunder too!
You’re wrong, for I’ve a special liking
For thunder, as I’ll prove to you.
When the right moment is at hand;
You’ll hear my voice in startling nearness,—
The word of thunder and command.
Full many an oak upon that day;
Each palace to its base shall quiver,
And many a steeple proud give way.
24. NIGHT THOUGHTS.
At night, all slumber flies from me;
I cannot close mine eyes for yearning,
And down my cheeks run tears all burning.
Since I have seen my mother dear
Twelve years have pass’d away; the longer
I wait, my yearning grows the stronger.
That woman has bewitch’d me sore!
Dear, dear old woman! with what fervour
I think of her! may God preserve her!
And in the letters that she writes
I see how much her hand is shaking,—
Her mother’s heart, how nearly breaking!
Twelve long long years are left behind,
Twelve years have follow’d on each other
Since to my heart I clasp’d my mother.
Sound to the core is that dear land!
Its oaks and lindens I shall ever
Find just the same, they alter never.{180}
If my dear mother were not there;
My fatherland will never perish
But she may die, whom most I cherish.
Into the tomb have many pass’d
Whom I so loved—When of them thinking
How sadly bleeds my spirit sinking!
My sorrows higher, higher mount;
I feel as though each corpse were lying
Upon my breast—Thank God, they’re flying!
France’s clear daylight breaks again;
My fair wife enters, sweetly smiling,
And all my German cares beguiling!
NEW SPRING.
PROLOGUE.
You have seen the man perchance,
Who is for the battle yearning,
Well-equipp’d with shield and lance.
Stealing lance and sword away;
They with flow’ry chains have bound him
Though he struggle in dismay.
Bind myself with sad delight,
And I leave it to my betters
In time’s mighty fight to fight.
1.
Thou dost hear the far winds wailing,
Seëst how the mute clouds o’er thee
Are their forms in mist fast veiling;{181}
Wood and plain, how shorn and dreary;
Round thee winter, in thee winter,
Frozen is thy heart and weary.
Flakes all white, and with vexation
Thou dost think the tree is show’ring
Snow-dust from that elevation.
’Tis no snow-dust cold and freezing;
Fragrant blossoms ’tis of springtime
Cov’ring thee and fondly teasing.
Into May is winter turning,
Snow hath changed itself to blossoms,
And thy heart with love is yearning.
2.
Joy-oppress’d, like some fair maiden;
Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward:
“Welcome, young spring, rapture-laden!”
Piping, blissful-sad and lonely,
Sobbing tones and long-protracted,
And thy song of love is only!
3.
With comfort are downward gazing:
If love hath made thee so small in our sight,
Yet love hath the power of raising.
Her notes melodiously blending;
And as to my soul her song pierceth e’en,
My soul once more is distending.
4.
This grief doth impart.
In every calix I search like a lover,
And seek a heart.{182}
The nightingale sings.
I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender,
And like it springs.
Comes home to my breast;
We’re both so oppress’d and heavy with sadness,
So sad and oppress’d.
5.
Flowers, trees, their blossoms don;
And through the blue heavens above us
The rosy clouds move on.
On leafy perch aloft;
The snowy lambs are springing
In clover green and soft.
Ill in the grass I lie;
I hear a distant ringing,
And dream of days gone by.
6.
Blissful tones loved dearly;
Sound, thou little song of spring,
Echoing far and clearly.
Of the violet tender;
And when thou a rose dost spy,
Say, my love I send her.
7.
A thousand times hovering round;
But round himself, all tender like gold,
The sun’s sweet ray is hovering found.
An answer I’d fain receive.
Is it the singing nightingale?
Is it the silent star of eve?{183}
But every one love I:
The rose, the nightingale, sun’s sweet ray,
The star of eve and butterfly.
8.
All the birds are singing o’er us—
Tell me, who can be the leader
In this green and forest chorus?
Wise nods evermore renewing?
Or yon pedant, who is ever
In such measured time coo-coo-ing?
His director’s airs betraying,
And his long leg rattling loudly,
Whilst the music’s round him playing?
In my own heart hath his station,
All the while he’s beating time there,—
Amor is his appellation.
9.
“And as her melody she sang,
“The apple into blossom burst,
“To life the grass and violets sprang.
“Her red blood flow’d, and from the blood
“A beauteous rose-tree came to light,
“To whom she sings in loving mood.
“Us birds within the forest here;
“Yet when the rose-song dies away,
“Will all the wood too disappear.”
The sparrow in his oaken nest;
His mate pips, while she trims her beak,
And proudly sits and looks her best.{184}
Broods well, and ne’er is seen to pout;
The father makes his children find
Pastime in studying things devout.
10.
Hath waken’d every flower,
And take I not the greatest care,
My heart must succumb to love’s power.
Is likely most to snare me?
The nightingales say, in their blissful song
Of the lily I ought to beware me.
11.
And by my senses I feel forsaken;
The spring and two fair eyes together
Against my heart an oath have taken.
Lure on my heart to a new illusion;
Methinks the nightingales and roses
Have much to do with all my confusion.
12.
Tears of love and gentle woe,
And I tremble lest this yearning
At the last should overflow.
And love’s bitter joy, so blest,
Creep again, with heavenly anguish,
Into my scarce healèd breast.
13.
Are peeping from the ground;
They are the darling violets,
That I in nosegays bound.{185}
And all the thoughts so dear,
That in my heart are sighing,
The nightingale sings clear.
And warbleth, echoing far;
So that my tender secrets
Known to the whole wood are.
14.
As thou pass’st before my face,
How my heart exults, how wildly
Follows it thy lovely trace!
With thy large bright eyes on me,
And my heart doth feel so startled,
That it scarce can follow thee.
15.
Peeps dreamingly out of the lake;
The moon, oppress’d with love’s sorrow,
Looks tenderly down for her sake.
Once more her head so sweet—
Then sees she the poor pale fellow
Lying before her feet.
16.
In my songs, when thou hast tried them,
Thou wilt see a fair young maiden
Wandering up and down inside them.
Thou canst hear her voice quite clearly,
And her sighing, laughing, singing
Thy poor heart will madden nearly.
Thee, like me, make wellnigh crazy:
An enamour’d springtime-dreamer
Thou wilt tread the forest mazy.
17.
Thou hast driven the flowers all mad with fright,
The violets tremble and shiver;
The roses are all with shame so red,
The lilies are death-pale, and hang their head,
They mourn, and falter, and quiver.
Those sweet flowers are! They are right in this case,
I really have acted badly;
Yet how could I tell that in wait she would lie,
When I was addressing the stars on high,
With fierce love raving so madly?
18.
With eyes so blue and meek;
My senses feel all-dreamy,
And not a word can I speak.
Of thy blue eyes’ sweet smile;
A sea of blue thoughts is spreading
Over my heart the while.
19.
And my rancour is subsiding;
Once again hath May breath’d on me
Feelings tender and confiding.
Through the walks the most frequented,
Under every bonnet seek I
For my fair one’s face lamented.
On the bridge I take my station;
Peradventure she will come there,
And will see my desolation.
Hear I once again soft sighing,
And my gentle heart well knoweth
What the white waves are replying.{187}
am lost in dreamy vision,
And the birds in every thicket
Hold the fond fool in derision.
20.
Her own sweet fragrance, if the nightingale
Herself feels what round man’s soul softly twineth,
When echoes her sweet song across the vale,—
Oft fill’d by truth. If nightingale and rose
The feeling only feign’d, the fabrication
Would still be useful, we may well suppose.
21.
If, flying, I avoid thy face;
How ill accords my visage mournful
With thine, so fair and full of grace!
Grows pale and thinner day by day;
Thou’lt find me but a hideous creature,—
I’ll shun thee,—be not scornful, pray.
22.
And blossom with them too;
I wander as in vision,
And at each step totter anew.
Or at thy feet I’ll fall,
With love intoxicated,
In the garden, in presence of all!
23.
24.
A Holy Alliance have made;
They well understood each other,
When close together laid.
That decks thy gentle breast,
Our poor ally and associate,
To death was wellnigh press’d.
25.
Made minutes, hours, divisions of time?
It was a cold and sorrowful elf;
He sat in the winter-night, wrapp’d in himself,
And counted the mouse’s squeakings mysterious,
And the wood-worm’s regular tick so serious.
It was a mouth all glowing and blest;
It kiss’d and it thought of nothing beside.
The fair month of May was then in its pride,
The flowers were all from the earth fast springing,
The sun was laughing, the birds were singing.
26.
How the thronging stars so tender,
Golden bee like, sadly glimmer
’Mid the heaven’s blue-violet splendour!
Gleams the manse, so white and stately,
And I hear the glass door rattling
While the dear voice thrills me greatly.
Soft embraces, terror-bringing—
And the youthful rose is list’ning,
And the nightingales are singing.
27.
Dreamt before of all these blisses?
Were there not these same elysian
Looks of love, and flowers, and kisses?
Through the foliage of our bower;
Marble-gods still watch were keeping
At the entrance in that hour.
Every sweet and blissful vision,
How the snow’s cold dress doth cover
Heart and tree in sad derision.
Careless, and no love possessing,
We, who’re now so softly feeling,
Heart to heart so softly pressing!
28.
And in darkness then returns—
How such kisses fire the spirit,
If with honest love it burns!
Then the spirit loves to dwell
Much on days that long have vanish’d,
Much on future days as well.
Dang’rous is, if kiss we will;—
Weep, then, rather, darling spirit,
For to weep is easier still.
29.
His heart was sad, his head was grey;
This poor and aged monarch
A young wife married one day.
Fair was his hair, and light his mien;
The silken train he carried
Of the aforesaid young Queen.{190}
It sounds so sweet, it sounds so sad
They both of them must perish,
For too much affection they had.
30.
The images long forsaken—
Within thy voice what is there
By which so deeply I’m shaken?
I know that earth’s fairest treasure,
Sweet love and happy spring time,
’Twould shame beyond all measure.
A silent kiss I’ll bestow thee;
Then smile, when I to-morrow
The withered roses show thee.
31.
“Fly about in fragrant showers,
“And the nightingale’s sweet music
“Fills the air and leafy bowers.
“‘Neath these lindens to be sitting,
“When the glimm’ring golden moonbeams
“Through the fragrant leaves are flitting.
“Thou a heart’s form wilt discover;
“Therefore are the lindens ever
“Chosen seats of each fond lover.
“In far distant visions yearning—
“Speak, belovèd, all the wishes
“That in thy dear heart are burning.”
Whence my thoughts proceed, and whither:
Fain I’d see the chilly north-wind
Sudden bring white snowstorms hither.{191}
And in gaudy sledges riding,
Cracking whips, with bells loud ringing,
Might o’er stream and plain be gliding.
32.
I the elves saw riding proudly;
And I heard their trumpets sounding,
And I hear their bells ring loudly.
Golden staghorns, whilst proceeding
Swiftly on—like flights of wild swans
Through the air the train was speeding.
Smiling, as the band rode by me;
Is’t a sign that new love’s coming,
Or a sign that death is nigh me?
33.
Early in the wood discover’d,
And at evening bring I roses
Pluck’d while twilight’s hour still hover’d.
By these lovely flowerets spoken?
Truth by day-time, love at night-time—
’Tis of this that they’re the token!
34.
Inflicts no sense of wrong;
No longer wilt thou love me,—
Thy letter, though, is long.
A manuscript, in fact!
In giving a refusal
Far otherwise we act.
35.
Unto all the world around,
When my mouth, thy beauty praising,
Full of metaphor is found.{192}
Lies in shelter safe below,
All that deep and glowing secret,
All that deep and secret glow.
From the roses,—fearless be!
This dull world in flames believes not,
But believes them poetry.
36.
Makes with sounding life all-teeming;
Like a verdant echo can it
Enter even in my dreaming.
Than before, and softer breezes
Fill the air, the violet’s fragrance
With still wilder yearning pleases.
And a child-like golden glory
Bear they, like the heads of angels
In the pictures of old story.
Some sweet nightingale, when singing
Of my love to those fair roses,
Wondrous songs my vision bringing—
Or by that delicious bustle
Of the nightingales of springtime
That before my window rustle.
37.
Yonder, and they gently weep
That they cannot earth awaken,
Who in night’s arms is asleep.
Every leaf an ear doth seem!
How its shadowy arm the mountain
Stretcheth out, as though in dream.{193}
Rings the echo of the tone.
Was it my beloved one speaking,
Or the nightingale alone?
38.
Are all its dreams, each flower appears
Weigh’d down by grief, the song all-lonely
Of Philomel wakes secret tears.
O smile not, full of charming grace!
But weep, that it may be my duty
To kiss a tear from off thy face.
39.
Which I so dearly love, so madly;
Once more from that fond heart I’m driven—
Beside it would I linger gladly.
The stream beneath it flows so sadly;
Once more the joys am I forsaking
Of that fond heart I love so madly.
As though before my sorrow flying—
Sweet one, farewell! in distant regions
My heart for thee will still be sighing.
40.
And wither again at a breath,
And blossom again and wither,
And so on until death.
All love and joy, once so blest;
My heart is so wise and witty,
And bleeds away in my breast.
41.
42.
I travel sullen through the world so cold;
The autumn’s end hath come, a humid mist doth hold
Deep veil’d from sight the country drear and perish’d.
The red-tinged leaves, that from the trees fall fast,
The bare plain steams, the wood sighs ’neath the blast,
The worst of all comes next—the rain’s descending!
43.
Spread o’er hill and valley fair;
Storms the trees of leaves are stripping,
And they ghostly look, and bare.
Silent and unstripp’d is seen;
Moist with tears of woe, and lonely,
Shaketh he his head still green.
And the tree, still full of life,
Summer-green, thy form portrayeth,
Much beloved and beauteous wife!
44.
And the town still looks afflicted;
Ever weak and castaway like,
In the Elbe its form’s depicted.
Tedious an affair as ever;
All with pride are overflowing,
Both at pomp and cringing clever.
All thy gods, thy sky’s sweet blisses,
Since these human dregs once more I
See, and weather foul as this is!
PICTURES OF TRAVEL
THE RETURN HOME.
1823-4.
1.
Once a vision sweet shone bright;
Now that vision sweet hath faded,
And I’m veil’d in utter night.
Soon their spirits die away,
And to overcome their terror,
Some loud song straight carol they.
In the darkness spread around;
Though my song may give no pleasure,
Yet mine anguish it hath drown’d.
2.
Why sad and mournful am I;
My thoughts without ceasing brood over
A tale of the times gone by.
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The peak of the mountain sparkleth,
While evening’s sun doth shine.
On high, a maiden fair;
With bright golden jewels all-laden,
She combs her golden hair.{196}
And sings the while a song;
How strange is that melody olden,
As loudly it echoes along!
At sea in his tiny skiff;
He looks but on high, and grows paler,
Nor sees the rock-girded cliff.
At length swallow up, then methought
’Tis Lore-ley who this disaster
With her false singing hath wrought.
3.
Yet May is gleaming like gold;
I stand, ’gainst the linden reclining,
High over the bastion old.
Flows peacefully along;
A boy his bark is steering,
And fishes, and pipes his song.
In distant and chequer’d array,
Are men, and villas, and gardens,
And cattle, woods, meadows so gay.
And spring on the grass, like deer
The mill-wheel’s powd’ring diamonds,
Its distant murmur I hear.
A sentry-box is set;
A red-accoutred fellow
Walks up and down there yet.
While gleameth the sun o’erhead;
He first presents and shoulders—
I would that he’d shoot me dead!
4.
The throstle’s sitting on high;
She, springing, sings softly yonder:
O wherefore dost thou sigh?
“Can tell thee the cause of my gloom;
“She dwells in a nest all hollow,
“Beside my sweetheart’s room.”
5.
No star is in the sky;
In the wood, ’neath the rustling branches
In silence wander I.
From the hunter’s lonely cot;
But within, the scene is but saddening,
And the light can allure me not.
In her leather elbow-chair,
All-gloomily fix’d like a statue,
Not a word escapeth her there.
The forester’s red-headed son;
With fury and scorn he’s laughing,
As he throws ’gainst the wall his gun.
And moistens the flax with her tears;
The father’s terrier, whining,
Curl’d up at her feet appears.
6.
My sweetheart’s family found,
Her sister and father and mother,—
They gave me a welcome all round.
They added, all of a breath,
That they thought me quite unalter’d,
Though my face was pale as death.{198}
And many a tiresome friend;
I ask’d for the little puppy
Whose soft bark knew no end.
I ask’d, as if just call’d to mind,
And they answer’d, in friendly fashion,
That she had but just been confin’d.
And lovingly begg’d them apart
That they’d give her a thousand greetings
From the bottom of my heart.
“The small and gentle hound
Grew to be big and savage,
And in the Rhine was drown’d.”
So like when she wears a smile!
Her eyes are the same as her sister’s
Which caus’d all my mis’ry the while.
7.
O’er ocean cast our eye;
Then came the mists of evening,
And slowly rose on high.
Were kindled, light by light,
And in the farthest distance
A ship was still in sight.
And of the sailor’s strange life,
’Twixt sky and water, ’twixt terror
And joy in endless strife.
Of North and South spoke we,
The many strange races yonder,
And customs, strange to see.{199}
And giant-trees extend,
And fair and silent mortals
Before the lotos bend.
Flat-headed, broad-mouthèd, and small;
They squat round the fire, bake fishes,
And squeak, and speak shrilly, and squall.
At length not a word was said;
The ship from sight had vanish’d,
For darkness o’er all things was spread.
8.
Quick, push thy bark to land;
Come hither, and sit beside me,
And toy with me, hand in hand.
Nor be so fearful of me;
Thou trustest thyself, void of terror,
Each day to the raging sea.
Hath tempest, ebb, and flow,
And many pearls full precious
Lie in its depths below.
9.
And o’er the waves doth smile;
Mine arms hold my sweetheart in prison,
Our hearts both swelling the while.
I calmly repose on the strand:
Hear’st thou aught in the wind as it races?
Why shrinks thy snow-white hand?
10.
Like a giant-orange gleaming;
Broad her streaks, with golden rays
O’er the dusky ocean beaming.
While the billows white are breaking;
Many sweet words hear I there,
From the water’s depths awaking.
And my heart must break its slumbers;
Beauteous nymphs, come forth to light,
Dance! and sing your magic numbers!
Soul and body I surrender!
Sing me dead, caress me dead,
Drain my life with kisses tender.
11.
Now the mighty gods are sleeping;
And I listen to their snoring,
Stormy weather o’er us creeping.
On the poor ship bring disaster;
On these winds who’ll place a bridle,—
On these waves that own no master?
Nor the mast and planks from creaking,
So I wrap me in my mantle,
Like the gods for slumber seeking.
12.
Its white and watery breeches;
It flogs each billow with might and main,
Till it howls and rushes and pitches.
Pours the rain in wild commotion;
It seems as though the ancient Night
Would drown the ancient Ocean.{201}
With hoarse and shrill shrieking and yelling;
In anxious-wise she flutters her wings,
Approaching disasters foretelling.
13.
It blusters, pipes, roars with delight;
Hurrah, how the bark is springing!
How merry and wild is the night!
The raging sea builds tow’rd the sky;
A gloomy abyss here is gaping,
There, mounts a white tower on high.
From the cabin bursts forth ’mid the roar;
I cling to the mast for protection,
And wish I was safely on shore.
14.
Mist veils the sea from the eye;
The waves are mysteriously fretting,
White shadows are rising on high.
And sits herself near me on shore;
The veil which her figure disguises
Her snow-white bosom peeps o’er.
And takes my breath away:
Too closely dost thou press me,
Thou lovely water-fay!
“I clasp thee with all my might;
“In hope of warmth do I press thee,
“For cold indeed is the night.”
Of clouds, sheds a paler ray;
Thine eye grows sadder and moister
Thou lovely water-fay!{202}
“Mine eye is moist and wet,
“For when from the wave I was going,
“A drop remain’d in it yet.”
Is growling and heaving its spray;
Thy heart throbs with raging emotion,
Thou lovely water-fay!
“Emotion raging and wild;
“For I love thee with speechless devotion,
“Thou darling human child!”
15.
At morning happen to be,
I rejoice, my little sweet one,
When thee at thy window I see.
My figure thou dost scan:
Who art thou, and what ails thee,
Thou strange and sickly man?
“Well known in the German land;
“When the best names in it are reckon’d,
“My name amongst them will stand.
“Ails crowds in the German land;
“When the fiercest sorrows are reckon’d,
“My sorrows amongst them will stand.”
16.
While the eve’s last rays were flitting;
We sat by the lonely fisherman’s cot,
Alone and in silence sitting.
The restless sea-mew was screaming;
From out thine eyes, so full of love,
The tears were quickly streaming.{203}
And on my knees soon sank I,
And then from off thy snow-white hand
The tears with rapture drank I.
My soul is dying with yearning;
I was poison’d, alas! by the hapless maid
With her falling tears so burning.
17.
Stands a stately castle alone,
Where dwell three beauteous maidens,
Whose love in turns I have known.
While Sunday was Julia’s right;
On Monday Cunigund follow’d,
Who well nigh stifled me quite.
On Tuesday my maidens agreed;
The neighbouring lords and ladies
All came with carriage or steed.
To your great wonder, no doubt;
The whispering aunts and cousins
Observ’d it, and laugh’d right out.
18.
Appeareth, misty and pale,
The city, with all its towers,
In evening twilight’s veil.
The path o’er the waters dark;
With mournful measure, the sailor
Is rowing my tiny bark.
And over the earth gleams he,
And shows me the spot out yonder
Where my loved one was lost to me.
19.
Mysterious town, all hail,
Who erst within thy bosom
My loved one’s form didst veil!
O where can my loved one be?
To your keeping of yore was she trusted,
And ye must her bail be to me.
From their places they could not come down,
When she, with her trunks and boxes,
So hastily went from the town.
My darling to slip through them straight;
A gate is ever found willing
To let a fool “gang her ain gait.”[23]
20.
And the well-known streets are taken,
Until I come to my loved one’s house,
So empty now and forsaken.
How nauseous the smell of the plaster!
The houses seem tumbling down on my head,
So I haste away, fearing disaster.
21.
Where her troth to me was plighted;
On the spot where her tears fell fast
A serpent’s brood had alighted.
22.
In this house my love had her dwelling of yore;
’Tis long since she from the city departed,
Yet her house still stands on the spot as before.{205}
And wrings his hands with the weight of his woes;
I look on his face with shudd’ring amazement,—
The moon doth the form of myself disclose.
Why dare to mimic my love’s hard lot,
Which many a night gave me grief and trouble
In former days, on this very spot?
23.
And know that I’m still alive?
I burst the yoke that’s upon me,
When my olden wrath doth revive.
How of yore a dead stripling brave
At midnight came to his loved one,
And carried her down to his grave.
Thou wondrously lovely maid,
I’m alive still, and feel far stronger
Than the whole of the dead’s brigade!
24.
“In peeps the quivering moon;
“Outside is a singing and jingling,
“As though to a waltz’s tune.
“To see who’s disturbing my rest;
“There stands a skeleton ghastly
“Who’s fiddling and singing his best:
“And then thy promise didst break;
“To-night there’s a ball in the churchyard,
“Come with me, the dance to partake.
“And lures her from out her abode;
“She follows the skeleton wildly,
“Who fiddles and sings on the road.{206}
“His bones they rattle away;
“With his skull he keeps nidding and nodding,
“By the moonlight’s glimmering ray.”
25.
And her likeness closely did scan,
And her belovèd features
To glow with life began.
A sweet and wondrous smile,
And as through tears of sorrow
Her clear eyes shone the while.
Adown my cheeks did pour—
And ah! I scarce can believe it,
That I’ve lost thee evermore.
26.
To bear a world, a very world of sorrows;
Unbearable’s the load I bear, and e’en
The heart within me’s breaking.
Thou wouldst be happy, utterly be happy,
Or utterly be wretched, O proud heart,
And now in truth thou’rt wretched!
27.
To the grave whole races descend,
And yet the love in my bosom
Shall never wax fainter or end.
Before thee sink down on my knee,
And die, as these words I utter:
Dear Madam, I love but thee!
28.
And the stars cast a mournful ray;
I was borne to the town where dwelleth my love,
Many hundred miles away{207}
And when I arrived at her dwelling so blest,
I kiss’d the stones of the stair,
Which her little foot so often had press’d,
And the train of her garment fair.
And cold were the stones that night;
Her pallid form from the window-sill
Look’d down in the moonbeam’s light.
29.
That troubles now my gaze?
Of olden times the offspring
Still in mine eye it stays.
Who all have faded from sight,
With all my joys and sorrows,
Yea, faded in storm and night.
The stars so blue and mild,
Which into my yearning bosom
Those joys and sorrows once smiled.
Like idle breath did decay;
Thou old, old tear all-lonely,
Do thou, too, pass away!
30.
Looks down from the clouds on high;
The parsonage, silent and lonely,
By the side of the churchyard doth lie.
The son on the light turns his eyes,
All-sleepy, the elder daughter
Doth stretch, while the younger thus cries:
“The days are! I’m quite in despair!
“’Tis only when there’s a burial
“One sees aught of life, I declare!{208}
“You’re mistaken, four only have died
“Since the time when they buried your father
“By the gate of the churchyard outside.”
“I’ll starve no longer with you;
“I’ll go to the Count to-morrow,
“He’s rich and he loves me too.”
“At the tavern drink huntsmen three;
“They’re making money, and gladly
“Would teach the secret to me.”
Full hard in his lanky face:
“Wouldst thou dare, thou accursed of heaven,
“As a robber thy friends to disgrace?”
And see a beckoning hand;
And behold, outside the dead father
In his black preaching-garment doth stand.
31.
With rain and tempest and snow;
I sit at the window, gazing
On the gloomy darkness below.
That slowly moves in the street;
’Tis a woman holding a lantern,
And walking with tottering feet.
Of meal and butter and eggs;
’Tis to bake a cake for her daughter
That she is out now on her legs.
And sleepily looks at the light,
Her golden locks stray over
Her face so lovely and bright.
32.
By love’s bitter sorrow distress’d,
And at length I myself believe it
As well as all the rest.
I ever have whisper’d apart:
I love thee beyond expression,
While love is gnawing my heart.
That I dared my love to proclaim,
And, ah! I have ever been silent,
When into thy presence I came.
Appear’d, and my lips they held;
And, ah! ’tis by evil angels
That my joy hath now been dispell’d.
33.
Could I once again but kiss them,
Press them softly to my heart,
And then die in silent weeping!
Hover near me day and night,
And I’m troubled: what forebodeth
All this sweet, this blue enigma?
34.
“Of thy passion, hapless lover?
“In her sweet eyes couldst thou never
“Signs of answering love discover?
“Reach her soul, and so get at her?
“Yet thou art not thought a blockhead,
“Worthy friend, in such a matter.”
35.
36.
You only yawn’d, and nothing replied;
But when I reduced my sorrow to rhyme,
You praised me greatly, and call’d it sublime.
37.
And with wonder his form did I closely scan;
He is not ugly, and is not lame,
But really a handsome and charming man.
A man in the prime of life is the devil,
Obliging, a man of the world, and civil;
A diplomatist too, well skill’d in debate,
He talks right glibly of church and state.
He’s rather pale, but it’s really not strange,
For his studies through Sanskrit and Hegel range.
Fouqué is still his favourite poet;
But criticism he’ll touch no more,
But has handed that subject entirely o’er
To his grandmother Hecate, that she may know it.
My juridical works did he kindly praise,
His favourite hobby in former days.
He said that my friendship was not too dear,
And then he nodded, and look’d severe,
And afterwards asked if it wasn’t the case
We had met at the Spanish ambassador’s rout?
And when I look’d him full in the face
I saw him to be an old friend without doubt.
38.
For the path of life is short,
And damnation everlasting
Is too true, not mere report.
For the path of life is long,
And thou’lt often have to borrow
Just as usual, right or wrong.
39.
Inquired in every city:
Where goeth the road to Bethlehem,
Ye boys and maidens pretty?
The kings went onward discreetly;
They follow’d the track of a golden star,
That sparkled brightly and sweetly.
And they enter’d the dwelling lowly;
The oxen bellow’d, the infant cried,
While sang the three kings holy.
40.
Two children, little and gay;
We crawl’d inside the henhouse,
And hid in the straw in play.
And when the people came by,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”—and they fancied
’Twas really the cock’s shrill cry.
With paper we nicely lined,
And in them lived together,
In a dwelling quite to our mind.
Came oft to visit us there;
We made her our bows and our curtsies,
And plenty of compliments fair.
In language friendly and soft;
Since then we have ask’d the same question
Of many old cats full oft.
Discoursed, in the way of old men,
And lamented that all was better
In the olden days than then;{212}
From out of the world had fled,
How very dear was the coffee,
How scarce was the gold, we said.
And all is fast rolling away;
The world, and the times, and religion,
And gold, love, and truth all decay.
41.
I think upon the days of yore;
The world was then in calmness lying,
And men were peaceful evermore.
Want and confusion round us spread;
The Lord seems dead that erst rul’d o’er us
Beneath us, is the Devil dead.
Decay’d and cold, of joy bereft,
That, were we not by love still gladden’d,
No single resting-place were left.
42.
Through the darksome clouds above,
So from out time’s darksome mirror
Peeps a vision full of love.
Proudly sailing down the Rhine,
And the shores, in summer verdure,
In the setting sun did shine.
Bent before a lovely maid;
In her beauteous, pallid features
Lo, the golden sunlight play’d.
Wondrous was our joy that day;
And the heavens became still bluer,
And our souls soar’d high away.{213}
Like a vision fleeted by,
And I saw them all reflected
In the lovely maiden’s eye.
43.
A worn, sad woman one day;
Her once so-blooming figure
Had wither’d and fallen away.
By the hand another she led,
And grief and poverty plainly
In her walk, looks, and garments I read.
And then did I meet her eye;
She looked upon me, and gently
I spake to her thus, with a sigh:
“For thou art pale and ill,
“And food and drink I’ll earn thee
“By industry and skill.
“The children that with thee I see;
“But, my child so poor and unhappy,
“I’ll care the most for thee.
“That I loved thee so dearly of yore,
“And when at length thou diest,
“I’ll weep at thy grave full sore.”
44.
45.
If there still are loudly ringing
Many of my old sad numbers
In the newest songs I’m singing.
Will have died away of sorrow,
And a new-born song-spring softly
From the heal’d heart shoot to-morrow.
46.
And return to sober reason;
This comedy now ’twere better to stop
That we’ve played for so long a season.
The gorgeous coulisses were painted;
My knight’s cloak glitter’d, while I was the while
With the finest sensations acquainted.
Am against this toying inveighing,
I feel that I’m still as wretched as though
A comedy still I were playing.
Of my feelings was I the narrator;
And I’ve play’d, with my own death in my breast,
The dying gladiator.
47.
Is restlessly striving now;
He must needs, by fighting and penance,
Obtain Wasischta’s cow.
O what an ox art thou,
To have all this fighting and penance,
And all for nought but a cow!
48.
49.
So pure and fair and blest;
But when I view thee, sorrow
Straight creepeth to my breast.
My hands on thy head to lay,
And pray that God may keep thee
So blest, fair, pure, for aye.
50.
And the greatest pains I’ve taken
Ne’er within thy fond heart tow’rd me
Loving feelings to awaken.
To my vow I’m wellnigh faithless,
And this thought steals o’er me often:
Would that thou could’st love me nathless.
51.
In night and pillows conceal’d,
A sweet and charming image
Before me stands reveal’d.
Hath closed mine eyes in sleep,
Into my dream this image
Doth softly, gently creep.
It ne’er doth melt away,
For in mine inmost bosom
I bear it all the day.
52.
With the eyes so sweet and bright,
O my darling little maiden,
I of thee think day and night.{216}
Fain would I disperse its gloom,
Sitting by thee, talking with thee
In thy trusty little room.
Thy dear little snowy hand,
With my falling tears caressing
Thy dear little snowy hand.
53.
Though ’tis hailing, though ’tis storming,
Rattling ’gainst the window-pane,
Nevermore will I complain,
For within my breast I bear
Spring-joys and love’s image fair.
54.
Others unto Paul and Peter;
Thee alone, of suns the fairest,
Thee alone will I e’er honour.
Be thou kindly, be thou gracious,
’Mongst all maidens sun the fairest,
’Neath the sun the fairest maiden!
55.
My loving woe unto thee?
And wilt thou that my haughty mouth
With begging words shall woo thee?
’Twas made but for kissing and sighing;
Perchance it may speak a scornful word,
While I with sorrow am dying.
56.
57.
And rest beside thee too;
Away thou needs must hie thee,
Thou hast so much to do.
My very soul to thee;
An answering bow was tender’d,
Thou laughedst full of glee.
And treat my love amiss;
At last thou didst refuse me
The usual parting kiss.
To shoot myself any the more;
For all of this, my beauty,
Has happen’d to me before.
58.
So clear, so sweetly roving;
O three times happy is the man
Whom those fair eyes are loving.
A sparkling radiance throwing;
O three times happy is the man
For whom with love ’tis glowing.
One never can see fairer;
O three times happy is the man
Who of their love is sharer.
O could I unattended
Within the green wood meet with him,—
His luck would soon be ended!
59.
I have bound me to thy breast,
Now in my own fetters dying,
Into earnest turns my jest.
By a rightful impulse led,
Then the powers of hell draw nigh me,
And I really shoot me dead.
60.
I’ll go to the German professor, who’s rife
With schemes for putting Life’s pieces together,
Whereby a passable System’s unfurl’d;
Ragged nightcaps and dressing-gowns keep out the weather,
Stop the gaps in the edifice crack’d of the world.
61.
The house is fill’d with light;
By yonder shining window
A shadowy form’s in sight.
I stand below and apart;
Still less canst thou see ever
Inside my darksome heart.
It loves thee and it breaks,
And breaks, and bleeds, and quivers,
But thou see’st not how it aches.
62.
In one single word could convey;
To the merry winds straight would I give it,
Who would merrily bear it away.
They would carry, my loved one, to thee
Thou wouldst hear it at every moment,
Wouldst hear it where’er thou mightst be.{219}
Are peacefully closèd in sleep,
My word would straightway pursue thee
Far into thy visions most deep.
63.
Hast all that mortals adore;
Thine eyes are among the fairest,—
My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?
I’ve written many a score
Of sweet immortal ballads,—
My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?
Hast thou tormented me sore,
And brought me to utter perdition,—
My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?
64.
Though ’tis hopeless, is a God;
But the man who hopeless loveth
For the second time’s—a fool.
Once more, with no love responsive;
Sun and moon and stars are laughing,
I, too, join the laugh and—die.
65.
Of thy spirit, from the first,
With my love’s untutor’d boldness,
Which through rocks delights to burst.
And I see thee walk through life
With thy husband taking thy way,
As an honest teeming wife!
66.
Pour’d on me honours, by way of seduction
Said I had only to wait for a while,
And their protection upon me should smile.{220}
I before long should of hunger have perish’d,
Had I not happen’d a good man to see,
Who took an interest kindly in me.
Never can I forget conduct so good.
Pity I cannot with kisses reply,
For the good man is no other than—I!
67.
Cannot be too much respected;
Oft he gives me wine and oysters,
Gives me liquors well selected.
His cravat is still more sightly;
And so comes he every morning
For my health to ask politely.
Of my talents and my graces;
Eagerly at my disposal
All his services he places.
With a face as if inspired
He declaims before the ladies
All my poems so admired.
Such a young man to discover
In the present day, when surely
All things good will soon be over.
68.
And sat in heaven proudly;
The angels, ranged around my throne,
All praised my verses loudly.
In value many a florin;
And Cardinal I drank the while,
And had no need of scorin’{221}.
On earth, with all its evil;
And were I not the Lord of all,
I’d fain have been the devil.
And hasten downward thither,
And find my worthy friend Eugene,
And bring him to me hither.
But o’er a glass of brandy;
Seek for him not in Hedwig’s Church,
But at Miss Meyer’s so handy.
And with his whole soul in it
Flew down, and seized my worthy friend,
And brought him in a minute.
And rule o’er every nation;
I always told thee I should come
To power and reputation.
As greatly would delight thee;
The town of A—— I’ll happy make
To-day, and so excite thee.
Shall all be now converted,
And, lo, an oyster, fresh and clear,
In each shall be inserted.
Like dew, shall serve as pickle,
And in the gutters of the streets
The finest wine shall trickle.
And to the banquet hasten!
The judges from the gutter drink
As if it were a basin.
Rejoice the poets needy!
Lieutenants lick the streets quite dry,
And ensigns poor and greedy.{222}
Wise in their generation;
They always think the present time
The weightiest in creation.
69.
Away from beauteous arms fast clasp’d around me,
Yet one more day I gladly would have tarried,
When came the post-boy with his steeds, and found me.
An endless farewell-taking, endless parting;
Is then thy heart to clasp mine unavailing?
Could not thine eye retain me, e’en at starting?
70.
Post-chaise the whole of the night;
Each lean’d on the other’s bosom,
And jested with hearts so light.
My child, how we did stare,
For the blind passenger,[24] Amor,
Was sitting between us there!
71.
May have will’d to pitch her tent;
Swearing, with the rain fast falling,
All the city through I went.
Ran I swiftly in the rain,
And to every surly waiter
Did I turn myself in vain.
Nodding, tittering as well:
Could I tell that thou wouldst live in,
Maiden, such a grand hotel?
72.
Are standing all in a row;
Deep hidden in my mantle,
In silence I onward go.
The hour of twelve doth proclaim:
My love, with her charms and kisses,
Awaits me with rapturous flame.
And kindly gleams in the sky,
And when I arrive at her dwelling,
I joyfully call up on high:
That thou hast thus lighted my way;
I now at length can release thee,
Light the rest of the world now, I pray
In solitude mourning his fate,
As me thou of old time didst comfort,
Him also O comfort thou straight!
73.
In mere show what joy’s convey’d!
In betrayal, O what bliss is!
Sweeter still to be betray’d!
Yet I know what thou allowest;
I’ll avow whate’er thou swearest,
I will swear what thou avowest.
74.
My head all-softly I lay,
And secretly can listen
To what thy heart doth say.
And riding in at the gate;
To-morrow my heart-beloved one
Will surely desert me straight.{224}
At least to-day thou art mine,
And in thine arms so beauteous
With twofold bliss I’ll recline.
75.
And riding out at the gate;
I come then, my loved one, and bring thee
A nosegay of roses straight.
Much folk and warlike display!
By far too many were quarter’d
Within thy bosom that day.
76.
Suffer’d many a bitter anguish
From love’s fiery glow.
Wood is now so dear, the fire
Will for lack of fuel expire—
Ma foi! ’tis better so.
Chase away the tears that wear one,
And all foolish love’s alarms;
If thy life may not have perish’d,
O forget thy love once cherish’d—
Ma foi! within my arms.
77.
When I raised up my voice;
They grumbled and asserted
My singing was not choice.
Their voicelets petty and shrill;
They sang so finely and neatly,
Like crystal sounded their trill.
Of loving effusions and love,
To tears the ladies all turning,
With tunes so adapted to move.
78.
In January now I find you once more;
In the midst of the heat you then were complaining,
And now you are cool’d, and cold to the core.
Neither warm shall I find you, nor yet quite cold;
I shall walk o’er your grave with silent composure,
While my own heart within me is wretched and old.
79.
Art thou tow’rds me changed so sadly?
I by all means shall lament it,
Thou hast treated me so badly.
Speak with malice cruel-hearted
Of the man who ofttimes kiss’d you
Lovingly, in days departed?
80.
Which did greet me once with gladness,
And the lips once more address me,
Which once sweeten’d life’s long sadness.
Charm’d me, as they sweetly falter’d;
I alone am not the same one,
Having home return’d, all-alter’d.
Lovingly embraced and closely,
To her heart I now am clinging,
Dull of feeling and morosely.
81.
Soft refreshing winds are playing;
There, with my belovèd Donna,
On a summer’s eve I’m straying.
Doth my arm with rapture linger,
And her bosom’s haughty motion
Feel I with a loving finger.{226}
Through the linden trees is moving,
And, beneath, the dusky millstream
Murmurs sad dreams, disapproving.
“Tells me, I shall hence be driven
“On the walls of Salamanca
“Ne’er again to walk ’tis given.”
82.
Convinced me thou saw’st me with heart not estranged;
And had it not been for thy tyrant mother,
I think that we kisses should straight have exchanged.
And on, in my olden course, wander I;
At the window my fair one is lurking in pity,
And friendly greetings I throw up on high.
83.
Afar sound the bells of the lambs as they stray;
My loved one, my lamb, my sun bright and tender,
How gladly once more would I see thee to-day!
My child, fare thee well, I must wander from thee;
In vain! for her curtain is still and unmoving—
She slumbering lieth and dreameth of me.
84.
Two mighty lions are standing.
Thou lion-scorn of Halle,
Methinks they’ve tamed thee finely!
A mighty giant’s standing.
He hath a sword, and moves not,
He’s turn’d to stone by terror.
A mighty church is standing.
The students of each faction
Have there a place for praying.
85.
Over wood and verdant meadows,
And the gold moon, fragrance shedding,
Gleameth from the azure heaven.
Chirp; there’s motion in the water,
And the wand’rer hears a splashing,
And a breathing in the stillness.
See, the beauteous elf is bathing;
Arm and neck, so white and lovely,
Glisten in the moonbeams darkling.
86.
Heart is sick and limbs are weary;
But the moonbeams, softly vying,
Shed their light like blessings cheery.
Scares away each terror nightly;
All my woes dissolve, and tender
Dew o’erflows my eyelids lightly.
87.
And life is nought but sultry day;
Darkness draws nigh, I slumber
Wearied by day’s bright light.
There sings the youthful nightingale;
She sings of love exulting,
In dreams ’tis heard by me.
88.
“Whom thou sangest in the hour
“When thy heart was pierced so strangely
“By the flames of magic power?”
And my heart is cold and weary,
And this book’s the urn that holdeth
My love’s ashes sad and dreary.
89.
With ceaseless thinking, day and night;
And yet thy darling eyes compel me
To love thee, in my own despite.
Charm’d by their sweet expressive light;
That I should love again thus deeply
I scarcely can believe aright.
90.
Thy joy shall know no measure;
Thou’lt live in happiness all thy life,
In uninterrupted pleasure.
E’en ’neath thy reviling and curses;
But we must part most certainly
If thou abusest my verses.
91.
Little knew I thee, good brother;
When we in the mud descended
Soon we understood each other.
92.
As the “handsome” known and fêted;
Our apartments are adjoining,
By a thin wall separated.
As he in the streets is walking
Rattling spurs, mustachios twirling,
With his dogs behind him stalking.
All alone at home is sitting,
His guitar his fingers twanging,
Sweet dreams through his fancy flitting.
His wild phantasies beginning—
O it drives me mad to hear him
Keeping up his wretched dinning.
THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.
1824.
PREFACE.
White and courtly frills they hide them,
Gentle speeches and embraces—
Had they only hearts inside them!
In the heart, yea, love all-burning;
Ah! I’m sick of their false prating
Of love’s sorrows and love’s yearning.
Where the peaceful huts are standing,
Where the breezes free are blowing,
And the bosom free’s expanding.
Where the dusky firs are springing,
And the haughty clouds are roaming,
Brooks are murmuring, birds are singing.
Polish’d lords and dames beguiling;
To the mountains now ascending
I’ll look down upon you, smiling.
1.
Of the aged mountaineer;
There the dark-green fir is rustling,
And the golden moon shines clear.
Richly carved and wondrously;
He that on it sits is happy,
And the happy one am I!
On my knee her arms repose;
Eyes are like two stars all azure,
Mouth is like the purple rose.{230}
Large as heaven, she on me throws,
And she puts her lily-finger
Mocking on the purple rose.
For with industry she spins;
The guitar the father playing,
Some old melody begins.
Softly, in a tone suppress’d;
Many a most important secret
She to me hath soon confess’d:
“We can’t go to see the sight
“Of the shooting-match at Goslar,
“Which was such a great delight.
“On the mountain-top, you know;
“All the winter we’re entirely
“As though buried in the snow.
“And as fearful as a child
“Of the wicked mountain spirits,
“Who at night roam fierce and wild”—
Terrified by what she said,
And her little eyes she covers
With her little hands in dread.
And the spinning-wheel loud hums;
Meanwhile the guitar is tinkling,
And the olden tune it strums:
“At the wicked spirits’ might;
“Angels keep, my little darling,
“Safe watch o’er thee, day and night.”
2.
At the window small and low,
And the moon, the yellow list’ner,
Through it her sweet light doth throw.{231}
In the neighbouring chamber sleep,
Yet we two are gaily talking,
So that wide awake we keep.
“Is a thing I’ll credit ne’er,
“For thy lips’ convulsive quiv’ring
“Ill accords with thoughts of prayer.
“Every time affrights me sore,
“Yet thine eyes’ mild lustre husheth
“Thy sad anguish evermore.
“All that is the Christian’s boast;
“Dost believe in God the Father,
“In the Son and Holy Ghost?”—
Sitting on my mother’s knee,
I believed in God the Father,
Ruling all things wondrously;
And the men that on it move;
Who to suns, moons, stars predestined
All their tracks wherein to rove.
Many more things I conceived,
And my reason wax’d yet stronger,
And I in the Son believed.
Open’d to us love’s door wide,
And who in reward, as usual,
By the mob was crucified.
Wander’d over many a coast,
Doth my heart swell, and in earnest
I believe the Holy Ghost.
And still greater doeth he;
He hath burst the tyrants’ strongholds,
Servants from their yoke set free.{232}
And renews the olden law:
All men equal are, and noble
From the earliest breath they draw.
Drives the brain’s dark weft away,
That corrupteth love and pleasure,
Grinning at us night and day.
Hath the Holy Ghost ordain’d,
All his pleasure to accomplish,
All by mighty zeal sustain’d.
See, their noble banners wave!
Ah, my child! hast thou seen ever
Knights like this, so proud and brave?
Kiss me, look upon me nigh!
Such a daring knight, my fair one,
Of the Holy Ghost am I!
3.
In the dark green fir-tree’s rear,
And our lamp within the chamber
Flickers faint, with glimmer drear.
With a light that brighter plays,
And the purple rose is glowing,
And the darling maiden says:
“Pilfer all our bread and bacon;
“In the drawer at night they’re lying,
“But by morning all is taken.
“From the milk are wont to sup,
“Leaving, too, the bowl uncover’d,
“And the cat the rest drinks up.{233}
“For she crawls, while night-storms lower,
“Up the spirit-mountain yonder
“To the ancient ruin’d tower.
“Full of joy and glittering arms;
“Knights and squires, in merry torch-dance,
“Mingled with the ladies’ charms.
“Men and castle too bewitch’d;
“Nought remaineth but the ruins,
“Where the owls their nest have pitch’d.
“If the proper word is said
“At the proper hour at nighttime
“At the proper place o’erhead,
“To a castle fair once more,
“Knights and squires and ladies gaily
“Will be dancing as of yore.
“Men and castle will obey;
“Drums and trumpets will proclaim him,
“Heralding his sov’reign sway.”
From the mouth so like a rose,
While an azure starry radiance
From her sweet eyes overflows.
Twines her golden hair with glee,
Calls by pretty names my fingers,
Kisses, laughs, then mute is she.
On me looks with trusting eye;
Table, cupboard,—I could fancy
I had seen them formerly.
The guitar scarce audibly
Of itself begins to tinkle,
And as in a dream sit I.{234}
Now the proper hour hath sounded;
If the proper word I utter’d,
Maiden, thou wouldst be astounded.
Midnight would grow dim and quake,
Fir and streamlet roar more loudly,
And the aged mountain wake.
From the mountain’s clefts would burst,
And a flowering wood shoot from them
As in joyous spring-time erst.
Leaves of size so fabulous,
Fragrant, varied, hasty-quiv’ring,
As though passion stirr’d them thus.
Dart from out the mass like gems;
Lilies, like to crystal arrows,
Upward shoot tow’rd heaven their stems.
Downward gaze with yearning glow;
In the lily’s giant-calix
They their gushing radiance throw.
Alter’d more than all we seem;
Gold and silk and torches’ lustre
Joyously around us gleam.
To a castle turns this cot;
Knights and squires and ladies gaily
Dance with rapture, tiring not.
I, yea I, have gain’d to-day;
Drums and trumpets loud proclaim me,
Heralding my sov’reign sway!
4.
As a throne he sitteth down
O’er his head the sun all-radiant
Is his ever golden crown.{235}
Gentle fawners, streak’d with red;
Calves as cavaliers attend him,
Proudly o’er the pastures spread.
With the birds and cows as well,
And he has his chamber-music
To the sound of flute and bell.
And the time so sweetly keep
Waterfall and nodding fir-trees,
And the king then goes to sleep.
His prime minister, the hound,
While his loud and surly barking
Echoes all the country round.
“’Tis a heavy task to reign;
“Ah! right gladly would I find me
“With my queen at home again!
“Calmly rests my kingly head,
“And my vast and boundless kingdom
“In her dear eyes lies outspread.”
5.
Through the sun’s soft glimm’ring motion;
Far and wide the mountain-summits
Float within the misty ocean.
If I seven-league boots had only,
Over yonder mountain-summits
To my darling’s dwelling lonely.
From the bed wherein she’s lying,
Gently would I kiss her forehead,
And her mouth, with rubies vying,{236}
In her lily-ear so tender:
“Think in dreams, we love each other,
“And our love will ne’er surrender.”
6.
And dwell in Ilsenstein;
Come with me to my castle,
And there ’midst pleasures be mine.
With my pellucid wave;
Thou shalt forget thine anguish,
Poor sorrow-stricken knave!
Upon my snowy breast,
Shalt thou repose, and dream there
Of olden legends blest.
As I embraced and kiss’d
The darling Kaiser Henry,
Who doth no longer exist.
The dead are dead and gone;
And I am fair and blooming,
My laughing heart beats on.
My crystal castle doth ring;
The knights and maidens are dancing,
The squires all-joyfully spring.
The spurs of iron are worn,
The dwarfs beat drum and trumpet,
And fiddle and play the horn.
As Kaiser Henry it held;
I held him fast imprison’d,
When loudly the trumpet’s note swell’d.
THE BALTIC.
PART I. 1825.
1. EVENING TWILIGHT.
Sat I, tormented in spirit and lonely.
The sun sank lower and lower, and threw
Red glowing streaks upon the water,
And the snowy, spreading billows,
By the flood hard-press’d,
Foam’d and roar’d still nearer and nearer—
A wonderful sound, a whisp’ring and piping,
A laughing and murmuring, sighing and rushing,
Between times a lullaby-home-sounding singing,—
Methinks I hear some olden tradition,
Primeval, favourite legend,
Which I erst as a stripling
Learnt from the neighbours’ children,
When we, on the summer evenings,
On the house-door’s steps all cower’d
Cosily for quiet talking,
With our little hearts all attentive,
And our eyes all wisely curious;—
Whilst the bigger maidens,
Close by their fragrant flowerpots
Sat at the opposite window
Rosy their faces,
Smiling, illumed by the moon.
2. SUNSET.
Down to the far up-shuddering
Silvery-grey world-ocean;
Airy images, rosily breath’d upon,
After him roll, and over against him,
Out of the’ autumnal glimmering veil of clouds,
With face all mournful and pale as death,
Bursteth forth the moon,
And behind her, like sparks of light,
Misty-broad, glimmer the stars.{238}
Join’d in fond union,
Luna the goddess and Sol the god,
And around them the stars all cluster’d,
Their little, innocent children.
And they parted in anger,
That glorious, radiant pair.
Wanders the Sun-god in realms on high,—
On account of his majesty
Greatly sung-to and worshipp’d
By haughty, bliss-harden’d mortals.
But in the night-time,
In heaven wanders Luna,
Unhappy mother,
With all her orphan’d starry children,
And she gleams in silent sorrow,
And loving maidens and gentle poets
Devote to her tears and songs.
Still doth she love her beautiful spouse.
Towards the evening, trembling and pale,
Peeps she forth from the light clouds around,
And looks at the parting one mournfully,
And fain would cry in her anguish: “Come!
Come! the children all long for thee—”
But the disdainful Sun-god,
At the sight of his spouse, ’gins glowing
With still deeper purple,
In anger and grief,
And inflexibly hastens he
Down to his flood-chilly widow’d bed.
* * *
Evil and backbiting tongues
Thus brought grief and destruction
E’en ’mongst the godheads immortal.
And the poor godheads, yonder in heaven,
Wander in misery,
Comfortless over their endless tracks,
And death cannot reach them,{239}
And with them they trail
Their bright desolation.
The lowly-planted, the blest-with-death one,
I sorrow no longer.
3. THE NIGHT ON THE STRAND.
The ocean boils;
And over the sea, flat on its belly,
Lies the misshapen Northwind;
With groaning and stifled mysterious voice,
A sullen grumbler, good-humour’d for once,
Prates he away to the waves,
Telling many a wild tradition,
Giant-legends, murderous-humorous,
Primeval Sagas from Norway,
And the while, far echoing, laughs he and howls he
Exorcists’ songs of the Edda,
Grey old Runic proverbs,
So darkly-daring, and magic-forcible,
That the white sons of Ocean
Spring up on high, all exulting,
In madden’d excitement.
Over the flood-moisten’d sand,
Paces a stranger, whose heart within him
Is wilder far than wind and waters;
There where he walks
Sparks fly out, and shells are crackling,
And he veils himself in his dark-grey mantle,
And quickly moves on through the blustering night;—
Guided in safety by yon little light,
That sweetly, invitingly glimmers,
From the lone fisherman’s cottage.
And all all alone is staying
Within the hut the fisherman’s daughter,
The wondrously lovely fisherman’s daughter.
By the hearth she’s sitting,
And lists to the water-kettle’s{240}
Homely, sweet foreboding humming,
And shakes in the fire the crackling brushwood
And on it blows,
So that the lights, all ruddy and flickering,
Magic-sweetly are reflected
On her fair blooming features,
On her tender, snowy shoulder,
Which, moving gently, peeps
From out her coarse grey smock,
And on her little, anxious hand,
Which fastens firmer her under-garment,
Over her graceful hip.
The nightly stranger entereth in;
Love-secure, his eye reposes
On the snowy, slender maiden,
Who, trembling, near him stands,
Like to a startled lily;
And he throws his mantle to earth,
And laughs and speaks:
“And I come, and with me hath come
“The olden time, when the gods from the heavens
“Came down to earth, to the daughters of mortals,
“And the daughters of mortals embraced they,
“And from them there issued
“Sceptre-bearing races of monarchs,
“And heroes, wonders of earth.
“Because of my godhead,
“And I pray thee give me some tea mix’d with rum
“For ’tis cold out of doors,
“And amid such night breezes
“Freeze even we, we godheads immortal,
“And easily catch the divinest of colds,
“And a cough that proves quite eternal.”
4. POSEIDON.
Over the wide-rolling breadth of the sea;
Far in the roadstead glitter’d the ship
Destined to home to convey me.{241}
But a propitious wind was yet wanting,
And I sat on the white downs all calmly
Hard by the lonely strand,
And I read the song of Odysseus,
The olden, ever-youthful song,
From out whose sea-beflutter’d leaves
Joyfully rose to meet me
The breath of the deities,
And the shining spring-time of mortals,
And the blooming heaven of Hellas.
The son of Laërtes in wanderings and troubles,
Placed itself with him, spirit-tormented,
At guestly hearths,
Where beauteous queens were spinning their purple,
And help’d him to lie, and succeed in escaping
From giants’ caverns and nymphs’ embraces,
Follow’d him down to Cimmerian night,
And in tempest and shipwreck,
And with him endured unspeakable torments.
“Thine anger is fearful;
“I myself am anxious
“As to my own return.”
When the sea foam’d on high,
And out of the snowy billows arose
The sedge-becrowned head of the seagod,
And scornfully cried he:
“I’ll not for one moment endanger
“Thy poor little vessel,
“And thy dear life shall not be tormented
“By any critical tossing.
“For thou, little poet, hast never annoy’d me,
“No single turret was injured by thee
“In Priam’s sacred fortress,
“No single hair didst thou e’er singe
“In the eye of my son Polyphemus,
“And thou hast ne’er been advised or protected
“By the goddess of wisdom, Pallas Athene!”{242}
And sank ’neath the ocean again;
And at the vulgar seaman’s wit
Laugh’d under the water
Amphitrite, the clumsy fishwoman,
And the silly daughters of Nereus.
5. HOMAGE.
Up, up! and on with your arms
Bid the trumpet to blow,
And raise high on my shield
The youthful maiden,
Who’s now to rule my heart,
My undivided heart, as queen.
Tear I his sparkling ruddy gold,
And of it weave a diadem
For thine anointed head.
From the fluttering blue-silken heaven’s veil,
Wherein night’s diamonds are gleaming,
Cut I a costly piece,
And hang, as coronation mantle,
Upon thy regal shoulders.
I give to thee, as courtiers,
Some well-bedizen’d sonnets,
Haughty terzinas and courtly stanzas;
My wit shall serve thee as footman,
And as court-fool my phantasy,
As herald, the laughing tears on my scutcheon,
My humour shall serve thee.
But I, O my queen,
Before thee kneel down,
In homage, on red velvet cushion,
And to thee hand over
The small bit of reason,
Which, out of compassion, was left me
By her who last govern’d thy kingdom.
6. DECLARATION.
Wilder tossèd the flood,{243}
And I sat on the strand, regarding
The snowy dance of the billows,
And soon my bosom swell’d like the sea;
A deep home-sickness yearningly seized me
For thee, thou darling form,
Who everywhere surround’st me,
And everywhere call’st me,
Everywhere, everywhere,
In the moan of the wind, in the roar of the ocean,
In the sigh within my own breast.
“Agnes, I love thee!”
But wicked billows soon pour’d themselves
Over the blissful confession,
Effacing it all.
Ah fugitive billows, I’ll trust you no more!
The heavens grow darker, my heart grows wilder
And with vigorous hand from the forests of Norway
Tear I the highest fir-tree,
And plunge it deep
In Etna’s glowing abyss, and thereafter
With fire-imbued giant-pen
I write on the dark veil of heaven:
“Agnes, I love thee!”
Every night gleams thenceforward
On high that eternal fiery writing,
And all generations of farthest descendants
Read gladly the heavenly sentence:
“Agnes, I love thee!”
7. IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT.
And heaven its stars containeth,
But, O my heart, my heart,
My heart its love hath also.
Yet vaster is my heart,
And fairer than pearls or the stars
Glitt’reth and beameth my love.{244}
Come to my heart so vast;
My heart and the sea and the heavens
For very love are dying.
* * *
’Gainst the azure veil of heaven,
Where the beauteous stars are twinkling,
Fain I’d press my lips with ardour,
Press them wildly, madly weeping.
Of my loved one, thousand-changing
Glimmer they and greet me kindly
From the azure veil of heaven.
Tow’rd the eyes of my beloved one,
Lift I up my arms in worship,
And I pray, and thus beseech them:
O make happy my poor spirit,
Let me die, and as my guerdon,
Win both you and all your heaven!
* * *
From those heavenly eyes above me
Light and trembling sparks are falling
Through the night, and then my spirit
Loving-wide and wider stretcheth.
Weep yourselves into my spirit,
That my spirit may run over
With those tears so sweet and starry!
* * *
Cradled by the ocean billows,
And by thoughts that seem like visions,
Silent lie I in the cabin,
In the dark bed in the corner.
There on high the stars all-radiant,
Those sweet eyes so dearly cherish’d
Of my sweet and dearly loved one.{245}
Far above my head are watching,
And they tinkle and they beckon
From the azure veil of heaven.
Gaze I many an hour with rapture,
Till a white and misty curtain
From me hides those eyes so cherish’d.
Where my dreaming head is lying,
Rave the billows, the furious billows.
They roar and they murmur
Thus soft in my ear:
“Thine arm is short, and the heavens are wide,
“And yonder stars are firmly nailed there;
“In vain is thy yearning, in vain is thy sighing,
“The best thou can’st do is to sleep!”
* * *
I dreamt, and dreaming saw a spacious heath,
Far overspread with white, with whitest snow,
And ’neath that white snow buried I was lying,
And slept the lonesome, chilly sleep of death.
Look’d down upon my grave those eyes all-starry,
Those eyes so sweet! In triumph they were gleaming
In calm and radiant but excessive love.
8. STORM.
It floggeth the billows,
And the billows, fierce-foaming and rearing,
Rise up on high, and with life are all heaving
The snowy watery mountains,
And the small bark climbs o’er them,
Labouring hastily,
And suddenly plungeth it down
In the black, wide-gaping abyss of the flood.—
Mother of beauty, the foam-arisen one!
Grandmother of love! O spare me!
Already flutters, corpse-scenting,{246}
The snowy, spirit-like sea-mew,
And wetteth his beak ’gainst the mast,
And longs,—eager to taste,—for the heart
Which proclaimeth the fame of thy daughter,
And which thy grandson, the little rogue,
Chose for his plaything.
My cry dies away in the blustering storm,
In the wind’s battle-shout;
It roars and pipes and crackles and howls,
Like a madhouse of noises!
And, between times, I audibly hear
Harp-strains alluring,
Songs all wild and yearning,
Spirit-melting and spirit-rending,
And the voice I remember!
Where the old grey castle projecteth
Over the wild raging sea,
There at the lofty and archèd window,
Standeth a woman, beauteous but ill,
Softly-transparent and marble-pale,
And she’s playing her harp and she’s singing,
And the wind through her long locks forceth its way
And beareth her gloomy song
Over the wide and tempest-toss’d sea.
9. CALM AT SEA.
Throws the sun across the water,
And amid the heaving jewels,
Furrows green the ship is tracing.
On his stomach, snoring gently;
Near the mast, the sails repairing,
Squats the cabin-boy, all-tarry.
Red blood springs, a mournful quiv’ring
Round his wide mouth plays, and sadly
Stare his eyes, so large and handsome.{247}
Raving, cursing, “thief” exclaiming:
“Thief! a herring you have stolen
“From the barrel, O you rascal!”
Lifts himself a clever fishkin;
In the sun his head he warmeth,
Splashing with his tail so gaily.
Shooteth down upon the fishkin,
And his sudden prize fast holding
In his bill, again mounts upward.
10. THE OCEAN SPECTRE.
And gazed with my eyes all dreamy
Down on the glassy pellucid water,
And gazed yet deeper and deeper—
Till, deep in the ocean’s abysses,
At first like a glimmering mist,
Then, bit by bit, with hues more decided,
Domes of churches and towers appeared,
And at last, clear as sunlight, a city,
Antiquarian Netherlandish,
And swarming with life.
Reverent men, in garments of black,
With snowy frills and chains of honour,
And lengthy swords and lengthy faces,
Over the crowded market are pacing
Tow’rd the high-stair’d council-chamber,
Where Emperors’ stony images
Keep guard with sceptre and sword:—
Hard by, in front of the long row of houses,
With mirror-like glistening windows,
Stand the lindens all trimm’d into pyramids,
And silken rustling maidens are wandering,
A golden band round their slender bodies,
Their blooming faces neatly surrounded
By head-dresses velvet and black,
From whence their abundant locks are escaping.
Gay young fellows, in Spanish costume,
Proudly are passing and nodding.{248}
Aged women,
In garments all brown and strange-looking,
Psalm-book and rosary in hand,
Hasten with tripping step
Tow’rd the cathedral church,
Impell’d by the sound of the bells,
And the rushing notes of the organ.
Caused by the distant sound;
A ne’er-ending yearning and sadness deep
Steal o’er my heart,
My scarcely-heal’d heart;
It seems as though its bitter wounds
By dear lips were kiss’d open,
And once again were bleeding
With drops hot and ruddy,
Which long and slowly downward fall
Upon an ancient house below
In yon deep-ocean city,
Upon an ancient and high-gabled house,
Where sits in lonely melancholy
A maiden at the window,
Her head on her arm reclined,
Like to some poor, forgotten child,
And I know thee, thou poor, forgotten child.
Thou hidd’st thyself from me
In some childish conceit,
And couldst not reascend,
And sattest strange, among strange people,
Five hundred years,
And I meanwhile, with soul full of grief,
Sought thee over all the earth,
And ever sought thee,
Thou ever-beloved one,
Thou long-time-lost one,
Thou finally-found one,—
I’ve found thee at last, and again behold
Thy countenance sweet,
Thine eyes so prudent and faithful,
Thy smile so dear—
And never again will I leave thee,{249}
And downward hasten I to thee,
And with wide-spreading arms
Throw myself down on thy heart.
I was seized by the foot by the Captain,
And torn from the side of the ship,
While he cried, laughing bitterly:
“Why, Doctor, are you mad?”
11. PURIFICATION.
Delirious dream,
That erst so many a night
My heart with false joy hast tormented,
And now, an ocean-spectre,
E’en in bright daylight threaten’st me—
Remain below, eternally,
And I’ll throw down to thee there
All my sins and my sorrows,
And folly’s cap and bells
That round my head so long have rattled,
And the cold and glistening serpent-skin
Of hypocrisy,
Which so long hath twined round my spirit,
My sickly spirit,
My God-denying, angel-denying
Unhappy spirit—
Hoiho! hoiho! Here comes the wind!
Over the plain so destructive when smooth
Hastens the ship,
And my rescued spirit rejoices.
12. PEACE.
Cradled in snowy clouds,
The sea was still,
And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,
Dreamily musing,—and half in waking
And half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,
The Saviour of man.
In streaming and snowy garment
He wander’d, giant-great,
Over land and sea;{250}
His head reach’d high to the heavens,
His hands he stretch’d out in blessing
Over land and sea;
And as a heart in his bosom
Bore he the sun,
The sun all ruddy and flaming,
And the ruddy and flaming sunny-heart
Shed its beams of mercy
And its beauteous, bliss-giving light,
Lighting and warming
Over land and sea.
Here and there, like swans were drawing
By rosy bands the gliding ship,
And drew it sportively tow’rd the green shore,
Where men were dwelling, in high and turreted
O’erhanging town.
O blessings of peace! how still the town!
Hush’d was the hollow sound
Of busy and sweltering trade,
And through the clean and echoing streets
Were passing men in white attire,
Palm-branches bearing,
And when two chanced to meet,
They view’d each other with inward intelligence,
And trembling, in love and sweet denial,
Kiss’d on the forehead each other,
And gazed up on high
At the Saviour’s sunny-heart,
Which, glad and atoningly
Beam’d down its ruddy blood,
And three times blest, thus spake they:
“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”
* * *
Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,
What wouldst thou not give for it,
My dearest friend!
Thou who in head and loins art so weak,
And so strong in thy faith,
And the Trinity worship’st in Unity,
And the dog and the cross and the paw
Of thy lofty patroness daily kissest,{251}
And hast work’d thy way upward by canting
As an Aulic Counsellor, Magistrate,
And at last as a Government Counsellor
In the pious town[25]
Where flourish both sand and religion,
And the patient water of sacred Spree
Washes souls and dilutes the tea—
Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,
My dearest friend!
Thou hadst borne it up high, to the market-place,
Thy countenance pallid and blinking
Had been dissolved in devotion and lowliness,
And her Serene Highness,
Enchanted and trembling with rapture,
Had with thee sunk in prayer on the knee,
And her eyes, beaming brightly,
Had promised, by way of increase of salary,
A hundred Prussian dollars sterling,
And thou, with folded hands, wouldst have stammer’d:
“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”
PART II. 1826.
1. SEA SALUTATION.
Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!
Hail to thee ten thousand times
From hearts all exulting,
As formerly hail’d thee
Ten thousand Grecian hearts,
Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,
World-renown’d Grecian hearts.
They heaved and they bluster’d,
The sun shed hastily downwards
His light so sportive and rosy-hued;
The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mews
Flutter’d along, loud screaming,
The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,
And afar there resounded triumphantly:
Thalatta! Thalatta!{252}
Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!
Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,
Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmering
Over thy heaving billowy-realm,
And olden remembrance again tells me stories
Of all the darling, beautiful playthings,
Of all the glittering Christmas presents,
Of all the ruddy coral branches,
The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shells
Which thou mysteriously dost keep
Down yonder in bright crystal house.
Like to a wither’d flower
In the tin case of a botanist,
Lay in my bosom my heart;
Methought whole winters long I sat
An invalid, in darksome sick-room,
And now I suddenly leave it,
And with dazzling rays am I greeted
By emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,
And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,
And the youthful flowers upon me gaze
With eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;
There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,
And the birds in the azure heavens are singing—
Thalatta! Thalatta!
How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thou
Hard press’d by the Northern barbarian women
From large victorious eyes
Shot they their burning arrows;
With words both crooked and polish’d
They threatened to cleave my breast,
With cuniform billets-doux harass’d they
My poor distracted brain—
In vain I held my shield to resist them,
The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,
And by the Northern barbarian women
Back to the sea was I driven,
And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,
The darling life-saving sea,
Thalatta! Thalatta!
2. THUNDERSTORM.
And through the darksome wall of clouds
Quivers the forkèd lightning flash,
Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,
Like a thought from the head of Cronion.
Over the desert, far-heaving water
Afar the thunders are rolling,
The snowy billowy horses are springing,
Which Boreas’ self did engender
Out of the beautiful mares of Erichton,
And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,
Like shadowy corpses by Styx,
By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.
Yonder dancing the strangest dance!
Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,
Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;
The one is piping, another is blowing,
The third is beating the hollow double-bass—
And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,
And on the compass is steadily looking,
That trembling soul of the vessel,
And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;
“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,
And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”
3. THE SHIPWRECKED ONE.
And I myself, like to a corpse
Thrown up by the growling sea,
Lie on the strand,
The dreary, naked strand.
Before me, the watery waste is heaving
Behind me lie but sorrow and misery,
And over me high are passing the clouds,
The formless grey-hued daughters of air,
Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,
Draw up the water,
And wearily drag it and drag it,
Then spill it again in the sea,
A mournful and tedious business,
And useless as e’en my own life.{254}
The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,
Olden remembrances over me drift,
Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,
Painfully sweet come to light.
A beauteous woman, royally fair.
Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,
By an alluring white robe is embraced;
Her dark and flowing tresses,
Like to a blissful night, are streaming
Down from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,
And dreamily-sweetly form ringlets
Over her sweet pale face;
And out of her sweet pale face,
Large and o’erpowering, beams an eye
Like a black sun in radiance.
Enchantingly often, I drank from thee
Wild flames of inspiration,
And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,—
Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smile
Round the high-contracted haughty lips,
And the high-contracted haughty lips
Breath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,
And tender as the rose’s fragrance—
And then my spirit ascended,
And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!
All is now over, happiness, hope,
Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,
A lonely and shipwreckèd man,
And press my countenance glowing
Deep in the humid sand.
4. SUNSET.
Hath calmly descended down to the sea;
The heaving waters already are dyed
By dusky night;
Nought but the evening’s red
With golden light still spreadeth o’er them,
And the rushing force of the flood{255}
’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billows
Which merrily, hastily skip,
Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkins
Whom the singing sheep-boy at even
Homeward doth drive.
So spake, after long silence, my friend,
Who with me wander’d along the strand,
And half in sport and half in sad earnest
Assured he me that the sun was only
A lovely woman,[26] whom the old sea-god
Out of convenience married;
All the day long she joyously wander’d
In the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,
And glitt’ring with diamonds,
And all-beloved and all-admired
By every mortal creature,
And every mortal creature rejoicing
With her sweet glances’ light and warmth;
But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.
Once more returneth she home
To the moist house and desert arms
Of her grey-headed spouse.
With laughter and sighing and laughter again:
“They’re living below in the tenderest union!
“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,
“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,
“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves
“How the old man’s abusing his wife:
“‘Thou round wench of the universe!
“Beaming coquettish one!
“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,
“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’
“After this curtain lecture
“As a matter of course the proud sun
“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,
“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god
“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,
“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,
“To recover his breath and his senses.{256}
“I saw him myself, in the night just past,
“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;
“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,
“And a lily-white nightcap,
“And a face all wither’d and dry.”
5. THE SONG OF THE OCEANIDES.
And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,
Sits there a man on the dreary strand,
And looks, with death-chilly look, up on high
Tow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,
And looks on the spacious billowy main,
And over the spacious billowy main
Like airy sailors, his signs are floating,
Returning again despondingly,
For they have found fast closèd the heart
Wherein they fain would anchor—
And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,
Startled away from their sandy nests,
Flutter around him in flocks,
And he speaks unto them these laughing words:
“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,
“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,
“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,
“Your life is bitter as is your food!
“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!
“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,
“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;
“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:
“Loving and being loved!
“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,
“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,
“And darkens, and for me doth yearn—I assure you!
“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,
“And sighing descends she down to the garden,
“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,
“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them
“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,
“So worthy of love—I assure you!{257}
“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,
“My darling form around her sports blissfully,
“And then at morning at breakfast
“Upon her glistening bread and butter
“Sees she my countenance smiling,
“And she eats it for love—I assure you!”
And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,
Like old ironical chuckling;
The mists of twilight rise up on high;
Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,
Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;
High are roaring the billows of ocean,
And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,
Mournful as whispering gales of wind,
Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,
The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,
And loudest of all the voice so enthralling
Of Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,
And they’re sighing and singing:
“Thou sorrow-tormented one!
“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,
“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,
“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart
“Through grief turn’d to stone!
“Within thy head ’tis now night,
“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy
“And thou boastest of sorrow!
“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!
“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,
“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire
“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,
“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,
“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,
“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,
“And to him came with a comforting song.
“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!
“But thou art more powerless even than he,
“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,
“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,
“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,{258}
“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,
“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off
“Into eternal night.”
The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,
Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it—
Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,
And night ’gan to yawn,
And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.
6. THE GODS OF GREECE.
Like liquid gold, the ocean gleams:
Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,
Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;
In the starless clear azure heavens
Hover the snowy clouds,
Like colossal figures of deities
Of glittering marble.
’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,
Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,
But now, tormented and perish’d,
Like monster spectres are moving along
Over the midnight heaven.
The airy pantheon,
The solemnly mute and fearfully moving
Figures gigantic.
Snow-white are the locks of his head,
Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;
He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,
And in his face lie misfortune and grief,
And yet without change his olden pride.
Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,
When thou didst take pleasure divinely
In youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!
But even the Gods can reign not for ever,
The younger press hard on their elders,
As thou didst once on thy grey-headed father{259}
And all thy Titan uncles hard press,
Jupiter Parricida!
Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!
Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,
Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,
And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,
And fixed is now thy beaming eye,
And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,
And never more thy vengeance can reach
The God-impregnated virgin,
And the wonder-working son of the deity.
Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!
With shield and wisdom couldest thou not
Avert the destruction of deities?
Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!
Erst the golden one! now the silver one!
True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,
Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,
And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,
Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;
To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,
Venus Libitina!
No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,
Yonder, the terrible Ares;
And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,
The stripling. His lyre is silent
That sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.
Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,
And truly, the lame one! no longer
Fills he the office of Hebe,
And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,
The nectar delicious—And long is extinguish’d
The inextinguishable laughter of deities.
For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,
And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.
Yet holy compassion and shuddering pity
Stream through my heart,
When I now behold you on high,
Godheads deserted,
Dead and night-wandering shadows,
Misty and weak, scared by the very wind—{260}
And when I bethink me how airy and cowardly
The godheads are, who overcame you,
The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.
The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,
Then over me steals a glorious resentment,
And fain would I break the new-born temples,
And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,
For you, and your good ambrosial rights,
And before your lofty altars,
The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,
Fain would I kneel down and pray,
And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.—
Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,
To join yourselves to the side of the victor,
And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,
And in combats of deities deem I it right
To take the part of the vanquish’d deities.
* * *
Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’d
Yon pale cloudy figures on high,
And on me they gazed like dying ones,
Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.
The moon, too, hid herself
Behind the clouds that darkly came over her;
High up roarèd the sea,
And then triumphantly stood in the heavens
The stars all-eternal.
7. QUESTIONS.
Standeth a youth,
His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,
And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:
“The riddle primeval and painful,
“Over which many a head has been poring,
“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,
“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,
“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other
“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals—{261}
“Tell me what signifies man?
“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?
“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”
The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,
The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,
And a fool is awaiting an answer.
8. THE PHŒNIX.
He flies tow’rd the east,
Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,
Where the spices so fragrant are growing,
And palms are waving and wells are cooling—
And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singeth
She loves him, she loves him!
His image she bears in her little bosom,
And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,
Nor knows it herself!
But in her vision, before her he stands,
She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,
And calls on his name,
And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,
And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement—
She loves him! she loves him!
9. ECHO.
Stood I and heard I the song of the bird.
Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,
The white and curling billows were springing;
Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,
With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,
The nomads bold of the Baltic.
Over my head, in the azure eterne,
Snowy clouds were fluttering on,
While sparkled the sun everlasting,
The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,
Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;
And heaven and ocean and with them my heart
In echo resounded:
She loves him! She loves him!
10. SEA-SICKNESS.
Deeper are sinking fast over the sea,
Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,
And between them the ship drives on.
And make observations respecting myself,
Primeval, ash-grey observations,
Which Father Lot of old did make
When he had drunk too much of the grape,
And afterwards found himself amiss.
At times I bethink me of olden stories:
How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden days
In stormy journeys the comforting image
Religiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;
How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,
The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistress
Press’d to their lips and then were comforted—
But I am sitting, and chew with vexation
An ancient herring, the comforter salty
After hard drinking or indigestion!
With the furious, heaving flood;
Now like a rearing battle-steed stands it
On its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;
Now it plunges headforward down again
In the howling abyss of the waters;
Again, as though carelessly love-faint,
Thinks it to lay itself down
On the black breast of the billow gigantic,
Who mightily onward roars,
And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,
In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,
And covers me over with foam.
Is quite unendurable!
In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek for
The German coast. But, alas, nought but water!
Evermore water, fast-moving water!
Longs for a comforting warm cup of tea,{263}
So now doth long my heart for thee,
My German Fatherland!
For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’d
With whims and hussars and horrible verses,
And lukewarm slender treatises;
For ever may thy stately zebras
Feed upon roses instead of on thistles;
For ever may thy noble baboons
In idle adornment trick themselves out,
And think themselves better than all the other
Lowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;
For ever may thy assemblage of snails
Look on themselves as immortal,
Because they creep so slowly along,
And may they daily collect men’s opinions
Whether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?
And hold for a long time grave consultations
How the Egyptian sheep to improve,
So that their wool may be better in quality,
And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,
Without a distinction—
For evermore may folly and wrong
Cover thee, Germany, utterly!
Still am I yearning for thee,
For thou art terra firma at least!
11. IN HARBOUR.
And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,
And now so warmly and quietly sits,
In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!
See how the world is truly and lovingly
In the bumper fully depicted,
And how the heaving microcosm
Sunnily flows to the thirsty heart!
All I discern in the glass,
Olden and new traditions of nations,
Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]
Citron forests and watch-parades,
Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,{264}
But most of all the form of my loved one,
That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.
Thou art a very rose,
Not like the rose of fair Schiras,
The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;
Not like the rose of Sharon,
The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;
But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]
That is the rose of all roses,
The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,
And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,
Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.
And did the head of the cellar of Bremen
Not hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,
I surely had tumbled!
And drank like brethren,
We spoke of lofty mysterious things,
We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,
And he did convert me to love’s religion,
I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,
And every wretched poet I pardoned
As I myself for pardon would hope;
I wept with devotion, and lastly
The doors of the place were unto me open’d
Where the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,
Silently preach, though understood plainly
By every nation.
In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,
Inwardly are they more radiant and fairer
Than all the haughty priests of the temple,
And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,
All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;
Ever my wont is to say
Not amongst the mere common people,{265}
No, in the best and politest society,
Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.
The palm-trees of Bethel!
How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!
How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,
While my immortal soul also is reeling,
And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,
I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylight
By the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.
See where sit on the roofs of the houses
The angels, all well-drunken and singing;
The glowing sun high up in the heavens
Is nought but the red and drunken nose
Which the World-Spirit sticks out,
And round the World-Spirit’s red nose
Whirleth the whole of the drunken world.
12. EPILOGUE.
So do the thoughts in the spirit of man
Grow up and waver;
But the gentle thoughts of the poet
Are as the red and blue-colour’d flowers
Merrily blooming between them.
The surly reaper rejects you as useless,
Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,
Even the needy traveller,
Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,
Shaketh his head,
And calleth you pretty weeds;
But the rustic virgin,
The twiner of garlands,
Doth honour and pluck you,
And with you decketh her beauteous locks,
And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,
Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,
Or to the silent beech-tree,
Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth sound
Than pipes or than fiddles.
MONOLOGUE.
(From Book “Le Grand.”)
Where harps were sounding, beauteous maidens danced,
And spruce attendants flash’d, and jessamine
And rose and myrtle shed their fragrance round—
And yet one single word of disenchantment
Made all this splendour in a moment vanish,
And nought remain’d behind but olden ruins
And croaking birds of night and drear morass.
So have I, too, with but one single word,
All Nature’s blooming glories disenchanted.
There lies she now, as lifeless, cold, and pale
As some bedizen’d regal corpse might be,
Whose cheekbones have been colour’d red by art,
And in whose hand a sceptre hath been placed.
His lips however wither’d look and yellow,
For they forgot to dye them red as well;
And mice are springing o’er his regal nose,
And ridicule the pond’rous golden sceptre.
ATTA TROLL,
A SUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.
CAPUT I.
Proudly o’er each other rising,
Lull’d to sleep by wildly-dashing
Cataracts, like some fair vision,
Cauterets. Its snow-white houses
All have balconies; upon them
Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.
On the chequer’d noisy market,
Where there dance a male and female
Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.
(Her they call the swarthy Mumma),
Who are dancing, and with wonder
The Biscayans are rejoicing.
Dances noble Atta Troll;
Yet his shaggy partner’s wanting
Both in dignity and manners.
That she is too much accustom’d
To the vulgar shameless dances
At the Grand’-Chaumière at Paris.
Who with chain conducts the couple
Seems the immorality
Of her dance to notice plainly.{268}
With his whip fast-falling lashes,
And the swarthy Mumma howls then,
And awakes the mountain echoes.
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice perchance it may be.
Many-hued, an altar covering,
Doing office as a mantle;
Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.
Then became a robber-captain;
Then, to join the two vocations,
Took the service of Don Carlos.
With the knights of his round table,
And his paladins were driven
To pursue some honest calling,
Then our knight became bear-leader,
And across the country travell’d
Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.
In the market, they must dance now;
Atta Troll must in the market
Of this city dance in fetters!
Like a haughty desert-monarch
On the airy mountain, dances
In a valley to the rabble!
He must dance, who formerly
In the majesty of terror
Felt himself so high exalted!
His lost lordship of the forest,
Then growl forth despairing noises
From the soul of Atta Troll.{269}
Moorish prince of Freiligrath;[29]
As the latter drums but badly,
So with rage he badly dances.
Only laughter. Even Juliet
From the balcony laughs downward
At his leaps of desperation.—
Any feelings; French by nation,
Outwardly she lives; her outside
Is delightful and enchanting.
Net of rays, within whose meshes
Is our heart fast held in prison,
Like a fish, and gently struggles.
CAPUT II.
Moorish prince with anxious longing
On the big drum’s skin should rattle,
Till with violence ’tis broken,
And a drumskin-breaking matter—
But just fancy the confusion
When a bear has burst his fetters!
Straight are hush’d; with screams of terror
Rush the people from the market,
Pale as death turn all the ladies.
Atta Troll has freed himself
Suddenly, and springing wildly,
Through the narrow streets he hastens—
Up the rocks he nimbly clambers,
Then looks down, as if in scorn,—then
Vanishes within the mountains.{270}
Swarthy Mumma, and bear-leader
All alone. In angry fury
On the ground his hat he flingeth,
Trampling also, tears the covering
From his ugly naked body,
Swears at such ingratitude,
For he constantly had treated
Atta Troll in friendly fashion,
And instructed him in dancing.
E’en his very life. In vain they
Offer’d him a hundred dollars
For the skin of Atta Troll!
Who, a form of silent sorrow,
On her hinder paws imploring,
Stood before the much enraged one,
With redoubled strength. He beats her,
Calls her even Queen Christina,
Madame Muñoz and Putana.—
Sultry summer afternoon,
And the night which then succeeded
To that day was quite superb.
On the house’s balcony;
Juliet was beside me standing,
Gazing on the stars above us.
“Fairest are the stars of all,
“When they on a winter evening
“In the street mud are reflected!”
CAPUT III.
Aimless is my song. Yes, aimless
As our love and as our living,
As Creator and creation!{271}
Galloping along or flying,
Revels in the realms of fable
My belovèd Pegasus.
Carthorse of the citizens,
Nor a battle-steed of party,
With pathetic neighs and stamping!
Of my white and wingèd charger,
Cords of pearls the guiding reins are,
And at will I let him wander.
Over steep and merry hill-paths,
Where cascades with mournful shrieking
Warn ’gainst madness’s abysses!
Where the solemn oaks are standing,
While primeval sweet traditions
From their knotted roots have birth!
My dim eyes,—ah, now I languish
For the sparkling wondrous water
That imparts both sight and knowledge!
Pierces to the deepest rock-cleft,
To the cave of Atta Troll,
And I understand his language!
This bear-language now appeareth!
In my dear home have I never
Heard those sounds in earlier days?
CAPUT IV.
Whensoe’er I hear thy name,
That blue flower so long departed
O’er my bosom sheds its fragrance!
Which for thousand years had faded,
And the mighty spirit-eyes
Gaze upon me, till I’m awe-struck!{272}
Saracen and Frankish knight;
As though bleeding and despairing
Ring Orlando’s bugle-notes
Hard beside Orlando’s gap—
Christen’d thus, because the hero,
Seeking how to force a passage,
Struck with such death-dealing fury
On the wall of rock, that plainly
To this day are seen its traces—
Close surrounded by a thicket
Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden,
Lies the cave of Atta Troll.
Rests he after all the hardships
Of his flight and the distresses
Of his public show and travels.
Found he in that happy cavern
Where with Mumma he begot them,—
Four his sons, and daughters two.
Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters
Brown the youths, the youngest only
With the single ear is black.
Of his mother, who when playing
Happen’d once to bite his ear off,
And for very love she ate it.
At gymnastics very clever,
And he turns a somersault
Like the posture-master Massmann.
He his mother-tongue loves only,
And has never learnt the jargon
Of the Grecian and the Roman.{273}
Soap he holds in detestation,
(Luxury of modern washing,)
Like the posture-master Massmann.
Where upon the tree he clambers,
Which along the steepest rock-side
From the deep abyss upriseth,
When the family at night-time
Gather all around their father,
Toying in the evening coolness.
What he in the world has witness’d;
How he many men and cities
Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,
But in one thing still unlike him,—
Namely, that his wife went with him,
His dear black Penelope.
Of the wondrous approbation
That he, by his skill in dancing,
Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.
Had exultingly admired him,
When he danced upon the market
To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.
Those dear connoisseurs of all things,
Had with vehemence applauded,
And had ogled him with favour.
Our old dancing bear with simpers
Calls to mind the time when late he
To the public show’d his talent.
He would fain by act exhibit
That he’s no mere boaster only,
But a really first-rate dancer.{274}
On his hinder paws upstanding,
And, as formerly, he dances
The gavotte, his favourite dance.
The young bears look on with wonder,
While their father in the moonlight
Capers here and there thus strangely.
CAPUT V.
Sick at heart, upon his back lies
Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he
At his paws, and sucks, and growls:
“Whom I out of life’s wide ocean
“Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean
“Once again I now have lost thee!
“Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only,
“Where, set free from earthly trammels,
“Thy dear soul is glorified?
“Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle,
“My dear Mumma, which so sweetly
“Stroked me over, as with honey!
“That sweet smell, thy own peculiar,
“O my dear and swarthy Mumma,
“Charming as the scent of roses!
“In the fetters of those rascals,
“Who, the name of men adopting,
“Deem themselves creation’s masters.
“Aristocracy’s arch-emblems,
“Look down on the an’mal kingdom
“Proudly and disdainfully.{275}
“Fetter us, ill-treat us, even
“Kill us, for the sake of selling
“Our poor hide and our poor carcass!
“Wicked deeds like this to practise
“‘Gainst us bears especially,
“And the rights of man they call it!
“Tell me who bestow’d them on you?
“Nature certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unnatural!
“This great privilege, I wonder?
“Reason certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unreasonable!
“Than we others, just for eating
“All your dinners boil’d or roasted?
“In a raw state we eat ours,
“To us both.—No, food can never
“Make one noble; he is noble
“Who both nobly feels and acteth.
“Just because the arts and science
“With success ye follow? We now
“Never give ourselves the trouble.
“Dogs, and horses too, who reckon
“Just like councillors of Commerce?
“Do not hares the drum play finely?
“In the art of hydrostatics?
“Were not clysters first invented
“By the cleverness of storks?
“Are not apes all good comedians?
“Is there any greater mimic
“Than Batavia, long tail’d monkey?{276}
“And is Freiligrath no poet,
“Who can sing of lions better
“Than his countryman the Camel?
“Have advanced as much as Raumer
“That of writing. Writes he better
“Than I dance,—yes, I the bear?
“Than we others? Upright hold ye,
“It is true, your heads, but in them
“Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.
“Than are we, because your skin is
“Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage
“Ye but share with every serpent.
“Well I see the reason why ye
“Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye
“Hide your serpent-nakedness!
“Hairless and misshapen creatures!
“My dear daughters, never marry
“Any monster that wears breeches!”
How the bear in his wild mania
For equality, kept reasoning
All about the human race.
Am a man, and never will I
Tell again such foolish libels,
Which are, after all, offensive.
Than the other sucking creatures,
And the interests of the race
Ne’er will I renounce promoting.
Faithfully I’ll ever struggle
For humanity,—the holy
Rights of man that he is born to.
CAPUT VI.
For us men, who form the higher
Kind of livestock, to discover
How they reason down below us.
Mournful spheres of fellowship,
In the beasts’ inferior strata,
Brood resentment, misery, pride.
Equally with common custom,
Has for centuries admitted
Is denied with impious muzzle.
In the young ones’ ears is grumbled
Which assails both cultivation
And humanity on earth.
As he hither roll’d and thither
On his carpet-wanting couch:
“Unto us belongs the Future!
“If all beasts but thought so too,
“With united forces would we
“Take up arms against the tyrants.
“With the horse, the elephant
“Twine his trunk in loving fashion
“Round the valiant ox’s horn.
“Goat and monkey, e’en the hare
“For a time would work in common,
“And our triumph would be certain.
“Requisite; alone, we’re conquer’d
“Easily, but join’d together
“We would overreach the tyrants.
“And Monopoly’s vile sway
“Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish
“A just kingdom for us beasts,{278}
“Of God’s creatures, irrespective
“Of their faith, or skin, or odour,
“Be its fundamental maxim!
“Be entitled to high office;
“On the other hand, the lion
“Carry to the mill the sack.
“Is a very servile rascal,
“Since for centuries has man
“Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.
“Once again his olden rights,
“His prescriptive birthright, and he
“Soon again will be ennobled.
“All the rights of citizens,
“And by law be made the equals
“Of all other sucking creatures.
“For the Jew shall not be lawful;
“This amendment I insist on
“In the interest of my art.
“Plastic art in motion’s wanting
“To that race, who really ruin
“What there is of public taste.”
CAPUT VII.
Squats, in his belov’d home-circle,
Atta Troll, the misanthrope,
And he shows his teeth, and growls thus:
“Smile away! From all your smiling
“And from your offensive yoke too
“Shall the coming day release us!{279}
“By that sour-sweet kind of quiv’ring
“Round the mouth,—these smiles of man
“Find I really past all bearing!
“See display’d that fatal quiv’ring,
“All my entrails in my body
“Turn right round with indignation.
“Than by words, a man lays open
“By his smile the deepest hidden
“Insolence of his vile spirit.
“When by decency is needed
“Real solemnity of feature,—
“E’en in love’s most solemn moment!
“When they’re dancing. In this manner
“They degrade this noble science,
“Which should be a kind of worship.
“Was a pious act of faith;
“Solemnly around the altar
“Turn’d the priests in mystic circle.
“Danced before the ark of cov’nant;
“Dancing was an act of worship,
“Was a prayer upon the legs!
“Dancing, when upon the market
“To the people I was dancing,
“Who with their applause repaid me.
“Often made me feel quite happy;
“For extorting admiration
“From one’s foes is very sweet!
CAPUT VIII.
Smells but badly, whilst the servants
Of a king with ambergris
Or else lavender are scented.
Which of green soap bear the odour,
Whilst the criminal with rose-oil
May have wash’d himself demurely.
Gentle reader, if the cave of
Atta Troll may not remind you
Of Arabia’s sweetest spices.
’Mid those miserable stenches,
Where to his young son the hero
As from out a cloud thus speaks:
“Of my loins, now place thy one ear
“Close beside thy father’s muzzle,
“And suck in my solemn words!
“They destroy both soul and body;
“‘Mongst all men there’s no such thing as
“Any ordinary man.
“E’en the very sons of Tuisco,
“Our own primitive relations,
“They too have degenerated.
“Even preaching atheism—
“Child, my child, be on thy guard,
“‘Gainst both Feuerbach and Bauer![30]
“Monster void of all respect for
“The Creator—a Creator
“’Twas who made this universe!{281}
“And the stars too (both the tail-less
“And all those with tails provided)
“Are reflections of His power.
“Are the echo of His glory,
“And each living creature praises
“Evermore His excellencies.
“In the aged pilgrim’s beard
“In life’s pilgrimage is sharer,
“Sings the great Eternal’s praises!
“On the golden seat of power,
“World-directing and majestic,
“Sits a mighty polar bear.
“Is his skin; his head is cover’d
“With a crown of diamonds,
“Which illumines all the heavens.
“And the silent deeds of thinking;
“If he signs but with his sceptre,
“All the spheres resound with singing.
“Piously, who meekly suffer’d
“While on earth, and in their paws they
“Hold the palms of martyrdom.
“Then another,—by the Spirit
“Seeming mov’d, and straightway dance they
“Their most solemn sacred dance—
“Renders talent quite superfluous,
“And the soul for very rapture
“From the skin attempts to leap!
“E’er partake this great salvation?
“And from earth’s debasing sorrows
“To the realms of bliss soar upwards?{282}
“In the stars’ pavilion yonder,
“With the palm and with the glory,
“Dance before the Master’s throne?”
CAPUT IX.
Which a swarthy Freiligrathian
Moorish prince with scornful fury
From his sullen mouth protruded,
Clouds of heaven advanced. Afar off
Cataracts are roaring, sleepless
And morosely through the night.
Of his fav’rite rock stands lonely,
Lonely, and to the abyss
Downward howls he in the nightwind:
“Him ye christen shaggy bear,
“Growler, Isegrim, and Bruin,
“And heav’n knows how many others.
“The uncouth and boorish creature,
“I’m the awkward dromedary
“Of your scorn and cruel laughter.
“I’m the bugbear, with whose terrors
“Ye at night your children frighten,
“Human children, when they’re naughty.
“Nurs’ry stories, well I know it,
“And I now proclaim it loudly
“To man’s paltry world below.
CAPUT X.
And upon their all-fours gliding,
Force their way across the gloomy
Grove of firs at midnight’s hour.
And his son, young master one-ear.
Where the wood grows somewhat lighter
By the stone of blood they halted.
“Is the altar where the Druids
“In the days of superstition
“Human sacrifices offer’d.
“All the hair upon my back
“Bristles when I think upon it;
“Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!
“And no longer kill each other
“Merely in excessive zeal
“For the interests of heaven.
“Madness, nor enthusiasm,
“But mere vanity and self-love
“Makes them now commit their murders.
“Eagerly they’re ever seizing;
“’Tis an endless round of fighting,
“For himself each person stealeth!
“Is the individual’s booty;
“Of the rights, then, of possession
“Speaks he, thinking of his own!
“O, the cruel theft, the lying!
“None but man could have invented
“Such commingled fraud and madness.
“Made by Nature; pocketless,
“With no pockets in our skins, we
“Ev’ry one the world first entered.{284}
“At his birth had such a pocket
“In his body’s outer skin,
“Where he might conceal his robb’ries.
“Who with foreign wool so nicely
“Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness
“To provide himself with pockets.
“As is private property,
“As possession’s rights themselves are—
“Men in fact are but pickpockets!
“Unto thee, my son, bequeath I;
“Here upon this altar shalt thou
“Swear to man undying hatred!
“Of those wicked vile oppressors
“To the very end of life,—
“Swear it, swear it here, my son!”
Hannibal. The moon, all yellow,
On the stone of blood look’d wildly,
And the pair of misanthropes.
How the young bear ever faithful
To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall
In another Epic praise him.
We will leave him for the present,
Presently to come across him,
All the surer, with a bullet.
Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty,
Now at length are terminated,
And thy hour will sound to-morrow!
CAPUT XI.
Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring
In their snowy shirts of clouds,
Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.{285}
By the sun-god stripping from them
All the veil that’s hanging o’er them
Lighting up their naked beauty!
With Lascaro on our journey
Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
Out of France and into Spain,
To the land of west barbarians,
Who’re a thousand years behind us,—
In all modern civ’lisation;
My barbarians to the eastward
But a hundred years behind are.
France’s sacred territory,
Blessèd fatherland of freedom
And the women that I love!
A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry
Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,
Misery in his eyes was lurking.
With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;
Shrill the discord which re-echoed
From the rocks, as in derision.
Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,
Tinkling harder then than ever,
While the following words he sang:
“Stands a little golden table;
“Round the little golden table
“Stand four little golden chairs.
“Little ladies, golden arrows
“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,
“But ’tis only Clara wins.{286}
“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,
“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”
Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness
Sits and sings upon yon bridge,
That from France to Spain leads over.
“Of the interchange ’mongst nations
“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s
“Wild and crazy title-page?”
At the wretched small posada,
Where an olla-podrida
In a dirty dish was smoking.
Heavy, large as musket-bullets,
Indigestible to Germans,
Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.
Was the bed. With insects pepper’d
It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are
Far the greatest foes of man.
Elephants, I find the hatred
Of one tiny little bug,
When across my bed it crawleth.
This is bad enough,—still more ’tis
If one crushes them. The stink then
Keeps one all night long in torment.
Is the fight with noxious vermin,
Who a stench employ as weapons,—
Is a duel with a bug!
CAPUT XII.
E’en the tame ones, singing ever
And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely
“The Creator’s mighty temple—{287}
“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,
“Sun and moon and stars all hanging
“In its cupola as lamps.”
Yet confess that in this temple
Are the stairs uncomfortable,
Bad and inconvenient stairs!
Mountain-climbing and this jumping
Over rocks is very tiring
To the legs as well as spirit.
Pale and lanky, like a taper;
Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,
He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.
Dead long since, but yet his mother
Old Uraca’s magic science
Kept him living in appearance.—
It exceeds my comprehension
How my neck escaped from breaking,
Stumbling o’er a precipice.
How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees
Till they howl’d! The clouds began too
Crashing suddenly—bad weather!
By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we
Shelter and some trout for luncheon;
Most delicious were the latter.
Ill and grey, the ferryman;
On him his two pretty nieces,
Like a pair of angels, waited.
Seeming from a frame descended
Of a Rubens; gold their tresses,
Full of health their eyes, and liquid.{288}
With a secret slyness in them;
Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,
Giving pleasure to the fancy.
Keeping up a sweet discussion,
As to which drink would be relish’d
Most of all by their sick uncle.
Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,
Then the other hastes to feed him
With an elder-flow’r decoction.
“Cried impatiently the old man;
“Fetch some wine, that I may offer
“To my guests some better drink!”
At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really
Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick
By the name of Mum they’d call it.
Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;
Yet the old man drank with pleasure,
And he seem’d quite well and joyous.
Of the smugglers and banditti
Merrily and freely living
In the Pyrenean forests.
Well he knew: amongst the others
Were the battles of the giants
With the bears in times primeval.
Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry
Of these mountains and these valleys,
Ere by man they were discover’d.
Fled away from out the country
Stupified, for little brains
Are contain’d in heads gigantic.{289}
On arriving at the ocean,
And observing how the heavens
In its azure depths were mirror’d,
To be heaven, and plunged down in it,
Full of godlike confidence,
And were drown’d, the whole together
They are gradually being
Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly
In the mountain still decreasing.
“One gives place unto another,
“And when men are put an end to,
“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.
“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,
“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches
“Digging and collecting nimbly.
“With their small sly heads keep peeping!
“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,
“And then trembled at the future;
“Ah, I fear lest our descendants
“Fly for refuge, like the stupid
“Giants, to the watery heaven!”
CAPUT XIII.
Rest the waters deep of ocean;
Stars, all pale and melancholy,
Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.
Like a splashing wondrous secret
Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces
Play the part of ferrymen,{290}
Ofttimes glisten in the darkness
Their stout naked arms, illumined
By the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.
Is as pale and mute as usual,
And the fearful thought shoots through me:
Is he but a very corpse then?
And embarking on my journey
With my ghostly comrades by me
To the chilly realm of shadows?
Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina,
In default of Charon’s presence,
Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?
And extinguish’d; in my spirit
Is the living flame of life still
Glowing, blazing and exulting.
At their oars, and o’er me splashing
With the water dripping from them,
Full of merriment and laughter,—
Are most certainly not ghostly
Chambermaids in hell residing,
Waiting-maids of Proserpina!
Of their upper-worldliness,
And by practical experience
Ascertain my own existence,
To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,
And then framed this syllogism:
Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!
Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;
In this coin, and no other,
Would they take the passage-money.
CAPUT XIV.
Smile from out the sunny gold-ground;
To the slope a village clingeth,
Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.
That the old ones all had flown,
And that none were now remaining
Save the young, who could not fly yet;
Almost hidden in their scarlet
Or white woollen caps, whilst playing
At a marriage, in the market.
And I saw how the enamour’d
Mouse-prince knelt pathetically
To the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.
To the beauty. She morosely
Wrangles, bites him, and then eats him;
When he’s dead, the game is over.
With the children, and we chatted
Like old friends. They fain would ask me
Who I was, and what my business.
“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:
“Bears are found there in abundance,
“And my business is bear-hunting.
“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes
“Found myself full sorely handled
“By the paws of Master Bruin.
“I was forced to keep on wrangling
“In my own dear home, and found it
“Get at length beyond all bearing.
“Some more noble prey desiring,
“And I fain would try my forces
“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.{292}
“Worthy of me. Ah! I often
“Have in Germany been victor,
“When my victory ashamed me.”
Danced the pretty little beings
In a rondo, whilst thus sang they:
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Stepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,
Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,
While with pleasing voice thus sang she:
“Then I make him two low curtsies;
“When the queen I chance to meet with,
“Then I make her curtsies three.
“With his horns to come across me,
“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Sang the chorus, and with bant’ring
Round my legs kept gaily whirling
With their circling dance and sing-song.
That sweet echo still pursued me
Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping:
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
CAPUT XV.
All-misshapen and distorted,
Gaze upon me like fierce monsters
Turn’d to stone, from times primeval.
High above me, like their double;
They’re the pallid counterfeit
Of those wild and stony figures.{293}
And the wind howls through the fir-trees;
’Tis a noise inexorable,
And as wretched as despair.
Troops of jackdaws black are sitting
On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,
Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.
Pale and silent,—I myself, too,
Looking like incarnate madness,
With grim death as my companion.
Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I
On the roots of yonder stunted
Tree can marks of blood discover.
Which is modestly half-hidden
In the earth; with meek entreaty
Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee.
Are Cagots,[31] surviving relics
Of a race that deep in darkness
Lives a sad despised existence.
Still is rooted fast the loathing
Of Cagots, dark heritage
From dark days of superstition.
Is a narrow grated entrance;
This, the sacristan inform’d me,
Was the door Cagots went in at.
To the church was interdicted,
And by stealth they had to enter
In God’s holy house, like felons.
Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there
All alone,—as though infected,
Sever’d from the congregation.{294}
Of this century flare brightly,
And their lustre scares the evil
Shadows of the middle ages!
Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage
Enter’d, and my hand extended
Kindly to my suff’ring brother.
Who, close-clinging to the bosom
Of his wife, suck’d greedily,
Looking like a sickly spider.
CAPUT XVI.
From a distance, they are gleaming
As though deck’d with gold and purple,
Proud and princely in the sunlight.
Vanishes, and, as in other
Earthly loveliness and glory,
’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.
Is, alas! but common snow,
Common snow, which, pale and wretched,
Lives a weary life and lonely.
How the hapless snow was crackling,
To the heartless cold winds telling
All the tale of its white sorrows.
“In the desert waste the hours!
“O these hours that seem quite endless,
“Like eternities hard frozen!
“‘Stead of on these mountain summits,
“Fallen into yonder valley,
“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,{295}
“And become a brook, whilst fairest
“Village maidens in my waters
“Would have washed their smiling faces.
“To the ocean, there becoming
“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d
“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”
Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful
“Whether such a brilliant future
“Would have met thee in the valley.
“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen
“Probably in some small puddle,
“And become a piece of dirt!”
With the snow held conversation,
Came a shot, and from above me
Fell to earth a tawny vulture.
Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features
Still continued fix’d and solemn,
His gun-barrel only smoking.
From the bird’s tail, and then stuck it
On the top of his peak’d felt-hat,
And then hasten’d on as usual.
As his shadow with the feather
On the white snow of the mountain,
Black and long, was onward moving.
CAPUT XVII.
Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;
Rugged cliffs on either side of’t
Rise to giddy elevation.{296}
Peers Uraca’s daring cottage
Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;
Thither follow’d I Lascaro.
In mysterious signal-language,
As to how great Atta Troll
Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d.
Carefully, and he no longer
Could escape us. Now are number’d,
Atta Troll, thy days on earth!
Was in truth a mighty witch
Of distinction, as the people
In the Pyrenees asserted,
This much know I, her exterior
Was suspicious, and suspicious
Was her red eyes’ constant dripping.
And the poor cows (’tis reported)
Whom she look’d on, in their udders
Had the milk dried suddenly.
Fatted swine and strongest oxen
She had put to death, by merely
Stroking with her wither’d hands.
Was exposed to accusations
To the justice. But the latter
Was a follower of Voltaire,
Void of faith and penetration,
And the’ accusers sceptically
Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.
Quite an honest occupation,
Namely, selling mountain-simples
And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.{297}
Curiosities, and frightful
Was the smell of fungi in it,
Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.
Of the vulture tribe display’d there,
With their wings extended fully,
And their monstrous beaks projecting.
To my head and stupified me?
Wondrous feelings stole across me,
As I gazed upon those birds.
Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,
To the wretched stuff’d condition
Of poor birds have been converted.
Sadly, yet with much impatience;
Often they appear to throw
Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.
Close beside her son Lascaro
Cowers in the chimney corner,
Melting lead and casting bullets,—
To destroy poor Atta Troll.
How the flames with hasty motion
Quiver o’er the witch’s features!
Her thin lips, but nothing says she;
Mutters she the witches’ blessing,
That the casting be successful?
To her son, but he continues
Earnestly his occupation,
And as silently as Death.
To the window went I, seeking
For fresh air, and then look’d downward
O’er the valley far below me.{298}
’Tween the hours of twelve and one,
I will faithfully and neatly
Tell you in the following chapters.
CAPUT XVIII.
On St. John the Baptist’s evening,
When the wild hunt’s apparition
Rush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.
Witchlike hut I excellently
Could observe the spirit-army
As it sped along the valley.
For observing what was passing;
I enjoy’d a full sight of the
Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
How they joyously re-echoed!
Ran the wondrous game they hunted,
Stag and sow, in herds enormous,
With the pack of hounds behind them.
And of every age were gather’d;
Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,
For example, rode Charles X—.
On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d
The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
And the pages with the torches.
Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman
In the golden glist’ning armour,—
Was he not the great King Arthur?{299}
Wore he not his green and glancing
Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him
All the’ appearance of a frog?
Many intellectual heroes;
There I recognized our Wolfgang,
By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
In his grave he cannot slumber,
But his earthly love for hunting
With the heathen throng continues.
Knew again the worthy William,[32]
Whom the Puritans had likewise
Cursed with bitterness; this sinner
Army, on a black steed mounted;
On an ass, and close beside him
Rode a man,—and, O good heavens,
By his pious snow-white nightcap,
By his grief of soul, I straightway
Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!
On the world-child Shakespear, must he
After death, poor fellow, with him
Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;
Who ne’er moved, except when praying,
Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!
Long accustomed to caress him,
Shudder if they came to hear that
Francis was a savage huntsman!
The great William with derision
Looks on his poor commentator
Who at donkey’s pace goes after,{300}
To the pommel of his donkey,
Yet in death as well as lifetime
Following faithfully his author.
In the spirits’ wild procession,
Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
With their slender, youthful figures.
Mythologically naked;
Yet their long and curling tresses
Fell low down, like golden mantles.
And with saucy backward-bending
Supercilious wanton postures
Leafy wands kept ever swinging.
Closely-button’d dames on horseback
On their ladies’ saddles sitting
With their falcons on their fists.
On their knackers, lanky ponies,
Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d
Women, looking like comedians.
But perchance a little bold;
Madly were they shouting with their
Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
CAPUT XIX.
In the midst of the procession
Figures three I noticed; ne’er I
Can forget those lovely women.{301}
By the crescent on her forehead;
Like a statue pure, all-proudly
Onward rode the mighty goddess.
Half her breast and hip disclosing;
Torchlight, moonlight both were playing
Gaily round her snowy members.
Cold as marble too; and fearful
Was the numbness and the paleness
Of that face, so stern and noble.
Terribly but sweetly sparkled
A mysterious, glowing fire,
Spirit-dazzling and consuming.
Who, with haughty chastity,
To a stag once turn’d Acteon,
And as prey to dogs abandon’d!
Join’d to these gallant companions?
Like a wretched spectral creature
Nightly through the air she travels.
She to thoughts of lust awakens,
And within her eyes ’tis burning,
Like a very brand of hell.
When mankind were far more handsome
And by quantity perchance she
Now makes up for quality.
Whose fair features were not chisell’d
In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d
With the Celtic race’s charms.
Whom I easily distinguish’d
By the sweetness of her smile,
And her mad and hearty laughter!{302}
As though limn’d by Master Greuze;
Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,
Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.
That the wind to lift attempted;
Even in my brightest visions
Never saw I such fair shoulders!
Out of window to embrace them;
Ill should I have fared, however,
For my neck should I have broken.
If before her feet, all-bleeding,
In the deep abyss I tumbled,—
Ah! a laugh like this well know I!
Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,—
Was she but a female devil
Like the other two first mention’d?
Know I not; in case of women
One knows never where the angel
Ceases, and the deuce commences.
Lay an oriental charm,
And her costly robes reminded
Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories.
And her nose a bending lily,
And her members cool and slender
As the palms in the oasis.
Whose gold bridle by two negroes
Was conducted, who on foot
By the princess’ side were walking.
Was the queen of far Judæa,
Was the lovely wife of Herod,
Who the Baptist’s head demanded.{303}
Was accurs’d, and as a spectre
With the wild hunt must keep riding,
Even to the day of judgment.
Bears the charger with the Baptist’s
Head upon it, which she kisses,—
Yes, the head she kisses wildly.
In the Bible ’tis not written,
Yet in popular tradition
Lives Herodias’ bloody love.
That strange fancy of the lady,—
Would a woman ever ask for
That man’s head for whom she cared not?
With him,—had him, too, beheaded;
But when she upon the charger
Saw the much-loved head lie lifeless,
And she died of love’s delirium.
(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!
Love must always be delirium!)
As I’ve said, the bloody head
In her hand as she goes hunting,
Yet with foolish woman’s fancy
Through the air, with childish laughter,
And then catches it again
Very nimbly, like a plaything.
On me look’d she, and she nodded
So coquettishly and fondly,
That my inmost heart was shaken.
The procession pass’d, and three times
Did the lovely apparition
Greet me, as she rode before me.{304}
And the tumult was extinguish’d,
Still that loving salutation
Glow’d within my inmost brain.
I my weary limbs kept tossing
On the straw (for feather beds
Were not in Uraca’s cottage),
In that strange, mysterious nodding?
Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me
With such tenderness, Herodias?
CAPUT XX.
Shot against the white mist fiercely,
Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,
And in light and glory melted.
And the day, the triumphator,
Stood, in full and beaming splendour,
On the summit of the mountain.
Twitter’d in their secret nests,
And a smell of herbs arose too,
Like a concert of sweet odours.
To the valley we descended,
And whilst friend Lascaro follow’d
On the traces of the bear,
With my thoughts, and yet this thinking
Made me at the last quite weary,
And a little mournful even.
On the soft moss-bank beside me.
Under yonder mighty ash-tree,
Where the little streamlet flow’d,{305}
So mysteriously befool’d me,
That all thoughts and power of thinking
From my spirit pass’d away.
For a dream, for death, for madness,
For that woman-rider, whom I
In the spirit-march had seen.
Scared away by beams of morning,
Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?
Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?
Far away in the Romagna
(So ’tis said) Diana refuge
Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.
From her hiding place she ventures,
And rejoices in the chase
With her heathenish companions.
Of the Nazarenes is fearful,
And throughout the day she lingers
Safe within her Avalun.
Far off, in the silent ocean
Of romance, that none can reach save
On the fabled horse’s pinions.
Never there appears a steamer,
Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,
With tobacco-pipes in mouth.
Sound of bells, so dull and tedious,—
That incessant bim-bom clatter
Which the fairies so detest.
And in youth eternal blooming,
Still resides the joyous lady,
Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.{306}
Under lofty heliotropes,
With her talking train beside her,
World-departed Paladins.
Say where art thou? Ah, I know it,
Thou art dead, and liest buried
By the town Jerusalem!
In its marble coffin prison’d;
Yet the cracking whips and halloing
Waken thee at midnight’s hour,
With Diana and Abunde,
With thy merry hunting comrades,
Who hold cross and pain detested.
Could I hunt with you by night-time
Through the forests! By thy side
Always would I ride, Herodias!
More than yonder Grecian goddess,
More than yonder Northern fairy,
Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!
By the trembling of my spirit;
Love thou me, and be my darling,
Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.
Little truly it concerns me
That thou’rt dead and damn’d already,
For I’m free from prejudices.
That concerns me, and at times I
Feel inclined to doubt if truly
To the living I belong!
As thy Cavalier servente,
And thy mantle will I carry
And e’en all thy whims put up with.{307}
With the army wild careering;
Merrily we’ll talk and laugh then
At my frenzied conversation.
In the night; but yet by day-time
All our joy will fly, and weeping
On that grave I’ll take my seat.
On the regal vault’s sad ruins,
On the grave of thee, my loved one,
By the town Jerusalem.
Then will surely think I’m sorrowing
For the temple’s desolation,
And the town Jerusalem.
CAPUT XXI.
Who on foot the mountain visit,
And instead of golden fleeces
Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—
Heroes of a modern fashion,
And no classic poet ever
Will in song immortalize us.
Serious hardships! O what rain
Fell upon us on the summit,
Where no tree or hackney-coach was!
And in buckets it descended;
Jason surely was at Colchis
Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath!
“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]
“For the loan of one umbrella!”
“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.{308}
We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies
Late at night, as best we could,
To the witch’s lofty cottage.
Sat Uraca, busy combing
Her great fat and ugly pug-dog;
Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,
And my bed she soon got ready,
Loosening first my espardillas,
That uncomfortable foot-gear—
Pulling off; I found them sticking
To my legs, as close and faithful
As the friendship of a blockhead.
“Six-and-thirty kings for only
“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,
As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.
Stood awhile upon the hearth;
By the fire then driven senseless
On the straw at length I sank.
On the witch, who by the chimney
Sat, and held the head and shoulders
Of her son upon her lap,
Stood upright her ugly pug-dog,
And he in his front paw managed
Cleverly to hold a pot.
Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the
Ribs and bosom of her son,
Rubbing hastily, with trembling.
She a cradle-song was humming
Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled
On the hearth the ruddy flames.{309}
On his mother’s lap the son lay,
Sorrowful as death, wide open
Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.
Who each night by love maternal
Hath a life enchanted giv’n him
By the aid of strongest witch-salve?
Where the leaden limbs feel weary
As though fetter’d, and the senses
O’er-excited, wide awake!
Troubled me! With painful effort
Thought I where I had already
Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.
Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded
Of dejected dried-up spirits,—
Like the sound of well-known voices.
By the stuff’d birds, which were standing
On a shelf above my head,
Near the place where I was lying.
And with awful motion, bending
Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing
Their long beaks, like human noses.
Noses such as these? At Hamburg,
Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?
Sad the glimmering recollection!
Quite by sleep, and in the place of
Wakeful, terrible phantasmas,
Came a healthful, steady dream.
Suddenly became a ball-room
Which by columns was supported,
And by candelabra lighted.{310}
Play’d from out Robert-le-Diable
That fine crazy dance of nuns;
All alone I walk’d about there.
Open’d wide and then advanced
With a step both slow and stately
Guests of wonderful appearance.
Walking bolt upright, each bear
Led a spirit as his partner,
In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.
Waltzing up and down with vigour
In the hall. The sight was curious,
Laughable, but also fearful!
Difficult to keep in step
With the white and airy figures,
Who whirl’d round with easy motion.
Were inexorably driven,
And their snorting overpower’d
E’en the’ orchestral double bass.
’Gainst another, and the bear
Gave the spirit that had push’d him
Some hard kicks on his hind quarters.
Would a bear tear off the shroud
From the head of his companion,
And a death’s head was disclosed then.
Crash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,
And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,
And there came the gallopade.
For a stupid clumsy bear
Trod upon my corns, and made me
Cry aloud, and so awoke me.
CAPUT XXII.
Lash’d his flaming horses onwards,
And had half his course already
Through the spacious heavens completed,
And of bears and spirits, strangely
Intertwining with each other
In quaint arabesque, was dreaming.
And I found myself alone;
Both my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had started early.
Still remain’d. Beside the hearth he
Stood upright before the kettle,
While his paws a spoon were holding.
Whensoe’er the broth boil’d over
Hastily to stir it round,
And to skim away the bubbles.
Or still blazes there the fever
In my head? I scarce can credit
My own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!
Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming,
As though buried in deep thought,
Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:
“In a foreign land I sadly
“Languish, as a dog enchanted,
“And a witch’s kettle watch!
“O how sad, how deeply tragic
“Is my fate,—with human feelings
“Underneath a dog’s exterior!{312}
“With my trusty school companions!
“They’re at any rate no wizards,—
“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!
“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant
“Wallflow’rs of my native country,
“With its pudding-broth delicious!
“Would that I could see the smoke
“Rising from the chimneys where they
“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”
Came across me; quickly sprang I
From the couch, approach’d the fireplace,
And address’d him with compassion:
“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?
“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee
“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”
“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,
“But a German, understanding
“All my silent monologue?
“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,
“When we o’er our pipes and glasses
“Held discussions in the beershop,
“That by travelling alone we
“Could obtain that polish, which he
“Had from foreign lands imported!
“That raw crust which stuck upon me,
“And like Kölle might acquire
“Elegant and polish’d manners,
“And while thus the grand tour making,
“Came I to the Pyrenees,
“To the cottage of Uraca.{313}
“From Justinus Kerner[34], never
“Thinking that this so-called friend
“Was in wicked league with witches.
“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship
“Kept on growing, till converted
“At the last to sensual passion.
“Wildly in the wither’d bosom
“Of this wretched, worthless woman,
“And she now must needs seduce me!
“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous
“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong
“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.
“‘And the drawers she wears are made of
“‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,
“‘Do not violate my virtue!
“‘Others fancy, others passion,
“‘But the pride of Swabian poets
“‘Is especially their virtue.
“‘Do not rob me of the modest
“‘And religious simple garment
“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’
“Smiled ironically; smiling
“She a switch of mistletoe
“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.
“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin
“Being o’er my members drawn;
“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—{314}
“Was it rather; since that fearful
“Moment have I been converted
“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”
Not a word more could he utter;
And he wept with so much fervour,
That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.
“Can I possibly relieve you
“Of your dog-skin, and restore you
“To humanity and verses?”
In the air disconsolately
And despairingly; at length he
Spake with sighing and with groaning:
“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,
“If I’m freed not from enchantment
“By a virgin’s self-devotion.
“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,
“And the following condition
“Truly keeps, alone can free me.
“In the night of Saint Sylvester,
“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35] poems,
“And not go to sleep one moment!
“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—
“Then shall I be disenchanted,
“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”
“I at any rate can never
“Undertake to disenchant you,
“For I’m no unsullied virgin;{315}
“To fulfil the task of reading
“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,
“And not fall asleep instanter!”
CAPUT XXIII.
To the valley we descended,
And our footsteps to the region
Of the Positive return’d.
Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!
We find rational employment
Once again with Atta Troll.
Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,
With the snore of conscious virtue,
And at length he wakes with gaping.
And his head he’s gently scratching.
Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,
And upon his paws he’s scanning.
On their backs are dreaming lying
Innocent four-footed lilies,
Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.
In the softly blooming spirits
Of these snowy young bear-virgins?
Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.
Deeply moved. Within her bosom
She a blissful twinge is feeling,
And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.
Through her thick skin penetrated
When she saw Him—O, good heavens
Him she loves, a living man is!{316}
Whilst before his foes retreating
He arrived by chance one morning
At the mountain in his flight.
And within our hero’s features
Were depicted want of money,
Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.
Two-and-twenty silver groschen,
Which he had when Spain he enter’d,
Was the prey of Espartero.
But remain’d at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,
Costly and of genuine silver.
But unconsciously whilst running
Won he something that’s far better
Than the best of fights,—a heart!
O thou most unhappy bearess!
If thy father knew the secret,
He would growl in frightful fashion.
Stabb’d Emilia Galotti
In his pride of citizenship,
So would also Atta Troll
Yes, with his own paws destroy’d her
Than permitted her to tumble
In the arms of any monarch
Is of tender disposition,
With no wish to crush a rosebud
Ere the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]
In the cavern, by his young ones.
O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,
Mournful yearnings for the future.
“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,
“All my earthly pilgrimage
“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.
“Came a vision full of meaning,
“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful
“Foretaste of an early death.
“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there
“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven
“Unaccountable to thinkers.
“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,
“And I dreamt that I was lying
“Underneath a mighty tree.
“Trickled down some whitish honey,
“Gliding in my open muzzle,
“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.
“Saw I on the very tree-top
“Seven tiny little bears
“Sliding up and down the branches.
“With a skin of rose-red colour,
“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders
“Hung a something, like two pinions.
“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,
“And with sweet celestial voices,
“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!
“And from out my skin there mounted,
“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”{318}—
Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy—
But his ears with sudden impulse
Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
“Do ye hear that sound, my children?
“Of your mother? O, well know I,
“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”
Hasten’d, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
CAPUT XXI
On the very spot where whilome
Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew
To the foe his life surrender’d,
And he fell by cunning, like him
Whom the base equestrian Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Namely his uxorious feelings,
Was a snare which old Uraca
Cunningly avail’d herself of.
Copied with such great perfection,
That poor Atta Troll was tempted
Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.
Through the vale,—oft stood he, gently
Snuffing at a rock in silence,
Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.{319}
With his musket, and he shot him
Through the middle of his heart, whence
Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.
But at last with heavy groaning
Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,
And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”
Thus he died. And yet immortal
Will he in the poet’s numbers
After death arise in glory.
And his glory, grown colossal,
On four-footed solemn trochees
O’er the face of earth stride proudly.
Will erect in the Walhalla,
Writing on it this inscription,
In true lapidary style:
“Devotee; a loving husband;
“Full of sans-culottic notions,
“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.
“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;
“Often stinking very badly;
“Talentless; a character!”
CAPUT XXV.
Wearing on their heads the scarlet
Old Biscayan caps we read of,
Stood around the village entrance.
Beat the tambourine, and danced too,
And she sang a song of triumph
O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.{320}
Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;
Upright sat he on the seat,
Like a sickly bathing patient.
To the dead bear, went Lascaro
With Uraca; right and left she
Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.
Quite a speech before the town hall,
When the grand procession got there,
And he spoke on many subjects,—
Of the navy, on the press,
On the weighty beetroot question,
On the curse of party spirit.
Louis Philippe’s special merits,
He proceeded to the bear,
And Lascaro’s great achievement.
As with his tricolour’d sash he
Wiped the sweat from off his forehead,
“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!
“France and Spain from Atta Troll,
“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,
“Pyrenean Lafayette!”
Heard officially his praises,
In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,
And quite blush’d with satisfaction,
One word o’er another stumbling,
Gave he utt’rance to his thanks
For this most exceeding honour!
Gazed upon this sight unwonted,
And the aged women mutter’d
In alarm, beneath their breath:{321}
“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!
“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!
“He, the dead son of the witch!”—
Flay’d, and then they sold by auction
His poor skin. A furrier bought it
For one hundred francs, hard money.
With a lovely scarlet border,
And then sold it for just double
What it cost him in the first place.
At third hand, and in her bedroom
Lies it now in Paris, serving
As a rug beside her bed.
Have I stood at night upon this
Earthly brown coat of my hero,
On the skin of Atta Troll!
Schiller’s words I then remember’d:
“What in song shall be immortal
“Must in actual life first die!”[38]
CAPUT XXVI.
Is a woman! Frailty
Is her name! Alas! all women
Are as frail as any porcelain.
From her glorious noble husband,
She by no means died of sorrow,
Nor succumb’d to her affliction.
Went on living, went on dancing
As before, with ardour wooing
For the public’s daily plaudits.{322}
Situation, and provision
For the whole of life, at Paris
In the famed Jardin des Plantes.
With my Juliet to go thither
And expounded Nature to her,
Of the plants and beasts conversing,
Of Mount Lebanon, the mighty
Dromedary, the gold pheasants,
And the zebra,—as we chatted
Stood before the pit’s close railing
Where the bears are all collected,—
Gracious heavens, what saw we there!
From Siberia, white and hairy,
With a lady-bear was playing
A too-tender game of love there.
Was the wife of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the tender
Humid glances of her eye.
She it was,—yes, Madame Mumma
With a Russian is now living,
With a Northern wild barbarian!
Who approach’d us, thus address’d me:
“Is there any sight more pleasing
“Than to see two lovers happy?”
“I’ve the honour of addressing?”
But the other cried with wonder:
“Don’t you really recollect me?
“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;
“Things in Germany went badly,
“I was far too isolated.{323}
I am station’d, where I’m living
’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigers
Of my home within the tropics,
Than your German fairs attending,
Where I day by day was drumming
And was fed so very badly.
To a fair cook from Alsatia;
When within her arms reposing
Feel I then at home completely.
Of our darling elephants;
When she speaks in French, her language
My black mother-tongue resembles.
Of the rattling of that drum
Which had skulls around it hanging;
Snake and lion fled before it.
Weeps she, like a crocodile
Peeping from the tepid river
To enjoy a little coolness.
And I thrive upon them, eating
Once again, as on the Niger,
With old African enjoyment.
Grown quite round, and from my shirt it
Is projecting, like a black moon
From the snow-white clouds advancing.”
CAPUT XXVII.
(To Augustus Varnhagen Von Ense.)
Did you pick up all this crazy
Nonsense?”—these the very words were
hich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.{324}
Of Orlando’s frantic doings,
Which politely Ariosto
To his Eminence inscribed.
Yes, I round thy lips see plainly
Hov’ring those exact expressions,
By the same sly smile attended.
Yet at intervals thy forehead
Solemnly is wrinkled over,
And these thoughts then steal across thee:
That I dreamt once with Chamisso,
And Brentano and Fouqué,
In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]
From the long-lost forest chapel?
Sound the well-known cap and bells not
Roguishly at intervals?
Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass,
Dull and growling, interchanging
In its turn with spirit-whispers!
Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!
Dying sighs, which suddenly
Into laughter are converted!”—
From the long departed dream-time;
Save that modern quavers often
’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.
Here and there, despite the boasting;
I commend this little poem
To thy well-proved gentleness!{325}
Forest-song of the Romantic;
In the daytime’s wild confusion
Will it sadly die away.
Other birds and other music!
What a crackling, like the geese’s
Who preserved the Capitol!
While their claws hold farthing rushlights;
Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle
With the mighty thunderbolt!
Sick of love, they now are hating,
And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,
Draw the chariot of Bellona!
’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers
Of the springtime of the people,
Smitten with a sudden frenzy!
Other birds and other music!
They perchance could give me pleasure
Had I only other ears!
GERMANY.[40]
A WINTER TALE.
CAPUT I.
The winter days had returnèd,
The wind from the trees the foliage tore,
When I tow’rds Germany journied.
I felt a mightier throbbing
Within my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,
And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.
Strange feelings each other succeeding,
I felt precisely as though my heart
Right pleasantly were bleeding.
Real feeling her song was conveying,
Though false was her voice, and yet I felt
Deep moved at hearing her playing.
Of sacrifices, and meeting
Again on high, in yon better world
Where vanish our sorrows so fleeting.
Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,
Of yonder, where revels the glorified soul
In eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.
The heavenly eiapopeia,
Wherewith the people, the booby throng,
Are hush’d when they soothing require.{327}
I know the people who wrote it;
I know that in secret they drink but wine,
And in public a wickedness vote it.
Shall be now for your benefit given!
Our object is, that here on earth
We may mount to the realms of heaven.
Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;
The idle stomach shall gorge itself
With the fruit of hard labour no longer.
Enough, and e’en in redundance,
And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,
And sugarplums too in abundance.
As soon as the plums are provided;
To angels and sparrows we’re quite content
That heaven should be confided.
We’ll pay you a visit auspicious
In regions above, and with you we’ll eat
Sweet tarts and cakes delicious.
Resounds like fiddle and flute now;
The Miserere’s at last at an end,
The funeral bells are mute now.
To the handsome Genius Freedom;
They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,
As their newborn passions lead ’em.
But the wedding is still a wedding;
So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,
And the future fruit of their bedding!
My latest and best creation;
Within my soul are shooting the stars
That proclaim its inauguration.{328}
In torrents of flame, and with wonder
I feel myself full of unearthly strength,
I could rend e’en oaks asunder!
I’m pervaded by magical juices;
The giant has touch’d his mother once more,
And the contact new vigour produces.
CAPUT II.
And sung by the little maiden,
The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk,
As soon as the coach was unladen.
Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking;
They sought for jewels, prohibited books,
And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.
Ye will find in it really nothing;
My contraband goods I carry about
In my head, not hid in my clothing.
Than Brussels or Mechlin laces;
If once I unpack my point, ’twill prick
And cruelly scratch your faces.
The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid,
The new god’s temple-ornaments rich,
The god as yet not comprehended.
If the top were only off it!
My head is a twittering bird’s nest, full
Of books that they gladly would forfeit.
In the library e’en of the devil;
E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41] ne’er wrote
Any works that were half so evil.{329}
Remark’d that we now had before us
The famous Prussian Zollverein,
The customhouses’ vast chorus.
“Will found our nationality,
“And join our scatter’d fatherland
“In bonds of cordiality.
“That kind that’s material and real:
“The censorship gives us the other kind,
“That’s ghostly and ideal.
“In thought as well as in feelings;
“A united Germany need we to rule
“Our outward and inward dealings.”
CAPUT III.
Lie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes;
(Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born,
Who the writer of so much trash is!)
At Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river,
Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle,
And so be extinguish’d for ever.
Are ennui’d, and humbly implore us:
“O stranger, prythee give us a kick,
And to life for a time thus restore us.”
For an hour, with great perseverance,
And saw that the Prussian soldiery
Are not the least changed in appearance.
With the same grey mantle below it—
(The Red betokens the blood of the French,
Sang Körner the youthful poet).{330}
In every motion displaying
The same right angle, and every face
A frigid conceit still betraying.
Stuck up as straight as a needle,
Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stick
Once used as the best means to wheedle.
They carry it now inside them;
Familiar Du will recall the old Er
Wherein they were wont to pride them.
Than the pigtail of old discloses
The tail that formerly hung behind
Is hanging right under their noses.
Of the cavalry, I must confess it;
And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in fact
With the steel point above it, to dress it.
To the sweet romance of past ages,
To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon,
Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.
With their squires and noble inferiors,
Who in their bosoms fidelity bore,
And escutcheons upon their posteriors.
And love, and respect at a distance,
And times of faith, ere printing was known,
When newspapers had no existence.
An intellect truly enchanting!
Right royal indeed the invention was,
The point is really not wanting!
(The thought is terribly fright’ning)
On your romantic head might attract
The heavens’ most modern lightning!{331}
I saw the bird detested
Yet once again. With poisonous glare
His eyes upon me rested.
In my hands, thou creature perfidious,
I would tear thy feathers from off thy back,
And hack off thy talons so hideous!
In the air, thou wicked freebooter,
And then to the joyful shooting match
Invite each Rhenish sharpshooter.
The crown and sceptre shall proudly
Reward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow,
“Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
CAPUT IV.
The Rhine was past me rushing,
The air of Germany on me breath’d,
And I felt its influence gushing
Some omelets, together with bacon;
And as they were salt, some Rhenish wine
Was by me also taken.
When quaff’d from out a green rummer;
If thou drink’st a few pints in excess, ’twill give
Thy nose the colour of summer.
One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder;
It drove me out in the darkening night,
Through the echoing streets to wander.
As if wishing to tell me the mysteries
And legends of times that have long gone by,—
The town of Cologne’s old histories.{332}
Dragg’d on their pious existence;
Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preserved
By Ulrich von Hutten’s[43] assistance.
In mediæval gyrations,
Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44] by name,
Wrote his bitter denunciations.
Both books and men once swallow’d;
The bells rang merrily all the while,
And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.
Like dogs in the street coquetted;
In religious hatred the brood still exists,
Though greatly to be regretted,
A form of a monstrous sort is!
As black as the devil it rears its head,—
Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.
And the cunning papists bethought them:
“In this prison gigantic shall pine away
German intellects, when we have caught them.”
A thundering “Halt!” was spoken.
Since then the Cathedral no progress has made
In building, the charm being broken.
For its very non-termination
A monument makes it of German strength
And Protestant reformation.
With powerless hands have ye risen
To continue the work that so long has been stopp’d,
And complete the ancient prison.{333}
The money-boxes so bootless,
And beg of the Jews and heretics too,—
Your labour is idle and fruitless.
Make concerts all the fashion,
And all in vain will a talented king
Declaim with impetuous passion.
Although the Swabian Solons
Have sent a shipload full of stones
To help it, nolens volens.
Of the ravens and owls without number,
Who, full of antiquarian lore,
In high church-steeples slumber.
When instead of completing it rightly,
The inner space as a stable will serve
For horses,—a change but unsightly.
“Pray tell us how they will then tackle
“The three holy kings who rest there now,
“Within the tabernacle?”
Stand up as their supporters?
The three holy kings from the Eastern land
Must find some other quarters.
In those three iron cages
That high upon St. Lambert’s tower
At Münster have hung for ages.
Select in his stead some other;
Replace the king of the Eastern land
By some regal Western brother.[45]
With his two advisers by him;
But we will employ the cages now
For monarchs who greatly outvie him.
On the left shall be Melchior’s station,
In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not what
When alive, was their right situation.
Now canonised so duly,
Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’d
Quite properly and truly.
Were men of but weak resolution,
Who promised, when sorely press’d from without,
Their kingdom a constitution,
King Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen,
Rewarded with black ingratitude
His foolish fond subjects, the poor men!
CAPUT V.
Where the bastion its corner advances,
There saw I Father Rhine flowing on
In the silent moonbeam’s glances.
Now that I’m home returning!
Full often have I on thee thought,
With longing and deep yearning.”
A voice at once strange and moaning,
Like the wheezing cough of an aged man,
With grumbling and feeble groaning:
I see thee, good youth, again gladly;
’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last,
My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.{335}
“My digestion in consequence worse is;
“Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas,
“Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47] verses!
“The purest and best-behaved maiden,
“Who never allow’d any mortal to steal
“The crown with her purity laden.
“I could tear my beard in a passion,
“And feel inclined to drown myself
“In myself, in a curious fashion!
“The French know better than any;
“For they with my waters have mingled oft
“Their floods of victory many.
“Indeed he has treated me badly;
“To a certain extent he has compromised me
“In matters political sadly.
“I must blush at their reappearance,
“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return
“To heaven with perseverance.
“So tiny yet full of sinew;
“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?
“Does their singing and springing continue?
“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted
“On account of the words of that cursèd song;
“And the sneers of its author half-witted!
“Perchance will come as their drummer,{336}
“And march at their head, and his wretched wit
“Play off on me all through the summer.”
And discontentedly splutter’d.—
In order to raise his sinking heart,
These comforting words I utter’d:
“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is
“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,
“And they also have alter’d their breeches.
“They also have alter’d the button;
“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,
“But hang their heads like dead mutton.
“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;
“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,
“And many play also at skittles.
“But carry it even farther;
“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,
“But believe in Hengstenberg[49] rather.
“That he still to abuse gives a handle;
“But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down
“His tongue so devoted to scandal.
“We’ll punish him most severely,
“Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets
“With the women he loves most dearly.
CAPUT VI.
A Spiritus Familiaris,
Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shape
Of the late lamented George Harris.
Saw a man in red, as they mention,
And Socrates he had his Dæmon too,
No fanciful mere invention.
When the darkness of night had entwined me,
Have sometimes seen a muffled form,
Mysteriously standing behind me.
And when the light happen’d to catch it,
It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe,
An executioner’s hatchet.
His eyes like very stars glisten’d;
He never disturb’d me as I wrote,
But quietly stood there, and listen’d.
This very singular fellow,
But found him here suddenly at Cologne,
In the moonlight silent and mellow.
And saw him behind me stalking,
Just like my shadow, and when I stood still,
He also left off walking.
And when I onward hurried,
He follow’d again, and thus I reach’d
The Cathedral yard, quite flurried.
And said: “I insist on an answer;
“Why follow me thus in the silent night,
“And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?
“When world-wide feelings are dashing
“Across my breast, and through my brain
“The spirit-lightnings are flashing.{338}
“Now answer me, what is there hidden
“Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams?
“Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”
“If not a little phlegmatic:
“I pray thee, exorcise me not,
“And be not quite so emphatic!
“No grave-arisen spectre;
“I have no affection for rhetoric,
“I’m no philosophic projector.
“And of silent resolution;
“But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives,
“I put into execution.
“I rest not, nor suffer distraction,
“Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts;
“Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.
“And, like a servant obedient,
“The judgments execute pleasing to thee,
“Whether right or inexpedient.
“In Rome of old, let me remind thee
“And thou hast also thy lictor, but he
“Now carries the axe behind thee.
“And carry in all its splendour
“The polish’d executioner’s axe—
“I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
CAPUT VII.
As if by the angels tended;
In German beds one cosily rests,
For they are all featherbeds splendid.{339}
Of my own native country’s pillows,
While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night,
In my exile far over the billows!
In our featherbeds delicious;
The German spirit here feels itself free
From all earth’s fetters pernicious.
To the highest regions Elysian;
O German Spirit, how proud is the flight
Thou takest in nightly vision!
When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions,
Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star,
With the strokes of thine eager pinions.
In the British the ocean is vested,
But we in dream’s airy regions possess
The mastery uncontested.
And here we are never dissever’d,
While other nations on earth’s flat face
To develop themselves have endeavour’d.—
I was once more sauntering slowly
In the moonlight clear through the echoing streets
Of Cologne’s ancient city so holy.
And mask’d attendant speeded;
I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke,
Yet on, still on, we proceeded.
Gaped open, and parted in sunder,
And the red drops glided out of the wound
In my heart,—a sight of wonder.
And often the fancy came o’er me
To streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d,
Each doorpost lying before me.{340}
In this very peculiar fashion,
A funeral bell was heard in a tone
Of mournful and soft compassion.
And darkness came over me thickly,
And over her face, like horses black,
The stormy clouds sped quickly.
My dark companion ever,
His hidden axe grasping,—on, still on,
And pausing and resting never.
The Cathedral precincts’ centre;
The doors of the church wide open stood,
And straightway did we enter.
And night and silence hover’d,
While here and there a glimmering lamp
The darkness plainly discover’d.
And heard the footsteps only
Of my attendant, who follow’d me still
E’en here in the silence lonely.
With gold and jewels quite glorious,
And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,—
’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.
Quite still, and in order befitting—
O sight of wonder!—were now upright
Upon their sarcophagi sitting.
With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow,
And each one held in his bony hand
A sceptre, beside his fellow.
Their bones which so long had perish’d;
They smelt of mould, and they also smelt
Of incense fragrant and cherish’d.{341}
And utter’d a lengthy oration,
Explaining the reasons why he claim’d
My respectful salutation.
Because a monarch, the second;
Because a saint, the third,—but the whole
Of little account I reckon’d.
“In vain is all thy endeavour!
“I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect
“As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!
“Your lengths ye ought to measure!
“Real life will shortly confiscate
“This chapel’s mighty treasure.
“Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling;
“If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used,
“With clubs your exit compelling!”
And saw where was glimmering brightly
My silent attendant’s terrible axe,
And he read my meaning rightly.
Remorselessly he shatter’d
Those skeletons poor of bigotry,
And into atoms scatter’d.
Rang wildly, in countless numbers;
While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast,
And I awoke from my slumbers.
CAPUT VIII.
Five Prussian dollars, six groschen;
The diligence chanced to be full, so I came
In a chaise, though rough was the motion.{342}
The coach in the mud groan’d sadly;
Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,
Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.
Could bear no other construction;
The very dirt in the highway itself
Is my fatherland’s production!
As they went along in a canter;
Their very dung appear’d to me fair
As the apples of Atalanta!
And busy, the town far from dirty;
I last was there in the merry month
Of May, in the year one and thirty.
And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;
The birds were singing their yearning song,
While the men were hoping and thinking.
“Will depart from amongst us shortly;
“Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks
“Of iron, in fashion not courtly!
“With the banner, the white-blue-red one;
“Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave
“E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”
More than one of those fools so derided
Who enter’d the country as thin as a lath
Are now with fat bellies provided.
The pictures of faith, hope, charity,
Have got red noses by tippling our wine
With the utmost regularity.
For springing and raving all power;
In Paris itself the tricolour flag
Looks mournfully down from each tower.{343}
Yet the English, fearing a riot,
Converted him into a peaceable man,
And he let them inter him in quiet.
The golden carriage so splendid,
And victory’s golden goddesses,
Who the golden coffin attended.
Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,
Across the mist and over the snow
The procession wended sedately.
And frozen was every musician;
The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d down
Upon me in woeful condition.
All lost in old recollections,—
The wondrous imperial dream revived,
Awakening olden affections.
And down my cheeks fast fleeted,
When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shout
Of “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.
CAPUT IX.
At a quarter to eight precisely;
We got to Hagen at three o’clock,
And there had our dinners nicely.
The old-fashion’d German dishes;
All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail,
The reward of my utmost wishes!
My food when I was a baby!
All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swim
In the butter as nicely as may be!{344}
Grows ever dearer and dearer—
Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d,
Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.
The fieldfares, those very delicious
And roasted angels with apple sauce,
All warbled a welcome propitious.
“Full long hast thou been delaying!
“Full long hast thou with foreign birds
“In foreign lands been straying!”
A silent, kindhearted being;
Perchance she loved me in younger days,
When our tastes were nearer agreeing.
And fond, like the rest of her gender;
She surely possess’d an excellent soul,
But her flesh was by no means tender.
On a pewter dish, for me to guzzle;
The bores with us are always deck’d out
With laurel leaves round their muzzle.
CAPUT X.
And I felt a chilly sensation
Inside. At the inn at Unna I first
Recover’d my animation.
Who pour’d out my punch discreetly;
Like yellow silk were her comely locks,
Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.
With joy, as she utter’d them clearly;
The punch with sweet recollections smoked,
I thought of my brethren loved dearly;{345}
At Göttingen, while we were able,
Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks,
And also sank under the table.
I ever have loved it extremely;
A nation so firm, so faithful, so true,
Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.
In the noble science of fencing!
Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant,
With vigorous arm dispensing.
When they give thee their hand so gentle
To strike up a friendship, they needs must weep,
Like oaks turn’d sentimental.
On thy seed shower down benefactions,
Preserve thee from war and empty renown,
From heroes and heroes’ actions!
An easy examination,
And give thy daughters marriages good,—
So Amen to my invocation!
CAPUT XI.
Described in Tacitus’ pages;
Behold the classical marsh, wherein
Stuck Varus, in past ages.
The noble giant, named Hermann;[50]
’Twas in this mire that triumph’d first
Our nationality German.
Not triumph’d here over the foeman,
Then German freedom had come to an end,
We had each been turn’d to a Roman!{346}
Our native country ruled over,
In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’en
As Quirites have flourish’d in clover!
And groped about in the bowels
Of oxen; Neander[51] an Augur, and based
On flights of birds his avowals.
Like the Roman ladies admired.
(’Tis said that they, by its frequent use,
A pleasing odour acquired).
But a regular Roman Scampatius,
And Freiligrath written without using rhyme,
Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.
Had then been call’d Clumsianus;
Me Hercule! Massmann[55] would Latin have talk’d,
As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!
In the papers, would in the arena
Have had to wage a mortal fight
With the lion, jackal, hyena.
’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;
Our veins should we have open’d, and so
Defied the bailiffs of slavery.
A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;
Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,
And we remain’d still Germans!{347}
As we before times have spoken;
An ass is an ass, not asinus,
The Swabian line is unbroken.
In our northern German climate;
And Freiligrath no Horace became,
But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.
Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,
And drinks no nasty turpentine
Like those lovely Roman charmers.
So at Dettmoldt[56] thy friends and extollers
A monument proud of late have design’d,
And towards it I gave a few dollars.
CAPUT XII.
When a crash took place, sudden and frightful—
A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,
An occurrence by no means delightful.
To the village for help, and I found me
At midnight alone in the darksome wood,
While a howling I heard all around me.
With half-starv’d voices all wiry;
Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’d
Their eyes so fierce and fiery.
The beasts, and to honour me, proudly
They lighted up the forest thus,
And sang in chorus loudly.
Design’d for my glorification,
So threw myself in an attitude fit,
And spoke with extreme animation:{348}
“To tarry awhile ’midst your growling,
“Where so many noble spirits have met,
“Around me lovingly howling.
“Are truly beyond all measure;
“This present hour I ne’er shall forget,
“So fraught with exceeding pleasure.
“Evinced beyond denial,
“And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown
“In every period of trial.
“Ye set all the rogues at defiance,
“Who falsely asserted that I had of late,
“Struck up with the dogs an alliance,
“As a Councillor soon they would show me—
“To answer such base assertions as these
“I feel to be really below me.
“As a piece of warm clothing merely,
“Believe me, will never make me love
“The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.
“No Councillor, or such like;
“A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth
“A wolf’s are very much like.
“I ever will be a yelper;
“Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves,
“And God will be your helper!”
Without the least preparation;
In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told,
It appear’d, though with much mutilation.
CAPUT XIII.
With a look by no means bright’ning
In fact he leads but a sorry life,
This wretched earth enlight’ning.{349}
And hastens with beams all sparkling
To lighten the other, already the first
Is getting gloomy and darkling.
The Danaids’ bucket never
Gets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ball
In vain is the sun’s endeavour.
I saw by the wayside projecting
In the early glow, His figure, who died
On the cross a death so affecting.
That I see Thee, my poor Relation,
Whose mission was to redeem the world,
And be mankind’s salvation.
The lords of the Council stately;
O why didst Thou speak of Church and State
In a manner to wound them greatly?
To mortals had then not been given,
Or else a book had been written by Thee
On the subjects relating to heaven.
Satirical seem’d in its diction,
And so the loving censorship
Have saved Thee from crucifixion.
Another text Thou hadst taken!
Sufficient genius and talent were Thine,
And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.
From the temple, in just indignation—
Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the cross
Thou dost suffer a sad expiation.
CAPUT XIV.
The chaise floundered on in the mire,
Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”{350}
That my nurse so often was singing—
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was then
Like the note of the forest horn ringing.
Who lived a life joyous and splendid;
Hung up in the forest at last he was found,
From a grey old willow suspended.
On the willow’s stem, written entire;
The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas—
O Sun, thou accusing fire!
The murderer foul, in his ire.
Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
Of my dear old nurse never ceases
I see once more her swarthy face,
With all its wrinkles and creases.
And knew, in all their glory,
Many popular songs and wondrous tales,
And many a wild ghost-story.
The king’s daughter, in days now olden,
Sat all alone on the desert heath,
While glisten’d her tresses so golden.
As a goosegirl, and when at nightfall
She drove the geese home again through the gate,
Her tears would in piteous plight fall.
She saw a horse’s head o’er her;
The head it was of the dear old horse
Who to foreign countries bore her.
“O Falada! hangest thou yonder?”
The horse’s head from above replied:
“Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”{351}
“O would that my mother knew it!”
The horse’s head from above replied:
“Full sorely she would rue it!”
When my nurse, with a voice soft and serious,
Of Barbarossa began to speak,
Our Emperor so mysterious.
By learned men we were bidden,
But with his comrades in arms still lived
In a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.
With a cave in its depths benighted;
By lamps its high and vaulted rooms
In ghostly fashion are lighted.
Where in glittering harness the stranger
Who enters may see many thousand steeds,
Each standing at his manger.
Yet amongst these thousands of creatures,
No single one neighs, no single one stamps,
Like statues of iron their features.
The soldiers are seen in their places;
Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race,
With warlike and insolent faces.
Yet out of this countless number,
Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs,
They all are wrapp’d in slumber.
Swords, spears, and axes are lying,
And armour and helmets of silver and steel,
With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.
To build up a trophy olden.
A standard projects from out of the heap,
Its colour is black-red-golden.{352}
For many a century dosing
On a seat made of stone near a table of stone,
His head on his arm reposing.
Is red as a fiery ocean;
At times his eye to blink may be seen,
And his eyebrows are ever in motion.
For the present we cannot discover;
Yet when the proper hour has come,
He’ll shake himself all over.
And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly;
His cavalry straight will awake and spring
From the earth, all rattling loudly.
Each stamping his hoofs and neighing;
They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world,
While their trumpets are merrily playing.
No longer they slumber supinely;
In terrible judgment the Emperor sits,
To punish the murd’rers condignly,—
Her whose beauty such awe did inspire,
The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,—
O Sun, thou accusing fire!
And sat in their castles cheerful,
Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,
And the cord of vengeance fearful.
How dear are the thoughts they inspire!
My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
CAPUT XV.
Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;
The horses mournfully waggle their tails,
And wade through the mud with sweating.{353}
The old tune loved so dearly:
“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”—
Its memory crosses me clearly.
And as for my dream, this is it:
To the Emperor Barbarossa I
In the wondrous mount paid a visit.
Like an image no longer I saw him,
Nor had he that very respectable look
With which for the most part they draw him.
Discoursing with much affection,
Like an antiquarian pointing out
The gems of his precious collection.
How the strength of a blow to determine,
And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swords
With his own imperial ermine.
And clean’d full many a dusty
Old piece of armour, and many a helm,
And many a morion rusty.
And said, “My greatest pride is,
“That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk,
“And not e’en one insect inside is.”
Where asleep on the ground were lying
Many thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said,
Their forms with contentment eyeing:
“And make no noise in the gallery;
“A hundred years have again passed away,
“And to-day I must pay them their salary.”
While he held in his hand a ducat,
And quietly into the pocket of each
Of the sleeping soldiery stuck it.{354}
When I observ’d him with wonder:
“I give them a ducat apiece as their pay,
“At periods a century asunder.”
And drawn out in rows long and silent,
Together the Emperor rubb’d his hands
While his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.
And poked their ribs approving;
He counted and counted, and all the while
His lips were eagerly moving.
Thus angrily he discourses:
“Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough,
“But still am deficient in horses.
“In all the world, to supply me
“With the very best horses that they can find
“And now I’ve a good number by me.
“Then, making a regular clearance,
“I’ll free my country, my German folk,
“Who trustingly wait my appearance.”—
“Old fellow! seize time as it passes;
“Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough,
“Then fill up their places with asses.”
“For the battle there need be no hurry;
“Rome certainly never was built in one day,
“Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.
“The oak’s slow growth might shame us;
“Chi va piano va sano wisely says
“The Roman proverb famous.”
CAPUT XVI.
From my dream, yet vainly sought I
To keep awake, so I slumber’d again,
And of Barbarossa thought I.{355}
And talked of great and small things;
He ask’d me this, and he ask’d me that,
And wish’d to know about all things.
From the world above had descended
For many a year,—in fact not since
The Seven-years’ war had ended.
For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),
For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail,
The Countess Du Barry notorious.
Old Moses is dead and forgotten,
With his Rebecca; and Abraham too,
The son, is dead and rotten.
“To Felix[58], who proved very steady;
“His fame through Christendom far has spread,
“He’s a Chapel-master already.
“And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;
“Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,
“Still lives—at least she is said to.
“For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her
“As long as he lived, but when she was old
“They cruelly guillotined her.
“By the doctors attended and seen to;
“But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,
“And Antoinette the Queen too.
“And died like a monarch, proudly;
“But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined,
“Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”{356}—
And stared, as if doubting my meaning,
And said: “For the sake of heaven explain
“What is meant by that word guillotining?”
“Is a method newly constructed,
“By means of which people of every rank
“From life to death are conducted.
“I continued, while closely he listen’d;
“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,
“And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.
“’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you
“Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs
“A triangular axe just above you.
“The axe, quite lively and merry;
“And so your head falls into a bag,
“And nothing remains but to bury.”
“Be silent! May heaven confuse it,
“That foul machine! and God forbid
“That I should ever use it!
“Both fasten’d! What a position!
“’Tis contrary to all respect,
“And etiquette in addition!
“So coolly and so much, man?
“Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip
“Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!
“At words so out of season;
“Thy very breath is full of crime
“And guilty of high treason!”
And treated me thus cavalierly,
Surpassing all bounds,—I sharply replied,
And told him my mind quite clearly.{357}
“As an old woman’s silly fable;
“Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid
“To free ourselves we are able.
“And shake their sides with laughter
“To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown
“Act as leader, while we went after.
“My love for the black-red-golden
“Has been quench’d by the fools of the Burschenschaft,
“With their rage for the so-call’d olden.
“Shouldst pass thy days morosely;
“In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now,
“When I view the matter closely.”
CAPUT XVII.
In dream,—I say it advisedly;
In waking hours we never dare talk
To princes so undisguisedly.
When asleep, in a dream ideal,
The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts,
So German and yet so real.
And the sight of the trees in such numbers,
And their naked wooden reality,
Soon scared away my slumbers.
The twigs of the birch-trees, in token
Of warning, nodded,—and I exclaim’d:
“Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!
“I know that thou art far wiser
“Than I, for impatient by nature I am—
“Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!{358}
“Retain the old plan for the present:
“The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope
“For the townsman and vulgar peasant.
“The nobles be hang’d, beheading
“The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike
“For all who life’s pathways are treading.
“That Charles the Fifth invented;
“With orders, corporations, and guilds
“Let the people again be contented.
“In all its integrity yoke us;
“Its musty frippery give us once more,
“And all its hocus-pocus.
“The genuine middle ages
“I’ll gladly endure,—but free us, I pray,
“From the nonsense that now all the rage is,—
“That such a nauseous dish is
“Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit,
“And neither flesh nor fish is.
“And close the theatres sickly,
“Wherein they parody former times,—
“O Emperor, come thou quickly!”
CAPUT XVIII.
With arms and stores well provided;
But Prussian fortresses, truth to say,
I never have abided.
The planks of the drawbridge sadly
Beneath us groan’d, as over we roll’d,
And the dark moat gaped on us madly.{359}
With threat’ning and sulky wonder;
The heavy gate open’d with rattling loud,
And closed with a noise like thunder.
Of Odysseus, the world-renown’d warrior,
When he heard Polyphemus rolling a rock
In front of the cave as a barrier.
For our names; I replied to this latter act:
“I’m Nobody call’d; I an oculist am,
“Who couch the giants for cataract!”
My victuals fill’d me with loathing;
I straight went to bed, but slept not a wink,
So heavy I found the bed-clothing.
Red damask curtains around it,
The canopy wrought with faded gold,
While a dirty tassel crown’d it.
It robb’d me all the night through;
It hung over head, like Damocles’ sword,
And threaten’d to pierce me right through!
And I heard its hissing mysterious:
“In the fortress thou art, and canst not escape”—
A position especially serious!
“Of my peaceable home a sharer,
“With my own dear wife in Paris once more,
“In the Faubourg-Poissonière!”
Was over my forehead stealing,
Just like a Censor’s chilly hand,
And all my thoughts congealing.
In white and ghostly confusion
Surrounded my bed, while a rattling of chains
I heard, to swell the illusion.{360}
And at length with amazement I found me
Beside a precipitous wall of rocks,
And there they firmly had bound me.
Again it appear’d before me,
But now in the shape of a vulture with claws
And black wings hovering o’er me.
And grasp’d me, and breathing prevented;
It ate the liver out of my breast,
While sadly I groan’d and lamented.
And the feverish vision faded;
Perspiring in bed at Minden I lay,
To a tassel the bird was degraded.
And free breath presently drew I
On the domain of Bückeburg,
As by my feelings knew I.
CAPUT XIX.
And thy error was paid for dearly!
One can carry away one’s fatherland
On the soles of one’s feet, pretty nearly.
One half to my boots clung in patches;
In all my life I never have seen
A place that in filth its match is.
To see the ancestral castle
Whence my grandfather came; my grandmother though
Of Hamburg was part and parcel.
And there had my boots clean’d neatly,
And afterwards went to visit the town;
When I travel, I do it completely.{361}
No mud in its streets was lying;
Many handsome buildings there I saw,
In massive splendour vying.[59]
Surrounded by houses superior;
There lives the king and his palace there stands,
Of a really handsome exterior,—
A sentry-box had its station;
Redcoats with muskets there kept guard,
Of threat’ning and wild reputation.
“King Ernest Augustus, a tory
“Of the olden school, and a nobleman,—
“Very sharp, though his hairs are hoary.
“For he’s far more securely protected
“By the scanty courage of our dear friends
“Than his satellites ever effected.
“How very tedious his post is,—
“The regal post, of which he here
“In Hanover now the boast is.
“And plagued by spleen, to cure it
“He finds it not easy, and greatly fears
“That he cannot much longer endure it.
“By the fireside mournfully bending;
“For his dog, who was sick, with his own royal hands
“A comforting draught he was blending.”
CAPUT XX.
The shades of evening were thick’ning,
The stars in the heavens their greetings sent,
And the air was soft and quick’ning.{362}
She was wellnigh frighten’d with gladness;
She cried “My darling child!” and clasp’d
Her hands together with madness.
“Have pass’d since our last meeting;
“You surely are hungry; tell me now
“What you’ll take in the way of eating?
“And handsome oranges also!”—
“Then give me some fish, and goose-flesh too,
“And handsome oranges also!”
My mother was lively and merry;
She ask’d me this, and she ask’d me that,
And her questions were awkward, very.
“Do you get all the things you require?
“Is your wife pretty skilful at keeping house?
“Are your shirts and stockings darn’d by her?”
“But in silence one ought to eat it;
“’Tis easy to get a bone in one’s throat,
“Pray leave me in peace to complete it.”
The goose next made its appearance;
My mother again ask’d for this and for that,
With the same ill-timed perseverance.
“Is the best for people to dwell in,—
“This place, or France? which nation’s the best?
“What thing does each excel in?”—
“Is good as one of the courses;
“But the French stuff geese far better than we,
“And they also have better sauces.”
The oranges presently follow’d,
And tasted so unexpectedly nice,
That with pleasure they quickly were swallow’d.{363}
Her questions with very much pleasure;
She ask’d me a thousand things, but some
Were awkward beyond all measure.
“If politics still you’re inclined to?
“Which party in the state to support
“Have you the greatest mind to?”—
“Of your oranges cannot be beaten;
“The sweet juice I swallow with much delight,
“But I leave the peel uneaten.”
CAPUT XXI.
The hapless half-burnt city;
Like a half-shorn poodle Hamburg now looks,
An object to waken one’s pity.[60]
That mournfully one misses—
Where is the house, wherein I kiss’d
Love’s first delicious kisses?
My Reisebilder printed?
The oyster shop, where I oysters gulp’d down
With appetite unstinted?
I now should seek it vainly;
Where the pavilion, where I ate
So many cakes profanely?
The senate and burghers stately?
A prey to the flames! The flames spared not
Whatever was holiest lately.
And with most mournful faces
The history sad of the great fire told,
And pointed out all its traces:—{364}
“All was smoke and flames fiercely flashing;
“The churches’ towers all blazed on high,
“And tumbled in with loud crashing.
“Where our fathers in every weather
“Were wont to assemble for centuries past,
“And honestly traded together.
“And the books which have always served us
“To note the assets of every man,
“Thank heaven! have been preserved us.
“On our behalf large collections;
“A capital job,—we got no less
“Than eight millions in all directions.
“In our hands, which were far from unwilling,
“And plenty of food they also sent,
“And we gladly accepted each shilling.
“And bread, and meat, and soups too;
“The King of Prussia, to show his regard,
“Would fain have sent us troops too.
“A matter of mere valuation;
“But then the fright,—our terrible fright,
“Admits of no compensation!”
“You should not lament and bawl so!
“A far better city than yours was Troy,
“And yet it was burnt down also.
“And dry up every puddle;
“Get better engines and better laws,
“That are not quite such a muddle.
“So very much Cayenne pepper;
“Your carp are not wholesome with so much sauce,
“Or when eaten with scales, like a leper.{365}
“But be on your guard ’gainst disaster
“From the knavish bird that lays its eggs
“In the wig of the burgomaster.
“Of this bird of bad reputation;
“When thinking about him, the food in my maw
“Is stirr’d with indignation.”
CAPUT XXII.
Appear’d the people within it;
Like walking ruins they totter’d about,
As if ready to tumble each minute.
The fat appear’d still fatter,
The children were old, and the old were young,
(In their second childhood the latter).
As oxen were herding together,
And many a gosling had now become
A goose in fullest feather.
And dress’d with syren-like brightness;
She had procured some dark black hair,
And teeth of dazzling whiteness.
The paper-dealer, good fellow;
Like John the Baptist, round his head
Was floating his hair so yellow.
He slipp’d away so fleetly;
I hear that his soul was burnt, but insured
For a large amount discreetly.
In the fog, and lowly stooping
I met him in the goose market by chance,
And he seem’d completely drooping.{366}
In his eye appear’d collecting;
He was so pleased to see me once more!
The scene was truly affecting.
Had quitted this scene for ever;
My Gumpelino,[61] ’mongst others, alas!
Was gone, to appear again never.
To Him by whom it was given,
And now had a glorified seraph become
In the blissful realms of heaven.
(Though I look’d in every direction,)
Who used to sell pots and pans in the street,—
A very cheap collection.
A loss of a serious nature;
Friend Campe[62] would sooner have lost a whole host
Of writers than this good creature.
Has from time immemorial consisted
Of Jews and Christians; ’tis also the case
That the latter are rather close-fisted.
And pass their time in clover,
And promptly pay their bills of exchange,
Ere the days of grace are over.
Into two very different parties;
The old one goes to the synagogue,
In the temple the new one’s heart is.
Their manners are somewhat dogmatic;
They democrats are, but the older school
Is much more aristocratic.{367}
Yet I swear by the prophet Jonas
That certain fish I love still more,—
Smoked sprats they are commonly known as!
CAPUT XXIII.
As great as Venice or Florence,
Yet Hamburg has better oysters; one gets
The best in the cellar of Laurence.
When splendid was the weather,
Intending on oysters and Rhenish wine
To have a banquet together.
And greatly was delighted
To see many old friends, such as Chaufepié,
And new ones, self-invited.
Was an album where foes academic
Right legibly had inscribed their names
In the shape of scars polemic.
And personal foe of Jehovah,
Who believed but in Hegel, and slightly perhaps
In the Venus of Canova.
And smiled and enjoy’d the honour;
His eye was beaming with happiness,
Just like an ecstatic Madonna.
And these thoughts then cross’d my noddle:
“This Campe is really an excellent man,
“And of publishers quite the model.
“Would have left me of hunger to perish;
“But he has given me drink as well,
“His name I ever shall cherish.{368}
“Who this juice of the grape created,
“And Campe to me as a publisher gave,
“Whose merits can’t be overrated.
“Who by His own mere motion
“Created on earth the Rhenish wine,
“And the oysters in the ocean.
“The oyster’s flavour to sweeten,—
“O may I peacefully to-night
“Digest what I have eaten!”
All quarrelsome thoughts congealing
Within my breast, and kindling instead
A philanthropic feeling.
And through the streets to wander;
My soul sought a soul, and the sight of each dress
Of a woman made it still fonder.
While my yearning makes me tremble;
The cats appear to me all too grey,
And Helens the women resemble.—
I saw in the moonbeams glancing
The noble form of a woman fair,
With stately grace advancing.
Her cheek like a damask rose was,
Like a turquoise her eye, like a cherry her mouth,
While somewhat reddish her nose was.
Of snowy stiff linen, not ragged,
But folded like a mural crown,
With turrets and battlements jagged.
Which down to her calves descended;
And O what calves! The pedestals they
Of two Doric columns splendid.{369}
Could be read in her every feature,
But her superhuman hinder parts
Betray’d a superior creature.
“To the Elbe here’s a welcome hearty!
“E’en after an absence of thirteen years,
“I see that thou’rt still the same party!
“Who so often used to meet thee,
“And all night long in this beautiful place
“With their reveries loved to greet thee.
“That monster fierce, they were swallow’d;
“Thou’lt find those olden times no more,
“Nor those friends once lovingly follow’d.
“Which enchanted thy youthful bosom;
“’Twas here they bloom’d,—they’re wither’d now,
“And the tempest has scatter’d each blossom.
“By destiny’s footsteps appalling—
“My friend, this is ever the fate upon earth
“Of all that is sweet and enthralling!”—
“Thy appearance doth strangely beset me;
“Where is thy dwelling, enormous one?
“I’ll follow thee there, if thou’lt let me.”
“Thou art wrong, I’m a decent and quiet
“And highly moral personage too,
“By no means given to riot.
“And none of your common ladies;
“I’m Hamburg’s goddess, Hammonia by name,
“And to watch o’er its welfare my trade is!
“Thou once undaunted singer?
“Art thou prepared to follow me still?
“Then quick, and no more let us linger.”{370}
“I’ll follow thee instanter!
“If thou’lt go in front, I’ll go behind,—
“Yes, even to hell in a canter!”
CAPUT XXIV.
I haven’t the slightest notion;
Perhaps the spirits carried me up
With some invisible motion.
The hours pass’d swiftly o’er me;
The goddess confess’d the sympathy
That she had ever felt for me.
“The minstrel who sang the Messiah
“Was dearest to me of all the throng,
“With his piously-sounding lyre.
“On that chest of drawers, but though on it,
“For many a year it has only served
“As a block for holding my bonnet.
“At the head of my bed in due order;
“And see, a fresh laurel now surrounds
“The cherish’d portrait’s border.
“Repeated by thee so often,
“Have sometimes caused me the greatest pain;
“Thy language thou must soften.
“Of rudeness so cold-hearted,
“And somewhat greater tolerance
“For even the fools imparted.
“At such an unclement season?
“The weather already is winterly quite,—
“I fain would know the reason.”{371}
“In the bosom’s inmost recesses
“Are slumbering thoughts which often awake
“At a time which rather distresses.
“But within I was weigh’d down with anguish,
“Which every day grew worse and worse,—
“For home I ceased not to languish.
“Began to be oppressive;
“I long’d to breathe some German air,
“To relieve this burden excessive.
“And the smell of German peat too;
“My foot impatiently quiver’d, the ground
“Of Germany to beat too.
“Yet once again to view her,
“The old woman who close to the Dammthor lives,
“And Lotte, who lives close to her.
“Who always freely reproved me,
“And then his protection over me threw,
“To many a sigh now moved me.
“The words ‘young stupid!’ repeated,
“Which always in my younger days
“My heart like music greeted.
“From German chimneys reaches,
“For the Lower-Saxony nightingales,
“For the silent groves of beeches.
“The places where once I resorted,
“Where once I trail’d my youthful cross,
“And my crown of thorns supported.
“Those tears so bitter and burning;
“The love of fatherland methinks
“They call this foolish yearning.{372}
“But a whim of the’ imagination;
“Shamefaced by nature, I hide my wounds
“From public observation.
“Who, to stir men’s passion heated,
“Of patriotism make a show
“With all its ulcers fetid.
“Who live upon people’s charity;
“For Menzel[63] and all his Swabians, here’s
“A penn’orth of popularity!
“Of a tender disposition!
“I’m rather ill, but a little care
“Will soon recruit my condition.
“My spirits in a minute
“By means of a cup of excellent tea,
“With a little rum mix’d in it.”
CAPUT XXV.
And then the rum pour’d she in;
But she herself preferr’d the rum
Without a drop of tea in.
And rather tumbled her bonnet
Or mural crown, and gently she spake,
While I reflected upon it:
“That in Paris, that wicked city,
“With the frivolous French thou’rt living still,—
“’Tis really a very great pity.
“And hast not even beside thee
“Some faithful German publisher who
“As a Mentor might warn and guide thee.{373}
“So many a sylph amuses,
“Whose health is bad, and one’s peace of mind
“One far too easily loses.
“Here modesty reigns still, and morals;
“And here thou may’st gather, e’en in our midst,
“In silence many fair laurels.
“Than thou wert formerly able;
“We’re fast advancing, and thou must have seen
“Our progress so rapid and stable.
“Friend Hoffmann is milder and older;
“His youthful passion for cutting up
“Thy Reisebilder is colder.
“And many things quietly takest,
“And in a better spirit than once,
“Past times thou now awakest.
“Is a great exaggeration;
“One could always escape, like the Romans of old,
“From serfdom, by self-immolation.
“For the masses it never was stinted;
“Restrictions affected nobody, save
“The limited number who printed.
“The worst of demagogues never
“Were deprived of their rights of citizenship,
“Till condemn’d for some wicked endeavour.
“Whatever disputes may have risen;
“Believe me, no mortal was e’er starved to death
“Inside a German prison.
“Full many a fair apparition
“Of simple faith and kindliness too,—
“Now all is doubt and sedition.{374}
“Will soon destroy the Ideal
“That we bore in our bosoms,—as fair as a dream
“Of lilies, and not more real!
“Already ’tis somewhat faded;
“The Moorish King of Freiligrath,
“Like the rest of the kings, is degraded.
“The book of fate, free from all error,
“And suffer thee future ages to see
“Within my magic mirror.
“To thee would I gladly discover:
“The future of thy fatherland,—
“Thou wouldst tell it, though, all the world over!”
“It would give me most exquisite pleasure;
“O let me the future of Germany see,
“I know how a secret to treasure.
“Thou soonest would have me swallow,
“As a pledge to thee of my secrecy;
“So say what form I shall follow.”
“As by Father Abraham’s order
“His servant Eliezer swore,
“When starting to cross the border.
“Upon my thigh below it,
“And swear that in speaking, the secret thou’lt keep,
“And in thy works as a poet!”
By the breath of ages long perish’d,
When I swore the oath in the manner ordain’d
By Abraham, our forefather cherish’d.
And placed on her thigh below it
My hand, vowing secrecy both in my words
And in my works as a poet.
CAPUT XXVI.
(I think that the rum had ascended
Up into her head) and she spoke in a tone
In which sorrow was painfully blended:
“Of Hamburg’s first foundation;
“My mother was a mermaid, who had
“At the mouth of the Elbe her station.
“Called Charlemagne the glorious;
“He was still more wise than Frederick the Great,
“And also still more victorious.
“On the day of his coronation:
“The seat where he sat at night devolved
“On my mother, as nearest relation.
“A common-looking article;
“And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold
“I wouldn’t surrender one particle.
“Both old and weather-beaten;
“The leather that covers its arms is torn,
“And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.
“The cushion from the settle;
“Thou’lt see an oval opening then,
“And under it a kettle.
“The magic forces are brewing;
“On placing thy head in the aperture, soon
“The future thou’lt clearly be viewing.
“Like wondrously rolling phantasmas;
“But shudder not, if out of the filth
“Arise any foul miasmas!”
But I undauntedly hasted
To hold my head over the terrible hole,
And there I eagerly placed it.{376}
The things that I saw and felt there;
I scarcely dare to utter a word,
Good heavens, of what I smelt there!
Of that smell, which blended together,
In vile and accursèd union, a stench
Of old cabbage and Russia leather.
Was still more filthy and dirty;
’Twas as though they had swept together the soil
From closets six and thirty.
In the famous Committee of Safety:
“Great illnesses cannot be cured by musk
“And rose-oil,” he told them with naïveté.
Was infinitely stronger
Than aught that my nose could e’er have conceived—
In fact I could bear it no longer.—
Once more, I found myself sitting
Beside the goddess, and leaning my head
On her breast, in a manner befitting.
Her nostrils twitched, with bacchantic
Excitement she clasp’d the poet, and sang
With ecstasy fearful and frantic:
“And we’ll eat and drink with gladness
“The oysters and wine of present times,
“Forgetting the future’s sadness.
“Should all our pleasure cloud over;
“I love thee no German poet had e’er
“A more affectionate lover!
“By thy genius quite inspired;
“My spirit by a wondrous kind
“Of paroxysm is fired.{377}
“The watchmen singing in chorus;
“’Tis wedding music and bridal songs,
“Sweet friend, that are rising o’er us.
“With their torches flaring brightly;
“The torch-dance they dance in dignified wise,
“And hop and spring about lightly.
“And the elders according to station;
“The burgomaster clears his throat,
“Preparing a lengthy oration.
“The whole of the corps diplomatic,
“In the name of the neighbouring states to present
“Congratulations emphatic.
“By rabbis and pastors guided;
“But, alas! here Hoffmann also draws near,
“With his scissors, as censor, provided.
“And eagerly he races
“To seize thy body,—he cuts thy flesh—
“Methinks it by far the best place is.”
CAPUT XXVII.
I’ll tell you all the history
Of the other wonders that came to pass
In that long night of mystery.
Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;
To the grave it is sinking, and owes its death
To its ceaseless habit of lying.
By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,
Of genial humour and thoughts,—to it
I’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.{378}
Appreciates, puts forth its blossom,
And warms itself at his radiant soul,
And against his feeling bosom.
And pure and chaste as the fire;
The noblest Graces themselves have tuned
The chords of my sweet lyre.
My worthy father uses,—
The poet Aristophanes,
The favourite of the Muses.
At copying the conclusion
Of the play of the “Birds,” which certainly is
My father’s finest effusion.
Is now, in a German translation,
Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at Berlin
For his Majesty’s edification.
For the old-fashion’d style of joking;
The late King far more amusement found
In modern frogs’ loud croaking.
Were the author still living, I kindly
Would counsel him to trust himself
In Prussia not too blindly.
Would find it no subject for laughter;
We should see him move, wherever he went,
With a chorus of gendarmes after.
When this piece of advice I’m giving:
Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,
And tender be to the living.
With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,
More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,
By the poets created and burnish’d.{379}
Regardless whether they know it;
Affront the mightiest Lord of all,
But O, affront not the poet!
Man’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;
The fire of hell is passably hot,
And there he must roast and must swelter.
From the flames; for saying masses
And giving to churches with liberal hand
From torment a certain pass is.
And burst hell’s gloomy portals;
And though he may sit in judgment strict,
He still will acquit many mortals.
There’s no escape to heaven;
No prayers there avail, and powerless too
Is the Saviour’s pardon even.
With its terrible trinary verses?
The man whom the poet there has shut up
Will never escape from his curses.
By any god or Saviour;
So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,
Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!
ROMANCERO.
BOOK I.—HISTORIES.
Let thy faith soar the higher;
And when thy soul is sad unto death,
Then strike thou the lyre.
The chords breathe discreetly!
All anger flies, and thy spirit ere long
Will bleed to death sweetly.
RHAMPSENITUS.[64]
Enter’d in the halls resplendent
Of his daughter, she was laughing,
As was also each attendant.
Follow’d in loud chorus after;
E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxes
Seem’d about to burst with laughter.
That I held the thief securely,
But it was a dead arm only
That my hand had seized so surely.
To thy storehouse penetrated,
And despite all bars and fast’nings
All thy treasure confiscated.{381}
“Which the door of house or stable
“Straightway opens; to resist it
“Are the strongest doors unable.
“Nor could I resist his pleasure;
“So this night, while treasure-watching,
“Have I lost my little treasure!”
Laughing at this notion clever,
And the maidens and the eunuchs
Laugh’d again as loud as ever.
E’en the crocodiles so bloody
Laughingly their heads protruded
From the yellow Nile-stream muddy,
And the foll’wing proclamation
Shouted by the public crier
On the bank, to all the nation:—
“King of Egypt, to our loyal
“Well-belovèd friends and subjects
“Hereby send our greeting royal.
“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred
“Four and twentieth year before Christ,
“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d
“Where we kept them, and more lately
“Further thefts has perpetrated,
“So that we have suffer’d greatly.
“Made we our belovèd daughter
“Sleep beside the treasure; but he
“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.
“And to show our deep affection
“For the thief, our admiration,
“And our grateful recollection,{382}
“As his lawful wife—God bless her!—
“And to princely rank promote him,
“Owning him as our successor.
“Unknown to us just at present,
“This our rescript shall inform him
“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.
“Thirteen hundred twenty-six
“Years before Christ; here our seal we,
“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”
As his son-in-law soon counted,
And when he was dead, the robber
On the throne of Egypt mounted.
Trade and talent patronizing,
And the fewness of the robb’ries
In his reign was quite surprising.
THE WHITE ELEPHANT.
Has half of India under his wing;
Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obey
His rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.
To Siam the trains with the tribute come;
Many thousand camels, with backs piled high
With the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.
The soul of the King in secret smiles;
But in public in truth he always deplores
That his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.
So full of magnificence, so capacious,
The reality’s splendour surpasses in glory
The Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.{383}
In which are display’d the deities all,
The golden images, chisell’d with care,
And all incrusted with jewels so fair.
Their ugliness passes description far;
A compound of men and animals dread,
With many a hand and many a head.
Some thirteen hundred coral trees,
As big as palms, a singular sight,
With spiral branches, a forest bright.
And all the trees are in it display’d,
While pheasants of glittering plumage gay
Strut up and down in a dignified way.
A ribbon of silk wears round his throat,
Whence hangs the key that opens the hall
Which people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.
All over the ground here scatter’d lie
Like common peas, with diamonds rare
That in size with the egg of a fowl compare.
The Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;
The ape lies down by the monarch proud,
And both of them slumber and snore aloud.
His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,
The joy and the pride of Mahawasant
Is truly his snow-white elephant.
A splendid palace the King has erected;
Gay lotos-headed columns uphold
Its roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.
As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;
And kneeling down with low-bent back
There serve him a hundred eunuchs black.{384}
On golden dishes they bring him to eat;
From silver buckets he drinks his wine,
Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.
On his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,
The richest shawls that are made in the East
As carpets serve for the dignified beast.
But no one on earth contented is;
The noble creature,—one cannot tell why,—
Gives way to a deep despondency.
Is wretched, all this profusion despite;
They fain would enliven and cheer him again,
But all their cleverest efforts are vain.
The bayaderes; the kettle drum
And cornet in vain the musicians play,
But nothing can make the elephant gay.
The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;
He sends for the wisest astrologer known,
And bids him stand before his throne.
Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead
“What is it that my poor elephant needs,
“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”
And finally spoke with obeisance profound:
“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,
“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.
“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;
“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,
“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.
“A little white mouse; her form she rears
“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,
“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.{385}
“Two lofty pilasters support the same,
“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,
“Of alabaster dazzling and white.
“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!
“As lamp there burns within the fane
“A heart quite free from spot and stain.
“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;
“E’en Gautier[65] unable to do it, alas! is,
“Its whiteness all description surpasses.
“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;
“The lily that she by accident thumbs
“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.
“Of this enormous snow-white dame;
“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,
“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.
“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity
“And into his heart this lofty Ideal
“First crept by means of a vision unreal.
“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,
“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,
“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.
“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;
“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,
“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’
“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;
“And yet this parting of body and soul
“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.{386}
“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;
“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;
“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.
“His return to the animal world contrive,
“O King, then send the renown’d invalid
“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.
“Of the beautiful lady can take delight—
“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,
“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.
“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;
“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface
“Which in his bosom had taken their place.
“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;
“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,
“And feel as he felt in youthful days.
“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!
“How thy elephant there will civilized be,
“Amusing himself right merrily!
“That plenty of money he has with him there,
“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,
“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,
“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts
“About him, but say with an accent mellow:
“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”
He threw himself thrice on the ground again.
The king with rich presents sent him away,
And stretched himself, his course to survey.
(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).
His ape beside him took his seat,
And both of them fell asleep with the heat.{387}
The Indian mails are behind their date.
The last of these which has come to hand
Was by way of Suez, and overland.
KNAVE OF BERGEN.
They’re gaily masquerading;
The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,
The music their nimbleness aiding.
And ceases laughing never;
Her partner is a slender youth,
Who seems right courtly and clever.
Whence merrily is peeping
An eye just like a shining dirk
From out of its sheath half creeping.
As they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,
While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]
Salute with loud noise and grimaces.
Of the double-bass increases,
Until the dance to an end has come,
And then the music ceases.
“’Tis time for me to go now—”
“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,
“Unless your face you show now.”
“My face is a hideous creature’s—”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,
“I insist upon seeing your features.”
“For night and death are my portion—”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go
“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”{388}
To change her determination;
At length she forcibly tore the mask
From his face for her information.
Exclaim with a feeling of terror,
And timidly shrink;—the Duchess rush’d out,
Her husband to tell of her error.
Of the Duchess straightway effac’d he;
He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,
Good fellow!” with accents hasty.
“A limb of the order knightly;
“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d
“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”
Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;
A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,
Though now they all underground are!
THE VALKYRES.[67]
Fight, above on cloudy horses
Three Valkyres ride; their song
Through the air re-echoes long.
“Each would bear away the laurel;
“Conquest is the highest prize,
“Highest worth in courage lies.
“Death brings all things in subjection;
“And the hero’s blood is shed,
“And the wicked win instead.
On the morrow in he marches,
“Who the better one o’erthrew,
“Winning land and people too.{389}
“Go to meet the victor faster
“With the keys that ope the gate,
“And the train then enters straight.
“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,
“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,
“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.
“Smiling beauteous women, handing
“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;
“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD.
When he heard the tragical story
That Harold the king had lost his life
On Hastings battle-field gory.
As messengers then selected,
To seek at Hastings amongst the dead
For Harold’s body neglected.
And return’d with faces averted:
“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,
“We seem by Fortune deserted.
“O’ercome by that bastard demon;
“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,
“And make a slave of the freeman.
“Is lord of the island of Britain;
“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs
“We saw as gay as a kitten.
“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,
“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,
“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.{390}
“Of the blood-red comet which lately
“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky
“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.
“The evil star’s prediction;
“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there
“We sought with deep affliction.
“We sought in each direction;
“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,
“Escaped our close inspection.”
His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d he
Then sank in deep thought, and finally said,
As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:
“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling
“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,
“In beauty once so excelling.
“Because her neck in its splendour
“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king
“Loved the maid with affection tender.
“Forgot, like a faithless lover;
Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years
“Have since those days pass’d over.
“And bid her return with you quickly
“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king
“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.
“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,
“That we for his soul due masses may sing,
“And like a Christian inter him.”
The hut in the forest, saying:
“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,
“And follow without delaying.{391}
“And the routed Saxons are flying,
“And on the field of Hastings the corpse
“Of Harold the King is lying.
“The body beneath the dead hidden,
“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,
“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”
And not one word she utter’d,
But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hair
In the wind all wildly flutter’d.
And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,
Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coast
At the dawning of day descried they.
The battle-field was cloaking,
Dispersed by degrees; the noisy daws
Were flapping their wings and croaking.
On the earth with blood bespatter’d,
Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steed
Among the carcases scatter’d.
With naked feet now waded;
No single spot the searching glance
Of her piercing eye evaded.
Had to scare away the devouring
Black troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;
The monks behind her were cowering.
Till the shades of the evening were falling;
When out of the poor woman’s breast there burst
A shriek both wild and appalling.
The corpse of the king, poor creature!
No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,
She kiss’d each pallid feature.{392}
Her arms encircled him tightly;
She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,
Disfigured by wounds unsightly.
And cover’d them over with kisses,—
Three little scars that her teeth had made,
The signs of their former blisses.
Some branches of trees collected;
These form’d the bier, on which they bore
The body, with hearts dejected.
To bury it rightly and duly,
And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpse
Of him she had loved so truly.
In childlike pious fashion,
And in the night they fearfully rang,—
The monks pray’d, full of compassion.
CHARLES I.
Sits the king, an object of pity;
The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,
And sings this monotonous ditty:
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st
“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.
“The sign,—and dead is the kitten;
“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,
“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.
“And now no longer receive they,—
“Eiapopeia,—the faith in a God,
“Still less in the king believe they.{393}
“And we from their presence are driven,—
“Eiapopeia,—I, monarch on earth,
“And God, the monarch in heaven.
“My brow grows sterner and sterner;
“Eiapopeia,—my headsman art thou,
“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!
“Eiapopeia—thou’lt fumble
“My grey locks about, and cut them off,—
“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.
“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;
“Thou strikest off from my body my head,—
“The life of the kitten is ended.
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,—
“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”
MARIE ANTOINETTE.
In the Tuileries Castle gaily;
And yet the well-known spectres of old
Still walk about in it daily.
The famous pavilion of Flora;
With strict etiquette she holds her court
At each return of Aurora.
On tabourets others are sitting,
With dresses of satin and gold brocade,
Hung with lace and jewels befitting.
And from underneath them are peeping
Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,—
If their heads were but still in their keeping!{394}
The queen herself in that article
Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts
Of frizzling not one particle.
In dignity so resplendent,
Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,
The German Cæsar’s descendant,
Amongst her maids of honour,
Who, equally headless and void of curls,
Are humbly waiting upon her.
And its doctrines so pernicious,
From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,
And Voltaire the malicious.
That none of these hapless creatures
Have ever observed how dead they are,
How devoid of head and features.
And makes a reverence lowly;
The second hands it to the queen,
And both retire then slowly.
Before the queen discreetly,
That they may be able to draw on
Her Majesty’s stockings neatly.
Her Majesty’s robe for the morning;
Another with curtsies her petticoat holds
And assists at the queen’s adorning.
Stands by, the time beguiling;
And as her head is unhappily gone,
With her other end she is smiling.
Inside the draperied casement;
But when the apparitions he sees,
He starts in fearful amazement.
THE SILESIAN WEAVERS.[68]
They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:
“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;
“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,
“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,—
“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!
“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;
“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,
“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,—
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,
“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,
“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,—
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“We’re weaving busily night and day;
“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”
POMARE.
1.
In my heart, and blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
To convert; no, she I mean
Is a wild untutor’d beauty.
All her subjects quite entrancing
In that dear Jardin Mabille,
Waltzes and the polka dancing.{396}
Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
Quite a princess every inch,
Whichsoever way you take her.
In my heart all blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
2.
What grace her every limb displays!
There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,
As if she from her skin were springing.
Upon one foot, and then stands still
At last with both her arms extended,
My very reason seems suspended.
That once Herodias’ daughter came
And danced to Herod. As she dances,
Her eye casts round it deadly glances.
What shall be thy reward to-day?
Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway
Decapitate the Baptist straightway!
3.
In the mire she wallowèd;
But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,
In her carriage takes an airing.
On its silken cushions she
Rests her head, and haughtily
Looks upon the thronging masses
Whom on foot her carriage passes.
When I see thee travelling so,
Then my heart is fill’d with woe!
Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—
To the hospital will bear thee,
Where unfeeling cruel death
Soon will take away thy breath,{397}
And the student, with coarse greasy
Prentice hand, so free and easy,
Will cut up thy body fair
Anatomically there;
And at Montfaucon thy horses
At the knacker’s end their courses.
4.
Better than at first I said;
God be praised, all now is ended!
God be praised, and thou art dead!
Garret thou at length didst die.
She, with love beyond all others,
Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.
And a coffin, and a grave;
Somewhat close and wretched truly
Was the funeral that they gave.
Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully;
Thy friseur and poodle only
As thy mourners follow’d thee.
“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,
“And her long black tresses soften,
“Sitting in her easy chair!”
At the churchyard gate anon,
And was lodged and fed and pamper’d
Afterwards by Rose Pompon.
Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
As a hated rival judged thee,
Made thee victim of her spleen.
With thy mud crown on thy head,
Thou art saved by God’s eternal
Goodness, thou at last art dead.{398}
Mercy show’d thee from above;
This He did, methinks, the rather
In that thou so much didst love.
THE APOLLO GOD.
The Rhine beneath it glistens;
The youthful nun doth eagerly peep
Through the lattice window, and listens.
By the evening glow tinged brightly;
While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,
With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.
With flowing auburn tresses;
Of very ancient cut, in truth,
His gold and purple dress is.
Of marble-lovely graces;
A tunic fair and loop’d up high
Each slender form embraces.
And likewise plays his lyre;
The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,
And sets it all on fire.
The nun repeats the measure;
The cross scares not her blissful pain,
Nor checks her bitter pleasure.
2.
Revered in every nation;
In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,
My temple had its station.
On famed Parnassus’ mountain,
Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,
Beside Castalia’s fountain.{399}
And raised a vocal chorus;
They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!
While laughter floated o’er us.
From out the forest loudly;
There hunted Artemisia,
My little sister, proudly.
I can’t describe it neatly,—
From out Castalia’s fount, my lips
Burst into music sweetly.
O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;
I felt as if I Daphne spied
Behind the laurels peeping.
And lightly o’er me hover’d;
And the whole world around me seem’d
By a bright halo cover’d.
Have I been sadly banish’d;
Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land
Remain’d, though I have vanish’d.
3.
In the cloak with cap upon it
Of the coarsest blackest serge,
Is the youthful nun envelop’d.
Paces she adown the highway
On the road to Holland, asking
Eagerly of every passer:
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”{400}
Many turn their backs in silence,
Many stare upon her smiling,
Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”
Comes a slovenly old man;
Making figures in the air, he
Keeps on singing through his nose.
And a little hat three-corner’d,
And with sharp and smiling eyes he
Listens to the nun’s inquiry:
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”
Whilst his little head he waggled
Here and there, and comically
At his sharp beard kept on twitching:
“Yes, I certainly have seen him
“When at Amsterdam full often,
“In the German synagogue.
“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,
“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—
“But he’s not my idol truly.
“I remember; genuine scarlet,
“And the price per ell eight florins,—
“Not all paid for to this moment.
“Know I well; he’s circumciser
“To the Portuguese, I fancy,
“And to various sovereigns also.
“Of my sister’s husband, trading
“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,
“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.{401}
“On the lyre he plays not badly,
“But, I grieve to say, far better
“Plays he at taroc and ombre.
“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,
“And then travell’d round the country
“With some painted low comedians.
“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,
“Holofernes, or King David,
“But the latter most excell’d in.
“In the king’s own mother language,
“Giving all the proper quavers
“In the proper olden fashion.
“From the Amsterdam casino,
“And he’s travelling with these Muses
“Round the country as Apollo.
“Squeaking very much and grunting:
“On account of her green laurel
“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”
HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69]
Few monarchs are half so splendid;
In him a king the Bavarians revere,
From an ancient line descended.
For their portraits to sit, is his passion:
In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,
In eunuch-artistic fashion.
Near Ratisbon constructed,
And all the arrangements for every head
In his own royal person conducted.{402}
Where the merit of every man is
Set forth, with his character and his acts,
From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71]
Has no place in this proud mausoleum;
The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out
In a natural hist’ry museum.
Whenever sings or plays he,
Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:
“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”
Like his child, his little son, Otho,
Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece
(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).
At Rome by the holy Father;
A cat with ruffles a face like his
With its Glory will look like rather.
Are converted to Christianity,
They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,
In proof of their perfect sanity.
TWO KNIGHTS.
Poles in Poland born and bred,
Fought for their dear country’s freedom
’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.
Found at Paris a retreat;
Living, just as much as dying
For one’s fatherland, is sweet.
David and his Jonathan,
Loved the pair of Poles each other,
Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]
Both were faithful friends and true,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Born and bred in Poland too.
In the selfsame bed slept they,
And in noble emulation
Scratch’d themselves by night and day.
And as neither was content
That the other paid his reckoning,
Neither ever paid a cent.
Did the washing for the pair;
Humming, for their linen came she
Every month to wash and air.
Each one had two shirts, well-worn,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Poles in Poland bred and born.
Where the flames a bright glow cast;
Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,
And the coaches driving past.
Drain’d already and devour’d;
(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,
And unwater’d and unsour’d.)
Tears their furrow’d faces streak:
With a voice of deep emotion
Thus doth Crapulinski speak;
“My dear bearskin, my old cotton
“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,
“In my fatherland forgotten!”
“O thou art a driv’ller true;
“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,
“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.{404}
“Still our wives to sons give birth,
“And our girls will do so likewise,
“And produce us men of worth,
“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,
“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,
“And the mighty Eselinski.”
OUR MARINE.[73]
(A Nautical tale.)
And enjoy’d a sail delicious
Far over the wide and boundless sea,
The wind was quite propitious.
That we in our calendar reckon’d;
One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,
And Prutz[74] we christen’d the second.
Whereon was seen the figure
Of the Moorish king, which gazed below
Like a moon (but as black as a nigger).
A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;
On each of them stood a Swabian face,
Each holding a wooden lyre.
On its mast the escutcheon olden
Of the famous German Admiralty,
On tatters black-red-golden.
And bore ourselves like sailors;
Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,
And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.
As husbands kind and forbearing,
Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,
And, seaman-like, took to swearing.{405}
A naval victory splendid;
But when return’d the morning sun,
Both fleet and vision had ended.
Our limbs all over it sprawling;
We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,
The following wise speech bawling:
“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?
“When we sail round the world, at last we return
“To the point from which we started.”
THE GOLDEN CALF.
To the idol-dance inviting—
Round the golden calf with springing
All of Jacob’s daughters come—
Brum—brum—brum—
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Clasping hands together tightly,
Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,
Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,
Round the beast—
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Circling dance with motions crazy;
His concerns not looking after,
Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,
Like a goat—
Kettle drums and ringing laughter!
KING DAVID.
Knowing after their own death
That their slaves but change their master,
And, if anything, work faster.
They the waggons still must pull,
And their backs will soon be broken
If they heed not what is spoken.{406}
On his deathbed: “List, my son!
“My most dreaded foe of course is
“Joab, general of my forces.
“I have view’d with hate and fear;
“But, however I detest him,
“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.
“Fearing God, art strong enough;
“’Tis for thee an easy matter
“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”
KING RICHARD.
An eager horseman proudly;
He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings
Exultingly and loudly.
But stronger still is his bosom;
’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,
That Christian chivalry’s blossom.
“Exclaims with joyous assurance;
“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou
“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”
Like a newborn creature lives he;
He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,—
And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.
THE ASRA.
Sultan’s daughter at the cooling
Hour of evening to the fountain,
Where the waters white were plashing.
Stood the young slave at the fountain
Where the waters white were plashing,
Daily grew he pale and paler.{407}
And these sudden words address’d him:
“Thou must tell me what thy name is,
“And thy country and thy kindred!”
“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,
“And my race is of those Asras,
“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”
THE NUNS.
Passes, sees the windows brightly
Lighted up, for there the spectres
Make their gloomy circuit nightly.
In the sad and dark procession;
From the linen hoods are peeping
Faces young of sweet expression.
Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious
Strangely echo in the crossway
Whispers low, wails sad and serious.
Sitting on the wooden benches
Of the quire, their mournful chorus
Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches.
But the words are wild and shocking
They are poor and outcast spirits
At the heavenly portal knocking.
“But by love of earth were chainèd,
“And we render’d unto Cæsar
“Things that unto God pertainèd.
“And mustachios smooth and shining
“For the epaulettes of Cæsar
“Were our hearts in secret pining.{408}
“By our shameless ill behaviour,
“Which the crown of thorns once carried,—
“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.
“Softly wept o’er our transgression,
“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd
“‘For disgracing your profession!’
“We must wander in these dreary
“Walls, our folly to atone for,—
“Miserere! Miserere!
“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery
“In the glowing realms of heaven,—
“Miserere! Miserere!
“Our transgression sad and weary;
“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,—
“Miserere! Miserere!”
And a long-dead clerk is playing
On the organ. Hands of spirits
O’er the keys are wildly straying.
PALSGRAVINE JUTTA.
Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;
The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:
“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d
“That, seeking to find us,
“Are floating behind us?—
“So sadly are floating the corpses!
“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,
“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make
“That they their oaths should never break,
“I seized and bound them,
“And straightway drown’d them,—
“So sadly are floating the corpses!”{409}
Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;
From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,
And point with their fingers towards the sky,
In token of swearing,
With glassy eyes staring—
So sadly are floating the corpses!
THE MOORISH KING.
Went the youthful Moorish monarch;
Silent and with heart full mournful
Heading the procession rode he.
Or in golden litters riding,
Sat the women of his household;
Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.
Rode on noble Arab horses;
Haughty steeds, and yet the riders
Carelessly bestrode the saddles.
Not a single song resounded;
Silver bells upon the mules, though,
Echoed sadly in the silence.
Sweep across the Duero valley,
And Granada’s battlements
For the last time rise before one,
And he gazed upon the city
Glittering in the light of evening,
As though deck’d with gold and purple.
In the place of that dear crescent
Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard
On the tow’rs of the Alhambra.
Broke from out the monarch’s bosom;
Suddenly the tears ’gan falling
Like a torrent down his cheeks.{410}
Downward gazed the monarch’s mother,
Looking on her son’s affliction;
Proudly, bitterly, she chided:
“Like a woman thou bewailest
“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst
“To defend with manly courage.”
Heard these words, so harsh and cruel,
Hastily she left her litter,
Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.
“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!
“From the deep abyss of sorrow
“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.
“Not alone the proud triumphant
“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,
“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,
“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring
“Has succumb’d, will live for ever
“In the memory of mortals.”—
To this very moment call they
Yonder height from whence the monarch
For the last time saw Granada.
His beloved one’s prophecy,
And the Moorish monarch’s name is
Reverenced and held in honour.
Never, till the last chord’s broken
Of the last guitar remaining
In the land of Andalusia.
GEOFFRY RUDÈL AND MELISANDA OF TRIPOLI.
Tapestry the walls adorning,
Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’
Own fair hands, no labour scorning.
And with loving tears and tender
Hallow’d is the silken picture,
Which the following scene doth render:
Dying on the strand of ocean,
And the’ ideal in his features
Traced of all her heart’s emotion.
Living saw Rudèl and breathing
Her who in his every vision
Intertwining was and wreathing.
Lovingly his form she raises,
And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,
That so sweetly sang her praises.
Was the kiss of separation,
And they drain’d the cup of wildest
Joy, and deepest desolation.
Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking
On the tapestry the figures
Suddenly to life are waking.
Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,
And from out the wall advancing,
Up and down the hall they wander.
Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,
Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,
Minnesingers’ times recalling:{412}
“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,
“And I feel once more a glimmer
“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”
“Unto happiness and gladness,
“When I see thine eyes; dead only
“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”
“In our dreams; now, cut asunder
“By the hand of death, still love we,—
“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”
“What is death? Mere words to scare one!
“Truth in love alone e’er find we,
“And I love thee, ever fair one!”
“In this moonlit chamber nightly,
“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams
“I no more shall wander lightly.”
“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!
“Love and joys of May are budding,
“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”—
Up and down, and sweet caresses
Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight
Through the window’s arch’d recesses.
Scare away the fond illusion;
To the tapestry retreat they
On the wall, in shy confusion.
THE POET FERDUSI.
1.
When a fool about a thoman
Talks, of silver he is speaking,
And he means a silver thoman.{413}
Or a shah’s, a thoman’s always
Golden, for a shah will only
Give and take in golden thomans.
And Ferdusi thought so also,
The composer of the famous
And immortal work Schah Nameh.
At the Shah’s command composed he,
Who for every verse a thoman
Promised to bestow upon him.
Seventeen times did they wither,
And the nightingales sang sweetly
And were silent seventeen times,—
At the loom of thought, composing
Day and night, and nimbly weaving
His sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,—
Interwove with skill his country’s
Chronicles from times of fable,
Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,
Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,
Magic beings, hateful demons,
Intertwined with flowers of fable.
Bright with colours, glowing, burning,
With the heavenly rays illumin’d
From the sacred light of Iran,
Whose last pure and fiery temple,
Spite of Koran and of Mufti,
In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.
Then the manuscript the poet
Sent to his illustrious patron,
E’en two hundred thousand verses.{414}
In the bathing place at Gasna,
That the Shah’s black messengers
Found at last the bard Ferdusi.
Which before the poet’s feet he
Kneeling placed, to be the guerdon
To reward his minstrel labours.
Both the bags, his eyes to gladden
With the gold so long kept from him,—
When he saw with consternation
Silver only, silver thomans,
Some two hundred thousand of them;—
Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.
He divided in three equal
Portions, and a third part gave he
To the two black messengers,
For the message, and the third part
Gave he to the man who waited
On his bath, as drinking-money.
Grasp’d, and left at once the city,
And before the gate the dust he
From his very shoes rejected.
“Heedless of his words once spoken,
“And his promise merely broken,
“I had not been angry then.
“His deceit my heart amazes,
“Both his double-meaning phrases,
“And his silence, falser still.{415}
“Proud his gestures were, and stately;
“Other men excell’d he greatly,
“Every inch a king was he.
“As the sun in yonder heaven
“He, truth’s haughty image even—
“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”
3.
And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.
He sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,
His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.
Of luxuriant flowers appears to rush.
Stand fanning themselves the slender palms.
As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.
Is heard a gentle mysterious song.
“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”
Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”
“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”
“He has lived full long in a mournful state
“Where he in his garden works full hard.”
“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.
“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,
“With costly dresses and furniture fair
“With gold and silver tissues dight;
“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,
“That in my kingdom has ever been made.
“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,
“And eatables such as in pots we find,
“And gingerbread of every description.
“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,
“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.
“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.
“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”—
And loaded the camels and mules with the best
Was enough to make a whole province quite rich.
The palace, when some three days had past,
In front of the caravan he sped.
The town at the foot of the mountain lay.
And songs of triumph rang through the street.
The camel drivers were calling out.
Of Thus, at that moment chanced to wend
That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.
VOYAGE BY NIGHT.
With coyness, while rock’d the sea;
And when in the bark our places we took,
Our number then was three.
With sad monotony;
White foaming billows came with a roar,
And sprinkled all of us three.
As void of motion too,
As though she a marble statue were,
Diana’s image true.
With chilly blast on high;
When over our heads there suddenly rose
A wild and piercing cry.
And at that terrible cry,
Which fearfully rang like a warning call,
All three felt like to die.
Of nightly phantasy?
Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dream
Of wild buffoonery.
That I a Saviour am;
And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,
As gentle as a lamb.{418}
But soon I’ll set her free
From sin and shame and sorrow and pain,
And earthly misery.
Though bitter the medicine be;
Although my heart may break, I myself
Will mete out death to thee.
O madness fearful to see!
The night is yawning, the ocean yells—
O God, have mercy on me!
O merciful God! Schaddey![75]
A Something falls in the sea—Alas!
Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]
Sweet smiled the spring to the view;
And when at length we left the bark,
Our number then was two.
THE PRELUDE.
This indeed the new world is!
Not the present, which already
Europeanized, is with’ring.—
As by Christopher Columbus
From the ocean extricated;
In its billowy freshness gleams it,
Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,
When the sunlight fair it kisses.
O how healthy this new world is!
’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,
All made up of mouldy symbols,
And of petrified perukes.{419}
Healthy trees, and none amongst them
Blasé is, or has consumption
Eating up its spinal marrow.
Mighty birds. Of chequer’d colours
Is their plumage. With their solemn
Lengthy beaks, and eyes encircled
They in silence gaze upon thee,
Till they shriek with sudden clamour
And like washerwomen chatter.
Notwithstanding that I’m learned
In birds’ tongues as Solomon,
Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,
Not the modern ones alone,
But all dialects whatever,
Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.
New the flowers and new the fragrance!
Fragrance wild, and never heard of,
Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,
And my subtle sense of smelling
Racks itself with meditating:
“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?
“In the sunny arms so yellow
“Of that Javanese thin woman
“Who was always eating flowers?
“Near the Column of Erasmus,
“In the wafer-shop notorious
“With its most mysterious curtain?”
The new world was contemplating,
Seeming to instil into it
Still more bashfulness,—a monkey,{420}
Cross’d himself at my appearance,
Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!
“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”—
“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;
“Life within my veins is boiling,
“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.
“With the dead, have I adopted
“Dead men’s manners very likely,
“And peculiar ways of thinking.
“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,
“In the Venusberg, and other
“Catacombs of the Romantic.
“Thee I like, for on thy hairless
“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters
“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”—
Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,
Sorrowfully they remind me
Of the flag of Barbarossa.
VITZLIPUTZLI.
1.
And upon his boots there glitter’d
Golden spurs,—but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of—Cortez.
Wrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.{421}
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world’s proud Pantheon.
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity’s long ages
Such a name in comradeship?
Was a hero,—and his temper,
That was pure as e’en the sunlight,
Was as gen’rous in addition.
But Columbus to the world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And ’tis call’d America.
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And our heavy chain to lengthen.
Being, not of Europe only,
But of Africa and Asia,
Equally quite sick and weary.
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus—that one mean I
Who a God bestow’d upon us.
And his mother’s Jochebed,
And himself, his name was Moses,
And he is my greatest hero.
Far too long with this Columbus;
Know thou that our flight to-day is
With the lesser man,—with Cortez.{422}
Wingèd steed! and carry me
To the new world’s beauteous country
That they Mexico entitle.
Which the monarch Montezuma
Kindly offer’d to his Spanish
Guests, to be their habitation.
In extravagant profusion
Gave the prince these foreign strollers,—
Presents rich and precious also,
All of massive gold, and jewels,
Bear gay witness to the monarch’s
Generosity and favour.
Superstitious, blinded heathen
Still believed in faith and honour,
And the sacredness of guest-right.
To be present at a banquet
That the Spaniards in their castle
Wish’d to give, to do him honour.
Came the inoffensive monarch
Kindly to the Spanish quarters,
Where by trumpets he was greeted.
Know I not. ’Twas very likely
“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’s
Name was Don Fernando Cortez.
They attack’d the peaceful monarch,
And they bound him and retain’d him
In the castle as a hostage.
And the dam was broken down
Which the bold adventurers
From the people’s wrath protected.{423}
Like a wild and furious ocean
Raved and bluster’d ever nearer
The excited human billows.
Drove the tempest back. But daily
Was the castle fresh blockaded,
And the conflict was exhausting.
Of provisions ceased entirely;
In proportion as the rations
Shorter grew, each face grew longer.
Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness,
And they sigh’d, when they bethought them
Of their cosy Christian dwellings
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And upon the hearth there bubbled
Peaceful olla podridas,
Under which, with waggish fragrance
Chuckling famously, were hidden
Those dear garlic sausages.
And upon retreat decided;
On the following morn at daybreak
Was the force to leave the city.
Cunningly to gain an entrance,
But retreat to terra firma
Offer’d fatal obstacles.
In a mighty lake is founded,
In the middle, wave-surrounded:
E’en a haughty water fortress,
But by ships and rafts and bridges,
Which repose on piles gigantic,
Little islands forming forts.{424}
That their march began the Spaniards
Not a single drum was beaten,
Not a trumpeter was blowing.
From their quiet sleep their hosts—
(For a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamp’d in Mexico).
Reckon’d, when his plans he settled;
For the Mexicans had risen
Earlier still to-day than he had.
On the forts they all were waiting,
That they to their guests might offer
Then and there the parting cup.
Ha! a frantic banquet follow’d;
In red torrents stream’d the blood,
And the bold carousers struggled,—
And we see on many naked
Indian breasts the arabesque
Of the Spanish arms imprinted.
And a butchery that slowly,
Sadly slowly, roll’d still onward
Over rafts and forts and bridges.
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.
Small to-day the’ advantage lying
In old Europe’s strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.
With the gold were heavy laden,
Lately captured or extorted—
Ah! that yellow load of sin{425}
And the devilish metal proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.
With canoes and barks was cover’d;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin’s image.
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart,—bright arrows,
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday’s sad procession.
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez
He, the leader, and he bore it
On his steed till tow’rd the evening,
When the fight at length was over.
Fell, and sixty in addition;
Eighty more alive were taken
By the Indians’ cruel hands.
Who ere long their breath surrender’d
And a dozen horses, too, were
Partly kill’d and partly captured.{426}
Just at evening gain’d the shelter
Of the shore, a seacoast planted
Niggardly with weeping willows.
2.
Comes the frantic night of triumph
So in Mexico a hundred
Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;
Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,
Throw a light as clear as daylight
Over palaces and temples,
Vitzliputzli’s splendid temple,
Idol-fortress built of red brick,
Strangely like the old Egyptian,
Monster buildings so colossal,
As we see them in the pictures
Of the English Henry Martin.[77]
So exceeding broad, that on it
Many thousand Mexicans
Up and down are walking freely,
Mighty troops of savage warriors,
Banqueting in joyous fashion,
Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.
Like a zigzag to the platform,
By a balustrade surrounded
At the summit of the temple.
Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli,
Mexico’s bloodthirsty wargod.—
He is but an evil monster,{427}
Full of carvings, and so childish,
That despite our inward horror
It must needs excite our laughter.
Brought to mind a combination
Of the “Dance of Death” at Basle,
And the Mannekin at Brussels.
Station’d, on his right the people;
Ornaments of colour’d feathers
Are to-day the former wearing.
Squats a man a hundred years old;
On his chin and skull no hair is,
And he wears a scarlet waistcoat.
And his bloody knife he’s whetting;
As he whets, he grins, and ofttimes
Leers upon the god above him.
Of his servant to appreciate,
And he twitches every eyelash,
And his lips at times he twitches.
The musicians of the temple,
Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers—
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
And the Mexican Te Deum
Rises up in noisy chorus,
As if many cats were mewing—
But of that enlarged description
Which are “tiger-cats” entitled,
And, instead of mice, eat people!
These loud noises to the seashore,
The poor Spaniards there encamping
Feel sensations far from pleasant.{428}
Are the Spaniards still remaining,
Gazing tow’rd the distant city
Which within the dark sea water
All the flames of former pleasure—
There they stand, as in the pit
Of a vast gigantic playhouse,
Platform serving as the stage
Where they act a tragic myst’ry
To commemorate their triumph.
Old, full old, its plot, its fable;
But the piece is not so fearful
In the Christian treatment of it.
And into the actual body
Is a thin and harmless wafer
Transubstantiated truly.
Was the joke in downright earnest
Taken up; they fed on flesh,
And the blood was human blood.
Of old Christians, which had never
Never mingled with the baser
Blood of Jews or of Moriscos.
For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,
And thou mayst refresh thy nostrils
With its warm scent greedily.
On this day to do thee honour—
Proud repast to grace the table
Of thy priests, who flesh delight in.
And poor man, unhappy glutton,
Cannot, like the gods, live only
On sweet smells and savoury odours.{429}
And the evil cowhorn screeches!
They proclaim the’ approaching advent
Of the victims’ sad procession.
With their hands securely fasten’d
To their backs, are harshly driven
Up the temple’s lofty staircase.
They must bow the knee right humbly,
And must dance the wildest dances,
Forcibly constrain’d by tortures,
That their madden’d screams of anguish
Overpow’r the whole collective
Cannibals’ wild charivari.
Cortez and his warlike comrades
But too plainly could distinguish
All their friends’ loud cries of torment.
They could see, alas! too plainly,
Every figure, every gesture,—
See the knife and see the blood.
Silently they took, and kneeling,
Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,
And they sang the De Profundis.
Was young Raimond de Mendoza,
Offspring of the lovely abbess,
Cortez’ first and youthful love.
Saw the well-remember’d locket
Which enclosed his mother’s portrait,
Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez—
With his buffalo’s hard gauntlet—
Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorus
With the others: Miserere!
3.
And the morning mists are rising
From the ocean-flood, like spirits
Dragging their white shrouds behind them.
In the temple of the idol,
Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement,
Priest and laity lie snoring.
By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer,
Sickly grinning, grimly jesting,
Thus the priest his god addresses:
“Darling god, my Vitzliputzli!
“Thou to-day hast had amusement,
“And has smelt a fragrant odour!
“O how savourily steam’d it!
“And thy fine and dainty nostrils
“Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!
“Neighing noble monsters are they,
“Offspring of the tempest spirits’
“Amorous toying with the seacow.
“In thine honour my two grandsons,
“Pretty children,—sweet their blood is,—
“My old age’s only pleasure.
“And must grant us further triumphs,
“Let us conquer, darling godhead,
“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!
“All these strangers who from distant
“And still undiscover’d countries
“Hither came across the ocean—
“Was it crime or hunger drove them?
“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’
“Is a sensible old proverb.{431}
“Stick they in their greedy pockets,
“And they wish us to be happy—
“So they tell us,—in the heavens!
“Beings of a higher order,
“Children of the Sun, immortal,
“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.
“As ourselves; my knife to-night has
“Proved beyond all doubt and question
“Their extreme mortality.
“Than ourselves, and many of them
“Are as ugly as the monkeys,
“And their faces, like the latter,
“Many of them carry hidden
“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for
“Those not monkeys need no breeches.
“And of piety know nothing,
“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d
“Their own deities to swallow!
“Wicked brood, these god-devourers—
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,
“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”—
And the god’s reply resounded
Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind
Toying with the ocean sedges:
“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,—
“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now
“In thine own old worn-out body!
“Will thy spirit make its exit,
“Over roots and over pebbles
“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.{432}
“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:
“‘So good morning, naked spirit!
“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?
“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?
“‘Does good fortune from his forehead
“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?
“‘Hated goddess of all evil,
“‘With her black paws made of iron,
“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’
“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,
“‘And a pestilence he wishes
“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!
“‘And thy counsel was destruction;
“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil
“‘Old and mournful prophecy
“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,
“‘Who on wooden birds all flying
“‘From the Eastern land come hither.
“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise—
“‘And the God’s will is redoubled
“‘When the woman is his mother.
“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,
“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,
“‘Working charms and versed in magic.
“‘And we all at length must perish,
“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,
“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’—
Red-coat, let thy naked spirit
In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly
Out of sight of all my misery.{433}
“I myself shall in its ruins
“Disappear,—mere dust and rubbish,—
“No one e’er again will see me.
“Grow as old as do the parrots,
“And we cast our skins, and like them
“Only change at times our feathers.
“Which they give the name of Europe
“I shall fly away, beginning
“There a really new career.
“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;
“As my foemen’s evil spirit
“I can work as best may suit me.
“And alarm them all with phantoms;
“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,
“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.
“I’ll allure with my seductions;
“And their virtue will I tickle
“Till it laughs like any strumpet.
“And salute as my dear comrades
“Satanas and Belial with him,
“Astaroth and Beelzebub.
“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent
“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,
“And the charming art of lying!
BOOK II.—LAMENTATIONS.
And in one place will never stay;
The hair from off thy face with kisses
She strokes, and then she flies away.
To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;
She says she’s in a hurry never,
Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
WOOD SOLITUDE.
I wore a garland my brow adorning;
How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!
The garland was fill’d with a magical power.
Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;
I fled from the envy of mortals rude,
I fled to the wood’s green solitude.
With spirits and beasts was my sole employment.
The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,
Without any fear approach’d me all.
In this they knew they committed no error;
That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,
That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.
But how the remaining gentry of station
That lived in the forest treated me well,
I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.
That airy race, with their charming gabble!
’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,
The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.{435}
And tales of the court narrated they slily,
For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’en
Of lovely Titania, the faery queen.
Rose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,
With long silver veils and fluttering hair,
The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!
And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;
The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,
Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.
The noise that they made; these elfins charming
Before my feet lay quietly,
Their heads reclining on my knee.
I’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;
A hymn of praise they sang also with grace
On me and my noble human face.
Many critical matters inquiring after,
For instance: “On what particular plan
“Did God determine on fashioning man?
“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,
“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass
“That almost every man is an ass?”
And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)
Was not in the slightest degree ever hurt
By the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.
Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,
Which love to help man. I prefer most of all
The race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.
Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;
I let them not see that I had descried
Why they their feet so carefully hide.{436}
And fancy that nobody else can know it;
Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,
That to teaze them about it I never could dare.
We all have something that needs concealing;
No Christians, we fancy, have ever descried
Where we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.
I learnt very little respecting their actions
From other wood spirits. They pass’d me by night
Like fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.
With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,
Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;
Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.
The head of each of their number doth cover;
The whole of these vain conceited elves
Quite absolute monarchs consider themselves.
A great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;
And yet the uninflammable wight
Is far from being a true fire-sprite.
Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;
They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,
But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.
They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;
But as my welfare they always have sought,
Their origin really to me matters nought.
How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,
And also to pluck on Midsummer night
The root that makes one invisible quite.
To ride on the winds without any saddle,
And Runic sentences, able to call
The dead from out of their silent graves all.{437}
That serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,
And makes him give us the spurge, to show
Where secret treasures are hidden below.
When digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;
But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heart
The treasure-digger’s wonderful art.
My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;
I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,
The income from which came duly to hand.
With fiddles were hung, when elfin marches
And nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad play
My story-drunk heart enchanted all day!
Triumphal arches the foliage delicious
Appear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,
My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.
And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;
And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fair
That I was then wont on my head to wear.
But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;
Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,
My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.
Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,
A churchyard blue, its deities gone;
I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.
Horns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;
While hid in the thicket, the trembling roe
Is licking her wounds with tearful woe.
In clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;
My dear little friends, I’m returning again,
But reft of my garland and joy I remain.{438}
First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?
The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’d
Stands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.
Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,
As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,
While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.
She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,
And then she fled with a terrified mien,
As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
SPANISH LYRICS.
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty—
That the king a banquet gave us
In the castle at Segovia.
Everywhere, and at the tables
Of all princes sov’reign tedium
Yawns with uncontested vigour.
Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.{439}
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava’s order.
Would forgive him, was his glory,—
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald—
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit’s image.
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne’er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel’s staring hardness
Seem’d reflected in them likewise.
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.{440}
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world,—unhappy prince!
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.
Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang,—a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox’s it resembled.
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.
Talisman fidelity;
Never did the faithful creature
Leave the side of his dear master.
It excites my startled feelings,
When I think how ’twas made public
Here, before our frighten’d presence.
Here, within this hall, it happen’d,
And as I to-day am sitting,
At the monarch’s table sat I.
Where to-day young Don Henrico
Gaily tipples with the flower
Of Castilian chivalry,{441}
Darkly silent, and beside him,
Proudly radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.
Here to-day we see the lady
With the linen frill capacious,
Like a white plate in appearance.
With a smile of sour complexion,
Like the citron that is lying
On the plate already mention’d,—
Was a place remaining empty;
Some great guest of lofty station
Seem’d the golden seat to wait for.
Whom the golden seat was destined;
Yet he came not,—ah! now know we
But too well why thus he tarried.
Deed of blood was consummated,
And the innocent young hero
Suddenly attack’d and basely
Tightly bound, and quickly hurried
To a dreary castle dungeon
Lighted only by some torches.
And their bloody chief was with them,
Who, upon his axe while leaning,
Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:
“Now must thou for death prepare thee;
“Just one quarter of an hour
“Still is left for thee to pray in.”
And he pray’d with pious calmness,
And then said: “I now have finish’d,”
And received the stroke of death.{442}
That the head roll’d on the pavement,
Faithful Allan, who had follow’d
All unseen, sprang quickly to it.
By the long luxuriant tresses,
And with this much valued booty
Shot away with speed of magic.
Everywhere as on he hasten’d,
Through the passages and chambers,
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.
Never company at table
Was so utterly confounded
As was ours that fill’d this hall then,
With the head of Don Fredrego,
Which he with his teeth was dragging
By the dripping bloody tresses.
For his master, still was empty,
Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff
Held the head before our faces.
Hero’s features, but still paler
And more solemn now when dead,
And all-fearfully encircled
Which stood up as did the savage
Serpent-headdress of Medusa,
Turning into stone through terror.
Wildly stared we on each other,
And each tongue was mute and palsied
Both by etiquette and horror.
Broke the universal silence;
Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,
She forebodingly lamented:{443}
“Brought about this cruel murder;
“Rancour will assail my children,
“My poor innocent young children!—”
At this place his tale, observing
That the company had risen,
And the court the hall was leaving.
Then the knight became my escort,
And we rambled on together
Through the ancient Gothic castle.
To the kennels of the monarch,
Which proclaimed themselves already
By far growling sounds and yelpings,
In the wall, and on the outside
Firmly fasten’d by strong iron,
Like a cage, a narrow cell.
Figures, two young boys appearing;
By the legs securely fetter’d,
On the dirty straw they squatted.
Scarcely older seem’d the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.
And their wither’d bodies offer’d
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.
They upon me turn’d their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.
I exclaim’d, with hasty action
Don Diego’s hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch’d it.{444}
Look’d if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming
A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:
Early orphan’d, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown’s oppressive burden,
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico’s victor-kindness
Also reach’d his brother’s children.
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres’ self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,{445}
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward.—
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach’d us, and politely
Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—
THE EX-LIVING ONE.
The watchman, the crier nightly,
Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee
Used to ramble in converse sprightly?
Where the darksome clouds were scudding;
A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,
That in your bosoms were budding.
No longer he thinks of destroying;
By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he
As a reader to tyrants employing.
“Shortsighted as every poet;
“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,
“But his object’s to kill him,—I know it.{446}
“A dagger is each line in it;
“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,
“May die of ennui any minute.”
THE EX-WATCHMAN.
With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,
And as play-director started
In fair Munich’s city next.
And they in perfection here,
In this fancy-stirring city,
Brew the very best of beer.
Rambles, like a Dante, glum,
Melancholy as a spectre,
Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.
Nor the very worst of rhyme;
Wretched tragedies oft reads he,
Not once smiling all the time.
She will cheer his sorrowing heart;
But his coat of mail soon shatters
Every love-directed dart.
To enliven him and sing:
“In thy life rejoice thee ever,
“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”
In this fair and charming town,
Which, among its many merits,
Boasts such men of great renown?
Lost full many a man of worth
Whom we miss and valued greatly,
Chorus-leaders and so forth.{447}
He would surely have some day
By his antics strange but clever
Driven all thy cares away.
And can never be replaced,
A philosopher mysterious,
And a mimic highly graced.
Went away, and left behind
All his manuscripts,—by Allah!
That was really too unkind!
All his pupils whatsoe’er;
They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,
And their strength was in their hair
In their hair some magic springs,
And it seem’d, as if enchanted,
To be full of living things.
Priest, as Dollingerius known,—
That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—
Has he from the Isar flown?
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,—
Strike away as formerly!
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.
Into full and active play;
Vulgar be the monks or gentle,
If they’re monks, then strike away!
Both his hands he thus replied:
My long legs, so apt at springing,
Are with Europe stupified.
Tight the German shoes I’ve on;
Where the shoe is pinching badly
Know I now,—so pray begone!
MYTHOLOGY.
Who could stand against a bull?
Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder
Golden rain made her a fool!
For she innocently thought
That a heavenly cloud ideal
Could not injure her in aught.
Really stirs up all our spleen;
Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,
IN MATILDA’S ALBUM.
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
TO THE YOUNG.
Of golden apples that lie in thy way!
The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,
But they cannot long the hero delay.
An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!
Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling
In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.
The bed of Darius of old, and his crown;
O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!
To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
THE UNBELIEVER.
With rapturous emotion
My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills
At this delicious notion.
Whilst with thy fair gold tresses
I sport, and thy dear darling head
My shoulder gently presses!
To truth will turn my vision,
And here on earth shall I enjoy
The highest bliss elysian.
The fact, my doubts will linger
Until upon my rapture’s wounds
I lay my eager finger.
WHITHER NOW?
Fain to Germany would guide me;
But my reason shakes its head
Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:
“But they still keep up courts-martial,
“And to writing things esteem’d
“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”
Has for me no great attractions;
I’m no hero, and unskill’d
In pathetic words and actions.
View’d I not with such displeasure
Englishmen and coals—their smell
Makes me sick beyond all measure.
I would sail the broad seas over;
To that place of freedom where
All alike may live in clover,{451}
Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,
Where they never use spittoons,
And so strangely play at skittles.
Might be tolerably pleasant,
But I should not like the knout
That’s their usual winter present.
Where the countless stars are gleaming,
But I nowhere can discern
Where my own bright star is beaming.
It has got benighted lately,
As I on this bustling earth
Have myself been wandering greatly.
AN OLD SONG.
The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;
Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,
And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.
I bore thee myself to the grave outright;
The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,
And after us follow’d the bright constellations.
They made it resound with the litany’s song;
The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,
The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.
The elfins were dancing full in our view;
They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,
And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.
From out of the heavens descended the moon,
And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condoling
While in the distance the bells were tolling.
READY MONEY.
One day told the god Apollo
She on guarantees insisted,
For the times were false and hollow.
“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,
“And thou speakest like a usurer
“Who on pawn lends money duly.
“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;
“Prythee say how many kisses
“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
THE OLD ROSE.
Was a rosebud fair and tender;
Yet it ever grew more sweet,
Bursting into full-blown splendour.
And to pluck it I bethought me;
But it stung me piquantly
With its thorns, and prudence taught me.
By the wind and tempests shatter’d,
“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,
And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.
Calleth she with ceaseless din now;
If a thorn is anywhere,
’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.
On the chin’s warts of my beauty!
Either to a convent go,
Or to shave will be thy duty.
AUTO-DA-FÉ.
And this faded ribbon blue,
Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,
And these half-torn billets-doux,—{453}
In the blazing fire I throw;
Sadly crackle up these relics
Of my happiness and woe.
Broken oaths all upwards fly
In the chimney, while in secret
Cupid laughs maliciously.
Sit I, while the sparkles bright
Glow in silence midst the ashes,—
So farewell! good night! good night!
LAZARUS.
1. THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
Finds his wealth increasing faster;
Who but little, is of all
Soon bereft by some disaster.
Go and hang thyself this minute;
Only they who’ve aught on earth
Have a claim for living in it.
2. RETROSPECT.
In this delightful kitchen of earth;
Each thing that the world contains that’s delicious
Have I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;
I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,
And many a charming doll caress’d,
Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,
And had my pockets well lined with notes;
The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,
Had house and castle all à-la-mode.
On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,
While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,
A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,
And through my brain sweet visions raced,
Sweet visions of endless May and flowers—
How happily fleeted then the hours,{454}
So dim and hazy, so full of repose,—
My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,
And angels came, and out of their pockets
The champagne bottles flew like rockets,—
Bright visions were these,—soap-bubbles, alas!
They burst,—and I lie on the humid grass;
My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,
My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.
Alas! each pleasure and gratification
I bought at the price of bitter vexation;
I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,
The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;
Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrow
I needs must lie, and I needs must borrow
From wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,
I even believe that I begg’d for a while.
And now I would finish this wearisome race,
And find in the grave a resting-place.
Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,
Once more we may hope to meet with each other.
3. RESURRECTION.
As though it summon’d to battle;
From out of their graves the dead arise,
Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.
The spectres white are all driven
To Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,
Where judgment is now to be given.
By all his apostles surrounded;
Assessors are they,—each judgment, each word
On love and wisdom is founded.
For every mask is seen falling
In the radiant light of the judgment day,
At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.
The whole of the troop is united,
And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,
I’ve the summary only recited:{455}
The parting is quickly effected;
For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,
And hell for the goats is selected.
4. THE DYING ONE.
Thou return’st in piteous plight;
German truth and German shirt
Strangers draggle through the dirt.
But take comfort, thou’rt at home;
Warm as by the household hearth
Lie we under German earth.
Home again, alas! ne’er came,
Though they yearningly implored,—
O have pity, gracious Lord!
5. RASCALITY.
By open, barefaced flattery;
Money is flat, my worthy son,
And needs must flatly flatter’d be.
Before all worshipp’d golden calves:
In dust and mire with meekness kneel,
And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.
Fine words we lavish all in vain;
Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,
And earn a bellyful again.
6. RETROSPECT.
O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]
Beneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
They buried him under a grave of May flowers,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
7. IMPERFECTION.
The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;
Methinks the angels, who for our protection
Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.
Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;
Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be
Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby.
A woman may be witty and discreet,
And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,
Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.
Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en
The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;
Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).
As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;
Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,
And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.{457}
When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;
Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,
And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.
Faultless art not, nor free from failings now.
“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,—
A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!
8. PIOUS WARNING.
Immortal spirit, beware thee
Lest dangers seek to ensnare thee;
Through death and night conducteth the road.
Of the city of light are collected;
Here actions and deeds are respected,
Mere name and station avail no more.
His shoes so heavy and dusty;
O enter with confidence trusty,
Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.
9. THE COOLED-DOWN ONE.
Within the tomb; distress’d am I,
Yes, sad am I that resurrection
Delays so long to give perfection.
Is quench’d, before this weary strife
Is o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,
Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.
With eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;
No more I relish the advances
Of wild brunettes with burning glances.
Prefer tumultuous love in truth.
With them excitement’s all the fashion,
And soul-enthralling mutual passion.{458}
As I, alas! am at this hour,
I fain once more would love in quiet,
And happy be,—without a riot.
10. SOLOMON.
By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,
Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,
On either side six thousand in number.
And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,
From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightly
Twelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.
The angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeper
Grows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,
And soon his lips are gently calling:
“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,
“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,
“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”
11. LOST WISHES.
Like a brother link’d to brother,
We unconsciously were ever
Growing fonder of each other.
Just as if we were omniscient;
Words, in fact, we found superfluous,
And a look was quite sufficient.
Revelling in peace and plenty,
As my staunch and valiant comrade
In a dolce far niente!
Was the aim of each endeavour;
Everything that gave thee pleasure,
To accomplish sought I ever.{459}
Neither would I touch the dishes
Thou didst hate, and even smoking
I commenced, to meet thy wishes.
That thy merriment excited,
In a strange and Jewish accent
To repeat I then delighted.
Leave my foreign habitation,
And beside thy fortune’s fireplace
Take for evermore my station.
Like my life they all have vanish’d;
On the ground I now am lying,
Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.
Where my darling hopes once centred!
Ah! the blow was far too deadly
That my inmost heart has enter’d.
12. THE ANNIVERSARY.
Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,
When the day I died returneth,—
Nothing will be sung or utter’d.
If the weather has not chill’d her,
On a visit to Montmartre
With Pauline will go Matilda.
Deck my grave in foreign fashion,
Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadly
Drop a tear of fond compassion.
And, alas! no chair have ready
For my darling’s use to offer,
As she walks with foot unsteady.{460}
Home on foot, I must implore thee;
At the barrier gate is standing
A fiacre all ready for thee.
13. MEETING AGAIN.
We sat once more at the window lonely;
The moon arose with life-giving power,
But we appear’d two spectres only.
When we on this spot had sat together;
Each tender glow, each loving persuasion
Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.
Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes
Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour
To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.
With evil thoughts, the story disclosing
How hardly she once her virtue defended,—
I stupidly listened to all her prosing.
Like spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;
Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,
Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.
14. MRS. CARE.
The gnats around me danced all day,
Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,
And all, in fashion brotherly,
My viands with me tasted,
And my last penny wasted.
My friends have left for better for worse,
Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,
Around me the gnats no longer play;
My friends and the gnats together
Have gone with the sunny weather.
Old Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;{461}
She wears a habit that’s white enough,
A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.
The box is harshly creaking,
As the woman a pinch is seeking.
Of bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,
And friendship, and all the gnats as well,—
When creaks the snuffbox,—and, sad to tell,
The bubble is straightway breaking,
While the nurse her snuff is taking.
15. TO THE ANGELS.
He comes upon his pale-white steed.
I hear its tread, I hear its trot,
The dusky horseman spares me not;
He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,—
This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.
And when I quit this mortal life
An orphan’d widow will she be!
I leave alone on earth’s wide sea
The wife, the child, who, trusting to my guiding
Slept on my bosom, careless and confiding.
Receive my sobs, receive my prayer!
When I am buried, from above
Protect the woman that I love!
Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,
Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!
Over men’s woes in pity true,—
By that dread word that priests alone
Know, and ne’er breathe without a groan,
By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,
Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!
16. IN OCTOBER 1849.
And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,
And Germany, that o’ergrown child,
Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.{462}
All things beyond are false and hollow,
And to the house’s gable too,
Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.
With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;
But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?
It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.
Some madcap they have overtaken;
(All do not flight well understand
Like Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).
Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?
Or Sontag rising from the tomb
Greeted, by rockets showering down upon her?
He lives, he lies not dead and gory
On some Hungarian battle-plain,
Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.
And Hungary to death is bleeding—
Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,
His sword a quiet life at home is leading.
Of the Hungarian war devoutly
He’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,
“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”
My German waistcoat grows too narrow;
Beneath it foams a raging sea,
The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.
The hero-legend’s strains enthralling,
The wild and iron martial song,
The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.{463}
’Tis still the same old noble stories;
The names are changed, the natures not,—
’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.
However proudly flaunts the banner,
The hero, as in days of yore,
Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.
In firm alliance are united;
Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,
Still more have all our German hopes been blighted.
Who have in fight become thy masters,
We have, alas! become the prey
Of wolves, swine, dogs,—so great are our disasters.
Is such, I fain would do without it;—
But, Poet, hush!—it were as well,
Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
17. EVIL DREAMS.
Near the old country house that used to stand
Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,
Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.
With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;
On her small feet how firmly was she planted,
A form where elegance with vigour vies!
Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;
Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,
Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.
I wander not, my reason’s in command;
Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me
She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.{464}
I gave it her, and then these words address’d:
“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,
“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”
For presently I woke,—and now lie here
In my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever—
As I have hopeless lain for many a year.
18. IT GOES OUT.
And all the audience go away;
And did the piece give satisfaction?
Methinks they found it of attraction.
A much-respected public then
Its poet thankfully commended;
But now the house is hush’d again,
And lights and merriment are ended.
Hard by the empty stage’s middle!
It was perchance the bursting twang
Of the worn string of some old fiddle.
With rustling noise across the pit
Some nasty rats like shadows flit,
And rancid oil all places smell of,
And the last lamp, with groans and sighs
Despairing, then goes out and dies.—
My soul was this poor light I tell of.
19. THE WILL.
Here’s my will and testament,
Giving every foe a present,
As a Christian finds it pleasant:
Have my sickness as their guerdon,
All that makes my life a burden,—
All my wretched pangs inherit.
Which my belly tweaks in frolic,—
Strangury and these perfidious
Prussian piles so sharp and hideous.{465}
Pains in joints, and salivation,
Pains in back, and inflammation,—
Every one the gift of heaven.
Lord! that wretched herd demolish,
And their very name abolish,
As they in their vileness wallow.
20. ENFANT PERDU.
Stoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;
Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought I
Safe and uninjured home to see again.
As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;
(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,
I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)
And fear as well,—(’tis fools who never fear;)
To scare them, I delighted to regale me
With whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.
If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,
I took a careful aim, and laid him gasping
With a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.
This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,
Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,
My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.
One falls, the others follow in his wake;
Unvanquish’d fall I,—from my hands escaping
My arms break not, my heart alone doth break.
BOOK III.—HEBREW MELODIES
Without tasting life’s blisses;
And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,
Let it fly, for it misses.
To grasp her, forth sally;
Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,
But down in the valley.
PRINCESS SABBATH.
Read we of enchanted princes,
Who from time to time recover’d
Their once handsome pristine features;
To a king’s son is converted,
Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,
And the flute divinely playing.
And once more and of a sudden
We behold his royal highness
Changed into a shaggy monster.
Sings my song. His name is Israel,
And a witch’s art has changed him
To the figure of a dog.
All the week his time he muddles
Through life’s filthiness and sweepings,
To the scavengers’ derision.
Just at twilight, the enchantment
Ceases suddenly,—the dog
Once more is a human being.{467}
With his head and breast raised proudly
Dress’d in festival attire,
His paternal halls he enters.
“Of my gracious regal father!
“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy
“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”
Goes a whispering and buzzing,
And the unseen master of it
Shudd’ring breathes amid the silence,—
(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)
Here and there with vigour springing,
As the lamps he seeks to kindle.
How they glitter, how they glimmer!
Proudly also flare the tapers
On the rails of the Almemor.
Is preserved, and which is cover’d
With the costly silken cov’ring
That with precious jewels sparkles,—
Stands prepared the parish minstrel,
Dandy little man, who shoulders
His black cloak coquettishly.
At his neck he works, his finger
Pressing strangely to his temple,
And his thumb against his throat.
Till at length his voice he raises
Joyfully, and loudly sings he
“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
“Loved one, come! the bride already
“Waiteth for thee, to uncover
“To thy face her blushing features!”{468}
Was composed by the illustrious
Far and wide known Minnesinger
Don Jehuda ben Halevy.
The espousals of Prince Israel
With the lovely Princess Sabbath,
Whom they call the silent princess.
Is the Princess. Fairer never
Was the famous queen of Sheba,
Solomon’s old bosom-friend,
Who with her esprit would dazzle,
And with all her clever riddles
Was, I fear, extremely tedious.
Peace itself personified,
Held in utter detestation
All debates and wit-encounters.
And declamatory passion,—
All that pathos which with flowing
And dishevell’d hair storms wildly.
In her hood conceals her tresses;
Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,
Slender as an Addas blooms she.
Save this one,—tobacco-smoking:
“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,
“For to-day the Sabbath is.
“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,
“Which is perfectly delicious—
“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”
“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]
Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,
Had he ever tasted Schalet.{469}
Which the Lord Himself taught Moses
How to cook, when on that visit
To the summit of Mount Sinai,
Every good religious doctrine
And the holy ten commandments
Publish’d in a storm of lightning.
That the food of heaven composes—
Is the bread of Paradise;
And compared with food so glorious,
Heathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’d
And were naught but muffled devils,
Was but wretched devil’s dung.
Gleams his eye as if transfigured,
And his waistcoat he unbuttons,
And he speaks with smiles of rapture:
“Is it not the gushing fountains
“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,
“Where the camels have their station?
“Is it not the well-fed wethers
“Whom the herdsman drives at evening
“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”
As with long and shadowy legs
Hastens on the fell enchantment’s
Evil hour, the prince sighs sadly,
Icy witches’ fingers grappled;
He’s pervaded by the fear of
Canine metamorphosis.
Her own golden box of spikenard;
Long he smells, once more desiring
To find comfort in sweet odours.{470}
Gives the prince—He hastily
Drinks, and in the goblet only
Some few drops are left untasted.
Then he takes a little waxlight,
And he dips it in the moisture
Till it crackles and goes out.
JEHUDA BEN HALEVY
A Fragment.
1.
“Should forget thee, let my tongue
“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also
“My right hand forget her cunning—”
In my head to-day unceasing,
And methinks I hear sweet voices
Singing psalms, sweet human voices.
Beards of shadowy-long proportions;
Say, ye phantoms, which amongst you
Is Jehuda ben Halevy?
Spirits ever shun with terror
Exhortations of the living—
But I recognized him well.
Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,
By his eyes so sweetly staring,
Viewing me with piercing sorrow.
By the enigmatic smile which
O’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,
Such as none but poets boast of.
Since Jehuda ben Halevy
Had his birth, have seven hundred
Years and fifty fleeted o’er us.{471}
For the first time saw the light,
And the golden Tagus lull’d him
In his cradle with its music.
Of his intellect full early
Cared for, and began his lessons
With the book of God, the Thora.
In the’ original, whose beauteous
Picturesque and hieroglyphic
Old Chaldean quarto pages
Of our world, and for that reason
Smile so trustingly and sweetly
On each childlike disposition.
By the boy was likewise chanted
In the ancient and establish’d
Sing-song fashion, known as Tropp.
Those fat oily gutturals;
Like a very bird he warbled
That fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.
Which is written in the idiom,
The low-Hebrew sounding idiom
That we call the Aramæan,
Has about the same relation
As the Swabian to the German,—
In this bastard Hebrew likewise
And the knowledge thus acquired
Proved extremely useful to him
In the study of the Talmud.
Lead him onward to the Talmud
And he then unfolded to him
The Halacha, that illustrious{472}
Dialectic athletes both of
Babylon and Pumpeditha
Carry on their mental combats.
In the arts, too, of polemics;
Later, in the book Cosari
Was his mastership establish’d.
Lights of two distinct descriptions:
Glaring daylight of the sun,
And the moonlight’s softer lustre.
Also sheds, and is divided
In Halacha and Hagada.—
Now the first’s a fighting school,
I should rather call a garden,
Yes, a garden, most fantastic,
Comparable to that other,
In the town of Babylon,—
Great Semiramis’s garden,
That eighth wonder of the world.
Who had, when a child, been brought up
By the birds, and had contracted
Many a bird’s peculiar custom,
Promenade, as human creatures
Mostly do, and so she planted
In the air a hanging garden.
Palms and cypresses were standing,
Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,
Marble statues, gushing fountains,—
By unnumber’d hanging bridges
Which appear’d like climbing plants,
And whereon the birds were rocking,—{473}
All deep thinkers, never singing,
While around them finches flutter’d,
Keeping up a merry twitter,—
With a pure balsamic fragrance,
Which was free from all offensive
Earthly smells and hateful odours.
That this airy whim resembles,
And the youthful Talmud scholar,
When his heart was overpower’d
Of the’ Halacha, by disputes
All about the fatal egg
Laid one feast day by a pullet,—
Of the same importance, straightway
Fled the boy to find refreshment
In the blossoming Hagada
Tales of angels, famous legends,
Silent histories of martyrs,
Festal songs, and words of wisdom,
But impress’d with deep conviction,
Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,
Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.
Was pervaded by the savage
But adventure-breathing sweetness,
By the wondrous blissful anguish
Of that blissful secret world,
Of that mighty revelation,
Known to us as Poesy.
Radiant knowledge, understanding,
Which we call the art poetic,
Open’d on the boy’s mind also.{474}
Was not merely skill’d in reading,
But in poetry a master,
And himself a first-rate poet.
Star and torch of his own age,
Light and beacon of his people,
Yes, a very wondrous mighty
That preceded Israel’s mournful
Caravan as it was marching
Through the desert of sad exile.
Was his song, as was his spirit;
When this spirit was created
By its Maker, self-contented,
And that kiss’s beauteous echo
Thrills through all the poet’s numbers,
Which are hallow’d by this grace.
Grace is greatest good of all;
He who has it, ne’er transgresses
In his prose or in his verses.
Of the mighty grace of God;
He is undisputed monarch
Of the boundless realms of fancy.
Not to man, and, as in lifetime,
So in art the mob have power
To destroy, but not to judge us.
2.
“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd
“Our sad harps upon the willows—”
Know’st thou not the olden song?{475}
Which begins with elegiac
Crying, humming like a kettle
That upon the hearth is boiling?
Thousand years. A gloomy anguish
And my wounds are lick’d by time,
As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.
Though it can but cool and soften—
Death alone can ever heal me,
But, alas, I am immortal!
Busily the spool is humming
As it in the loom is moving,—
What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.
Human tears are dripping, running
On the earth, and then the earth
Sucks them in with eager silence.
“Happy he whose daring hand
“Taketh up thy little ones,
“Dashing them against the stones.”
In the pot evaporates,
Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,
My west-eastern darksome spleen.
Once more gaily, and the nightmare
Seems to shake with vigour off him,
And his wise eyes thus are asking:
To the little Talmudist there,
Who was such a first-rate poet,—
To Jehuda ben Halevy?
In the realm of dreams sole ruler
With the spirit-monarch’s crown,
By the grace of God a poet,{476}
In his madrigals, terzinas,
Canzonets, and strange ghaselas
Pour’d out all the’ abundant fire
Of a truth this troubadour
Was upon a par with all the
Best lute-players of Provence,
Roussillon and every other
Charming orange-growing region
Of gallant old Christendom.
Of gallant old Christendom!
How they glitter, smell, and tingle
In the twilight of remembrance!
Where we only in the place of
The true God, the false God worshipp’d
Of the Muses and of love.
On their bald pates, sang the psalms
In the charming langue d’oc;
Laity, all gallant knights,
Verse and rhyme were ever making
To the honour of the ladies
Whom their hearts to serve delighted.
Therefore to a Minnesinger
Was a lady just as needful
As to bread-and-butter, butter.
Our Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also had his heart’s fair lady;
But she was of special kind.
Mortal constellations, kindled
On Good Friday the notorious
Fire within the famed Cathedral;{477}
Who, attired in youthful graces,
Took the chair at tournaments,
And the laurel wreath presented.
She was not, no doctrinaire,
Who within the learned college
Of a court of love gave lectures.
Was a poor and mournful loved one,
Woeful image of destruction,
And her name—Jerusalem!
She his one sole love was always;
E’en the word Jerusalem
Made his youthful spirit quiver.
On the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’d
When a pilgrim to Toledo
Came from out the far east country,
And uncleanly was the city
Where upon the ground the traces
Of the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;
By the’ undying breath of God—
“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrim
Once exclaim’d, whose beard was floating
That the hair which form’d its end
Once again grew black, appearing
As if getting young again.
Might he be, his eyes were peering
As through centuries of sorrow,
And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!
“Is converted to a desert,
“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals
“Their accursèd home have made.{478}
“In its weather-beaten ruins;
“From the window’s airy bow
“Peeps the fox with much contentment.
“Comes sometimes from out the desert,
“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth
“In the long grass growing round it.
“Where stood up the golden fortress
“Whose great majesty bore witness
“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—
“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,
“Gazing with such looks of sorrow
“One must fancy they are weeping.
“Once in each year, on the ninth day
“Of the month’s that known as Ab—
“With my own eyes, full of weeping,
“Down the large stones slowly trickling,
“And have heard the broken columns
“Of the temple sadly moaning.”
Waken’d in the youthful bosom
Of Jehuda ben Halevy
Yearnings for Jerusalem.
Visionary, sad, as those
In the Château Blay experienced
Whilome by the noble Vidam,
When the knights, returning homeward
From the Eastern land, asserted
Loudly, as they clash’d their goblets,
And the flower and pearl of women,
Was the beauteous Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.{479}
Raved the troubadour thenceforward;
Her alone he sang, and shortly
Château Blay no more could hold him;
Took he ship, but on the ocean
He fell ill, and sick and dying
He arriv’d at Tripoli.
He, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,
Which that self-same hour were cover’d
By the darksome shades of death.
He expired before the feet
Of his lady Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.[84]
In the fate of these two poets!
Save that in old age the former
His great pilgrimage commenced.
At his mistress’ feet expired,
And his dying head, it rested
On Jerusalem’s dear knees.
3.
Had been won, great Alexander
Placed Darius’ land and people,
Court and harem, horses, women,
Crown and sceptre, golden lumber—
Placed them all inside his spacious
Macedonian pantaloons.
Who himself had fled, because he
Fear’d he also might be placed there,
The young hero found a casket.{480}
Richly ornamented over
With incrusted stones and cameos,
And with miniature devices.
Of inestimable value,
Served to hold the priceless treasures
Of the monarch’s body-jewels.
On his brave commanders lavish’d,
Smiling at the thought of men
Childlike loving colour’d pebbles.
To his mother dear presented;
’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,
Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.
Aristotle he presented
A fine onyx for his splendid
Cabinet of natural history.
Forming quite a wondrous string,
Which were once to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis;
And the merry victor gave them
To a pretty dancer whom he
Brought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.
In bacchantic fashion streaming,
On that night when she was dancing
At Persepolis, and wildly
Impious torch, till, loudly crackling,
Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,
And the fortress laid in ruins.
Who of some bad Babylonian
Illness died at Babylon,
All her pearls were sold by auction{481}
Purchased by a priest from Memphis,
He to Egypt took them with him,
Where they on the toilet table
She the finest pearl amongst them
Crush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,
Her friend Antony to banter.
Came the string of pearls to Spain,
And they twined around the turban
Worn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.
As his breast-knot at the tourney
Where he pierced through thirty golden
Rings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.
Then the Christians gain’d possession
Of the pearls, which rank’d thenceforward
As crown-jewels of Castile.
Queens of Spain, were wont to wear them
On all court and state occasions,
At all bullfights, grand processions,
When they took their pleasure, sitting
At the balcony, in sniffing
Up the smell of burnt old Jews.
Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,
Vainly hoping thus to meet the
Deficit in the finances.
Finally appear’d again,
Glittering on the neck of Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.
Less adventurous the fortune
Of the casket, Alexander
Keeping it for his own use.{482}
Of ambrosia-scented Homer,
His great fav’rite, and the casket
All night long was wont to stand
Slept, the heroes’ airy figures
Came from out it, o’er his visions
Creeping in fantastic fashion.
I myself have erst delighted
In the stories of the actions
Of Pelides, of Odysseus.
And so purple to my spirit,
Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,
And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.
Now my haughty victor-chariot,
And the panthers, who once drew it,
Now are dead, as are the women
Danced around, and I myself
Writhe upon the ground in anguish.
Weak and crippled—hush, no more!
Of the casket of Darius,
And within myself thus thought I:
Should I e’er possess the casket,
Into cash, for want of money,
I would then enclose within it
All the poems of our Rabbi,—
Festal songs and lamentations,
And Ghaselas, the description
Of his pilgrimage—the whole I
Parchment by the best of scribes,
And the manuscript deposit
In the little golden casket.{483}
Near my bed, and then, whenever
Friends appear’d and were astonish’d
At the beauty of the trinket,—
Small in size, and yet so perfect
Notwithstanding,—at the jewels
Of such size incrusted on it,—
That is but the vulgar covering
That contains a nobler treasure—
In this casket there are lying
And reflect the light of heaven,
Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,
Turquoises of spotless beauty,
Likewise pearls of greater value
Than the pearls to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis,
All the notabilities
Who this mundane earth have dwelt in,
Thais first, then Cleopatra,
And the queens of old Hispania,
And at last the worthy Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.—
After all are but the mucus
Of a poor unhappy oyster
Lying sickly in the ocean;
Are the offspring of a beauteous
Human spirit, far far deeper
Than the ocean’s deepest depths,—
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
That he over the destruction
Of Jerusalem let fall.{484}
By the golden threads of rhythm,
As a song from poesy’s
Golden smithy have proceeded.
Is the famous lamentation
That is sung in all the scatter’d
And far-distant tents of Jacob
That sad anniversary
Of Jerusalem’s destruction
By the Emperor Vespasian.
That Jehuda ben Halevy
Sang when dying on the holy
Ruins of Jerusalem.
Sat he there upon the fragment
Of a pillar that had fallen,
Till upon his breast there fell
Shading over in strange fashion
His afflicted pallid features,
With his eyes so like a spectre’s.
In appearance like a minstrel
From the times of old, like ancient
Jeremiah, grave-arisen.
By his numbers’ mournful cadence
All were tamed, and e’en the vulture
Drew near list’ning, almost pitying,—
Came one day in that direction,
On his charger in his stirrups
Balancing, his bright lance wielding.
With this deadly spear transfix’d he,
And then gallop’d off instanter
Wing’d as though a shadowy figure.{485}
Calmly to its termination
Sang he his sweet song,—his dying
Sigh was still—Jerusalem!
That the Saracen was really
Not a wicked cruel mortal,
But an angel in disguise,
To remove God’s favourite
From the earth, and to advance him
Painlessly to those blest regions.
A reception highly flatt’ring
In its nature to the poet,
Quite a heavenly surprise.
Came the’ angelic choir to meet him,
And instead of hymns, he heard them
Singing his own lovely verses,
Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,
With their well-known and exulting
Melodies—what notes enthralling!
Others play’d upon the fiddle;
Others handled the bass-viol,
Others beat the drum and cymbal.
Sweetly through the far-extending
Vaults of heaven these strains re-echoed
Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
4.
With the chapter just concluded,
And especially the portion
Speaking of Darius’ casket.{486}
That a husband with pretensions
To religion, into money
Straightway would convert the casket,
For his poor and lawful spouse
That nice Cashmere shawl to purchase
That she stands so much in need of.
Would, she fancies, with sufficient
Honour be preserved, if guarded
In a pretty box of pasteboard,
Arabesques, like those enchanting
Sweetmeat-boxes of Marquis
In the Passage Panorama.
“That I never heard the name of
“This remarkable old poet,
“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”
Your delightful ignorance
But too well the gaps discloses
In the education given
Where the girls, the future mothers
Of a proud and freeborn nation,
Learn the elements of knowledge.
And embalm’d Egyptian Pharaohs
Merovingian shadowy monarchs,
With perukes devoid of powder,
Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—
This they know by heart and fully,
Clever girls,—but, O, good heavens
From the glorious golden ages
Of Arabian-ancient-Spanish
Jewish schools of poetry,—{487}
For Jehuda ben Halevy,
For great Solomon Gabirol,
Or for Moses Iben Esra,
Then the children stare upon us
With a look of stupid wonder,
And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.
These neglected points to study,
And to take to learning Hebrew
Leaving theatres and concerts.
Have been given, you’ll be able
In the’ original to read them,
Iben Esra and Gabirol,
That triumvirate poetic,
Who evoked the sweetest music
From the instrument of David.
Is to you unknown, although he
A Voltairian was, six hundred
Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:
“And the thinker most he pleases;
“Iben Esra shines in art, and
“Is the fav’rite of the artist.
“Is in both a perfect master,
“And at once a famous poet
“And a universal fav’rite.”
And I rather think, a cousin
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
Who in his famed book of travels
He had sought through all Granada
For his friend, and only found there
His friend’s brother, the physician,{488}
And the father of the beauty
Who in Iben Esra’s bosom
Kindled such a hopeless passion.
Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff,
Like so many of his colleagues,
Living restlessly and homeless.
When some Tartars fell upon him,
Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,
And to their wild deserts took him.
Quite unworthy of a Rabbi,
Still less fitted for a poet—
He was made to milk the cows.
Of a cow was sitting squatting,
Fing’ring hastily her udder,
While the milk the tub was filling,—
Of a Rabbi, of a poet,—
Melancholy came across him,
And to sing a song began he.
That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,
Who was passing by, was melted,
And he gave the slave his freedom.
Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy
Saracenic mandoline,
And some money for his journey.
Which the offspring of Apollo
Worried unto death, and even
Did not spare their noble father,
In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s
Stead, embraced the laurel only,—
He, the great divine Schlemihl!{489}
A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel
That so proudly crowns his forehead
Is a sign of his Schlemihldom.
Well we know. Long since Chamisso
Rights of German citizenship
Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).
Like the holy Nile’s far sources,
Been unknown. Upon this subject
Many a night have I been poring.
To Berlin, to see Chamisso
On this point, and from the dean sought
Information of Schlemihl.
And referr’d me on to Hitzig,
Who had made the first suggestion
Of the family name of Peter
The first cab, and quickly hasten’d
To the magistrate Herr Hitzig,
Who was formerly call’d Itzig.
In a vision saw he written
His own name high in the heavens,
And in front the letter H.
Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig
“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy
“Is a pretty title. Not, though,
Tired of thinking, took the name of
Hitzig, and his best friends only
Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy.
When I saw him, “have the goodness
“To explain the derivation
“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”{490}
Took the holy one—he could not
Recollect,—and made excuses
In succession like a Christian,
In the breeches of my patience,
And began to swear so fiercely,
In such very impious fashion,
Pale as death, with trembling knees,
Forthwith gratified my wishes,
And the following story told me:
“How, while wandering in the desert,
“Israel oft committed whoredom
“With the daughters fair of Canaan.
“Chanced to see the noble Zimri
“Thus engaged in an intrigue
“With a Canaanitish woman.
“On his spear, and put to death
“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus
“In the Bible ’tis recounted.
“Old tradition ’mongst the people,
“’Twas not Zimri that was really
“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;
“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck
“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,
“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—
Was the ancestor of all the
Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended
From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Are preserved of his; we only
Know his name, and in addition
Know that he was a Schlemihl.{491}
Not according to its fruits, but
Its antiquity alone—
Ours three thousand years can reckon.
Full three thousand years have fleeted
Since the death of our forefather
This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
But his spear is in existence,
And incessantly we hear it
Whizzing through the air above us.
Both Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also Moses Iben Esra,
And it likewise struck Gabirol,
God-devoted Minnesinger,
That sweet nightingale, who sang to
God instead of to a rose,—
Tenderly his loving numbers
In the darkness of the Gothic
Mediæval night of earth!
For grimaces or for spirits,
Or the chaos of delirium
And of death those ages haunting,
Of the Godlike One he loved so,
Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,
Whom his hymns were glorifying.
On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama
Trumpeted abroad the glory
Of his name through every country.
Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,
Who wrote verses, like the other,
And the poet’s glory envied.{492}
Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,
And the sweetness of the songs was
Bitter wormwood to this base one.
To his house one night, and slew him
There, and then the body buried
In the garden in its rear.
Where the body had been hidden,
Presently there grew a fig-tree
Of the most enchanting beauty.
And of strange and spicy sweetness;
He who tasted it, sank into
Quite a dreamy state of rapture.
Much was said aloud or whisper’d,
Till at length the rumour came to
The illustrious Caliph’s ears.
This strange fig-phenomenon,
And then form’d a strict commission
Of inquiry on the matter.
On the owner of the tree’s soles
Sixty strokes of the bamboo they
Gave, and then his crime confess’d he.
By its roots from out the ground,
And the body of the murder’d
Man Gabirol was discover’d.
And lamented by his brethren;
And the selfsame day they also
Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.
DISPUTATION.
Loudly are the trumpets blowing
To the spiritual tourney,
Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going.{493}
Not one arm of steel here glances;
Sharply pointed and scholastic
Words are here the only lances.
Ladies’ honest fame defending;
Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis
Are the knights who’re here contending.
Scull caps and capouches wearing;
Scapular and Arbecanfess
Are the armour they are bearing.
He, the Hebrew stern and glorious
Unity, whom Rabbi Juda
Of Navarre would see victorious?
Hold in love and veneration,
As whose champion Friar Jose,
The Franciscan, takes his station?
And the logic taught at college,
And quotations from the authors
Whose repute one must acknowledge,
His opponent would bring duly,
And the pure divinity
Of his own God point out truly.
Manages his cause to smother,
Should be bound to take upon him
The religion of the other,
This was the express provision,—
On the other hand the Christian
Bear the rite of circumcision.
Has eleven comrades by him,
All to share his fate determined,
And for weal or woe keep nigh him.{494}
With assurance full and steady
Hold the holy-water vessels
For the rite of christening ready,
Whence the incense smoke is rising,—
All their adversaries briskly
Whet their knives for circumcising.
Ready for the fray, both forces,
And the crowd await the signal,
Eager for the knights’ discourses.
While their courtiers duly flatter,
Both the king and queen are sitting;
Quite a child appears the latter.
Are in roguishness not wanting,
And the ever laughing rubies
Of her mouth are quite enchanting.
May the grace of God be with her!—
From the merry town of Paris
She has been transplanted hither,
Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her;
Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon,
Donna Blanca now they call her.
With the nickname of The Cruel;
But to-day, in gentle mood, he
Looks as if he ne’er could do ill.
Enters into conversation,
And both Jew and Moor addresses
With a courteous salutation.
Are the monarch’s favourite creatures;
They command his troops, and also
In finances are his teachers.{495}
And the trumpets’ bray announces
That the conflict is beginning,
Where each knight the other trounces.
Bursting into furious passion,
And his voice, now harsh, now growling,
Blusters in a curious fashion.
In one sentence he comprises,
And the seed accurst of Jacob
In the Rabbi exorcises.
Little devils oft are hidden
In the Jews, and give them sharpness,
Wit, and arguments when bidden.
By his mighty exorcism,
Comes the monk, dogmatically,
Quoting from the catechism.
Persons three are comprehended,
Who, whenever they so will it,
Into one are straightway blended.
But to those who, in due season,
Have escaped from out the prison
And the chains of human reason.
Bethlehem, of a tenderhearted
Virgin, whose divine unsullied
Innocency ne’er departed.
In a lowly stable manger,
Where the calf and heifer meekly
Stood around the newborn stranger.
From King Herod’s minions flying,
Went to Egypt, how still later
Death’s sharp pangs he suffer’d, dying.{496}
Who subscribed his condemnation,
Urged on by the Jews and cruel
Pharisees’ confederation.
Bursting from the tomb’s dark prison
On the third day, into heaven
Had in glorious triumph risen;
Would return to earth in splendour,
At Jehoshaphat, to judge there
Every quick and dead offender.
“At the God whom ye tormented
“Cruelly with thorns and scourges,
“To whose death ye all consented.
“Of vindictive fierce behaviour!
“Him who comes to free you, still ye
“Slay,—ye murder him, the Saviour.
“Coming from the lower regions
“Dwell, your bodies are the barracks
“Of the devil’s wicked legions.
“He is famed in Christian story,
“Call’d the mighty ox of learning,
“Orthodoxy’s light and glory.
“Wolves, hyenas, jackals hateful,
“Church-yard prowlers, who deem only
“Flesh of corpses to be grateful.
“Monsters cruel and perfidious,
“Whom they call rhinoceroses,
“Crocodiles and vampires hideous.
“Rats and miserable lapwings,
“Gallows’-birds and cockatrices,
“Very scum of all that flap wings!{497}
“Rattlesnakes, disgusting adders,
“Poisonous toads—Christ soon will surely
“Tread you out like empty bladders!
“Save your souls so wretched rather?
“Flee the synagogues of evil,
“Seek the bosom of your Father.
“Where the well of mercy bubbles
“For your sakes in hallow’d basins,—
“Hide your heads there from your troubles.
“And the vices that deface it;
“From your hearts the stains of rancour
“Wash, and grace shall then replace it.
“O how well your new names suit you!
“Cleanse yourselves upon Christ’s bosom
“From the vermin that pollute you.
“Like a lamb that’s dearly cherish’d,
“And our vices to atone for,
“On the cross with meekness perish’d.
“Name is Jesus Christ the blessèd;
“Of his patience and submission
“We aspire to be possessèd.
“Courteous, never in a passion,
“Fond of peace and charitable,
“In the Lamb the Saviour’s fashion.
“Into angels blest converted,
“Wandering there in bliss with lily
“Blossoms in our hands inserted.
“Robes shall we when there be wearing,
“Made of silk, brocades, and muslin,
“Golden lace and ribbons flaring.{498}
“Will be floating golden tresses;
“While our hair some charming virgin
“Into pretty topknots dresses.
“Of circumference so spacious,
“That, compared with them, the goblets
“Made on earth are not capacious.
“Than the mouths of earthly ladies
“Will the mouth be of each woman
“Who in heaven our solace made is.
“Pass through endless ages proudly,
“Singing joyous Hallelujahs,
“Kyrie Eleyson loudly.”
Monks believed illumination
Pierced each heart, and so prepared for
The baptismal operation.
Shook themselves with scornful grinning,
Rabbi Juda of Navarre thus
His reply meanwhile beginning:
“My poor soul’s bare field devoutly,
“With whole dung-carts of abuse thou
“Hast in truth befoul’d me stoutly.
“To his taste best calculated,
“And instead of being angry,
“Thank you, I’m propitiated.
“We poor Jews can never swallow,
“Though from earliest days of childhood
“Wont the rule of three to follow.
“And no more, are comprehended,
“Moderate appears; the ancients
“On six thousand gods depended.{499}
“Whom you call the Christ, good brother;
“Nor have I e’er had the honour
“To have met his virgin mother.
“Years back, as your speech confesses,
“At Jerusalem he suffer’d
“Certain disagreablenesses.
“Rests upon your showing solely,
“Seeing the delicti corpus
“On the third day vanish’d wholly.
“Whether he was a connection
“Of our God, who had no children—
“In, at least, our recollection.
“For humanity would never
“Perish; for such philanthropic
“Actions he is far too clever.
“Never to affection yields he,
“For he is a God of vengeance,
“And as God his thunders wields he.
“From the sinner turn or soften,
“And the latest generations
“For the fathers’ sins pay often.
“In his heavenly halls in glory,
“And, compared with him, eternal
“Ages are but transitory.
“God, not like the myths that fright us,
“Pale and lean as any wafer,
“Or the shadows by Cocytus.
“Sun and moon and constellation:
“Thrones are crush’d, and people vanish
“When he frowns in indignation.{500}
“David sings: We cannot measure
“All his greatness, earth’s his footstool,
“And is subject to his pleasure.
“Lute and song to him are grateful;
“But, like grunts of sucking pigs, he
“Finds the sounds of churchbells hateful.
“Who beneath the ocean strayeth,
“And with him the Lord Almighty
“For an hour each morning playeth.
“Of the month Ab, that sad morrow,
“When they burnt his holy temple;
“On that day too great’s his sorrow.
“The Leviathan; each fin is
“Big as Og the King of Basan,
“And his tail no cedar thin is.
“And its flavour is perfection,
“And the Lord will ask to dinner
“On the day of resurrection
“Those whose faith was firm and stable,
“And this fish, the Lord’s own favourite,
“Will be set upon the table,
“Partly stew’d in wine and toasted,
“Dress’d with raisins and with spices,
“Much resembling matelotes roasted.
“Will the white sauce much embellish,
“So make ready, Friar Jose,
“To devour the fish with relish.
“Makes a most delicious jelly,
“And will be full well adapted,
“Friar Jose, to thy belly.{501}
“Monk, my honest counsel follow,
“And be circumcised, your portion
“Of Leviathan to swallow.”—
Spoke with inward mirth insulting,
And the Jews, with pleasure grunting,
Brandish’d all their knives exulting.
Victors after all the fighting,
Genuine spolia opima
In this conflict so exciting.
Stuck, despite the Jews’ derision,
And were equally reluctant
To submit to circumcision.
Answer’d, when the Jew had finish’d,
His abuse again repeating,
Full of fury undiminish’d.
Ardour, with his answer follow’d;
Though his heart was boiling over,
All his rising gall he swallow’d.
Treatises and commentaries,
And with extracts from the Tausves-
Jontof his quotations varies.
Friar, arguments in want of!
He exclaim’d: “I wish the devil
“Had your stupid Tausves-Jontof!”
Fearfully the Rabbi screeches,
And his patience lasts no longer,
Like a maniac’s soon his speech is.
“What is left? O vile detractor!
Lord, avenge this foul transgression!
“Punish, Lord, this malefactor!{502}
“Is thyself! And on the daring
“Tausves-Jontof’s base denier
“Thou must vent thy wrath unsparing.
“Wicked band of Cora, quickly,
“Who their plots and machinations
“Sow’d against thee, Lord, so thickly.
“Thunder forth thy loudest thunder;
“Thou with pitch and brimstone Sodom
“And Gomorrha didst bring under.
“As of yore thou struckest Pharaoh
“Who pursued us, as well-laden
“Flying from his land we were, Oh!
“This proud monarch of Mizrayim,
“In steel armour, with bright weapons
“In their terrible Jadayim.
“Pharaoh and his host were smitten
“In the Red Sea, and were drown’d there
“As we drown a common kitten.
“Show the wicked wretches clearly
“That the lightnings of thine anger
“Are not smoke and bluster merely.
“I will sing and tell of proudly,
“And moreover will, like Miriam,
“Dance and play the timbrel loudly.”
Answer’d thus the furious Rabbi:
“Villain, may the Lord destroy thee,
“Damnable, accurst, and shabby!
“Whom the Evil One created,
“Lucifer and Beelzebub,
“Astaroth and Belial hated.{503}
“And your hellish tricks unhallow’d,
“For in me is Jesus Christ, since
“I his body blest have swallow’d.
“Than Leviathan more savoury,
“With its boasted garlic white sauce
“Cook’d by Satan, full of knavery.
“I would sooner roast and bake you
“With your comrades on the warmest
“Funeral pile, the devil take you!”
Goes on in confusion utter;
But in vain the doughty champions
Screech and rail and storm and splutter.
Neither side gives signs of tiring,
But the public fast grow weary,
And the ladies are perspiring.
Ladies make with yawns suggestions;
To the lovely queen the monarch
Turns and asks the following questions:
“Which is right, and which the liar?
“Will you give your verdict rather
“For the Rabbi or the friar?”
Thoughtfully her hands she presses
With closed fingers on her forehead,
And the monarch thus addresses:
LATEST POEMS.
(1853-4.)
1. PEACE-YEARNING.
Thy tears for ever flow unbidden—
In sorrow revels secret joy,
And a sweet balm in tears is hidden.
Thou by thyself must needs be wounded;
Thank God with all thy heart, if tears
To wet thy cheek have e’er abounded.
In long dark mantle comes from heaven;
While in her arms, nor fool nor dolt
Can break the rest to soothe thee given.
And from the piano’s hammer-hammer,
From the grand opera’s pompous notes,
And the bravura’s fearful clamour.
By endless crowds of idle smatt’rers;
Nor by the genius Giacomo,[85]
And all the clique of world-known chatt’rers.
Of ears that shun the rabble’s chorus;
Death’s good indeed, yet better ’twere
Our loving mothers never bore us.
2. IN MAY.
Have treated me now with cruelty sore;
My heart is fast breaking. The sun, though, above
With smiles is hailing the sweet month of love.{505}
The echoing song of each happy bird,
And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile—
O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;
No contrasts vain torment there our days;
For suffering hearts ’tis better below,
There where the Stygian night-waters flow.
And the Stymphalides’ dull scream,
The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill,
With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,—
In Proserpine’s accursèd domain,
In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs,
All with our tears doth harmonize.
The sun and the rose inflict their stings;
I’m mock’d by the heavens so May-like and blue—
O beauteous world, I hate thee anew!
3. BODY AND SOUL.
I’ll never leave thee, but I’ll stay
With thee; yea, I with thee will sink
In death and night, destruction drink.
Thou ever wert my second I,
And round me clungest lovingly,
As though a dress of satin bright,
All lined throughout with ermine white—
Alas! I’ve come to nakedness,
A mere abstraction, bodiless,
Reduced a blessèd nullity
In yon bright realms of light to be,
In the cold halls of heaven up yonder,
Where the Immortals silent wander,
And gape upon me, clatt’ring by
In leaden slippers wearily.
’Tis quite intolerable; stay,
Stay with me, my dear body, pray.{506}
Cheer up, be not dissatisfied!
We peacefully must learn to bear
What Fate apportions as our share.
I was the lamp’s wick; I must now
Consume away; the spirit, thou,
Wilt be selected by-and-by
To sparkle as a star on high
Of purest radiance. I’m but rags.
Mere stuff, like rotten tinder bags,
Collapsing fast, and nothing worth,
Becoming, what I was, mere earth.
Perchance ’tis far more entertaining
In heaven than now supposed by thee.
If thou shouldst e’er the great bear see
(Not Meyer-beer[86]) in those bright climes,
Greet him from me a thousand times.
4. RED SLIPPERS.
That she was a shoemaker chose to say,
And put before her window a board
Where slippers for young maidens were stored;
While some were of morocco made,
Others of satin were there display’d;
Of velvet some, with edges of gold,
And figured strings, all gay to behold.
But fairest of all exposed to view
Was a pair of slippers of scarlet hue;
They gave full many a lass delight
With their gorgeous colours and splendour bright.
A young and snow-white noble mouse
Who chanced to pass the shoemaker’s house
First turn’d to look, and then stood still,
And then peep’d over the window sill.
At length she said: “Good day, mother cat:
“You’ve pretty red slippers, I grant you that.
“If they’re not dear, I’m ready to buy,
“So tell me the price, if it’s not too high.”{507}
“Pray do me the favour to step inside,
“And honour my house, I venture to pray,
“With your gracious presence. Allow me to say
“That the fairest maidens come shopping to me,
“And duchesses too, of high degree.
“The slippers I’m willing full cheap to sell,
“Yet let us see if they’ll fit you well.
“Pray step inside, and take a seat”—
And the poor white thing in her ignorance then
Fell plump in the snare in that murderous den.
The little mouse sat down on a chair,
And lifted her small leg up in the air,
In order to try how the red shoes fitted,
A picture of innocent calm to be pitied.
When sudden the wicked cat seized her fast,
Her murderous talons around her cast,
And bit right off her poor little head.
“My dear white creature,” the cat then said,
“My sweet little mouse, you’re as dead as a rat.
“The scarlet red slippers that served me so pat
“I’ll kindly place on the top of your tomb,
“And when is heard, on the last day of doom,
“The sound of the trump, O mouse so white,
“From out of your grave you’ll come to light,
“Like all the rest, and then you’ll be able
“To wear your red slippers.” Here ends my fable.
MORAL.
And don’t be seduced by worldly show;
I counsel you sooner barefooted to walk,
Than buy slippers of cats, however they talk.
5. BABYLONIAN SORROWS.
Have left thee behind in a wood to rove,
In one of those forests of firs so drear,
Where vultures build, and wolves’ howlings we hear,
Where the wild sow fearfully grunts evermore,
The lawful spouse of the light grey boar.{508}
If I, where the stormy billows are,
Had had to leave thee, my wife, my child,
And straightway the northpole’s tempest wild
The waters had flogg’d, and out of the deep
The hideous monsters that in it sleep,
The crocodile fierce and the shark, had come
With open jaws, and around thee swum.
Believe me, my child, Matilda, my wife,
That the angry sea, in its wildest strife,
And the cruel forest less dangers give
Than the city where we’re now fated to live.
Though fearful the wolf and the vulture may be,
The shark, and the monsters dread of the sea,
Far fiercer, more furious beasts have their birth
In Paris, the capital proud of the earth.
Fair Paris, the singing, so gay in her revels,
That hell to the angels, that heaven to devils.—
That thee I must leave in this dungeon sad,
This drives me crazy, this drives me mad.
The black flies come; on my nose and head
They perch themselves—detestable race!
Amongst them are some with a human face,
And elephants’ trunks (though small in span)
Like the god Ganesa in Hindostan.
In my brain I hear noises and heavy knocks,
It sounds as if they were packing a box,
And my reason departs, alas! alas!
Ere I myself from this earth can pass.
6. THE SLAVE SHIP.
PART I.
In his cabin sits adding his figures;
He calculates his cargo’s amount,
And the probable gain from his niggers.
“Is three hundred chests of all sizes;
“I’ve gold dust and ivory too in store,
“But the black ware by far the best prize is.{509}
“Where the Senegal river is flowing;
“Their flesh is firm, and their sinews tough
“As the finest iron going.
“Glass beads, steel goods, and some brandy;
“I shall make at least eight hundred per cent.
“With but half of them living and handy.
“When I get to Rio Janeiro,
“I shall have a hundred ducats a head
“From the house of Gonzales Perreiro.”—
Was disturb’d in his meditation,
For Doctor Van Smissen enter’d in,
The vessel’s surgeon by station.
And his nose had warts all over;
“Well, worthy Doctor,” exclaim’d Van Koek,
“Are my niggers still living in clover?”
“I’ve come with a tale of disaster;
“Throughout the night, I’m sorry to say,
“The deaths have grown faster and faster.
“But to-day just seven have died, Sir,—
“Four men and three women; I wrote the loss
“At once in the log as my guide, Sir.
“For these rascals have often a notion
“To feign themselves dead, in hopes that they
“May be thrown away into the ocean.
“And according to usual custom
“Next morning early into the sea
“I bid the sailors thrust ’em.
“Shot up in countless legions;
“They love full dearly the niggers’ flesh,
“My boarders are they in these regions.{510}
“Since we’ve left the land in the distance;
“The creatures smell the scent of a corpse
“With ravenous snuffling persistence.
“How after the bodies they follow;
“One takes the head, another a leg,
“While the rest the fragments swallow.
“When they’ve finished their eating and crunching
“And stare in my face, as if they sought
“To thank me for their luncheon.”—
When the Doctor his story had finish’d:
“How to lessen the evil? In what way best
“Can the rate of the deaths be diminish’d?”
“By their own misconduct stealthy;
“Their breath’s so bad, that it poisons the air
“In the ship, and makes it unhealthy.
“And ennui, in this dreary stillness;
“I think that air and music and dance
“Would soon remove their illness.”—
“Dear Doctor, I utter no slander,
“When I say that like Aristotle you’re wise,
“The tutor of Alexander.
“In the town of Delft may be clever,
“But he hasn’t one half of your brains, I’m sure,—
“Your equal I’ve met with never.
“On the deck I’ll see dancing and kicking,
“And whosoever won’t join in the fun
“Shall receive in reward a good licking.”
PART II.
Many thousand stars are gleaming,
Like the eyes of fair women, so large and clear,
And with locks of yearning beaming.{511}
Whose waves in the distance are curling,
In phosphorescent blue vapour all veil’d,
While the billows are joyously whirling.
As though without tackle she’s lying;
But lanthorns are glimmering high on the decks
Where the dance with the music is vying.
The steersman’s playing the fiddle,
The trumpet is blown by the Doctor himself,
And a lad beats the drum in the middle.
Are yelling and whirling and leaping,
As though they were mad; and at every spring
Their irons the tune are keeping.
And many a swarthy maiden
Clasps her naked partner with warmth, while at times
The air with their groanings is laden.
And dealing his lashes so fearful,
The weary dancers he stimulates,
And bids them be merry and cheerful.
The strange unwonted commotion
Aroused from their lazy slumbers below
The monsters fierce of the ocean.
In numbers many a hundred;
They stupidly stared at the ship on high
With amazement, and blindly wondered.
Has not come as soon as ’tis wanted,
So they gape and ope wide their throats, their jaws
With teeth like saws being planted.
There seems no end to the dances;
The sharks grow impatient, and bite themselves
In the tail with their teeth like lances.{512}
Like many an ignoramus;
Trust not the beast that music loves not,
Says Albion’s poet famous.
Not one of the dancers seems lazy;
At the foremast stands Mynher Van Koek,
And with folded hands thus prays he:
“The lives of these swarthy sinners;
“If they’ve anger’d thee e’er, thou know’st they’re as dull
“As the beasts that we eat for our dinners.
“Who died for our salvation;
“For unless I have left me three hundred head,
“There’s an end to my occupation.”
7. AFFRONTENBURG.
With all its battlements, its tower,
And simple folk that in it dwelt,
Appears before me every hour.
That on the roof turn’d round so drily;
Each person, ere he spoke a word,
Was wont to look up tow’rds it slily.
For fear the ancient grumbler Boreas
Might turn against him suddenly,
Tormenting him with blast uproarious.
For in that place an echo sported,
Which, when it answer’d back the voice,
Each word maliciously distorted.
A marble fount, with sphinxes round it,
For ever dry, though tears enough
Had flow’d inside it, to have drown’d it.{513}
No single spot was in thy keeping
Wherein my heart had not been sad,
Wherein my eye had not known weeping.
Beneath whose shade affronts injurious
Had not against me utter’d been
By tongues ironical or furious.
Unto the rat hath all confided,
Who told his aunt the viper straight
The news in which himself he prided.
And in this manner each relation
In the whole filthy race soon learnt
My dire affronts and sad vexation.
And sweet the fragrance that they scatter’d;
Yet early wither’d they and died,
By a mysterious poison shatter’d.
To death,—that songster loved and cherish’d.
That sang to every rose her song;
Through her own poison’s taste she perish’d.
It was as though a curse oppress’d it;
Oft was I seized by ghostly fear,
While broad clear daylight still possess’d it.
Terror with fearful mockery vying,
While from the yew-trees straightway rose
A sound of groaning, choking, sighing.
The terrace where the Baltic Ocean
At time of flood its billows dash’d
Against the rocks in wild commotion.
There stood I oft, in wild dreams roaming;
The breakers fill’d my heart as well
With ceaseless roaring, raging, foaming.{514}
As powerless as the billows curling
That the hard rock broke mournfully,
Proudly as they their shocks were hurling.
Some happier country seeking gladly,
While I am in this castle chain’d
With bonds accurst, and pining sadly.
8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]
I.
And each guess, however pious,
To these awful questions plainly
Seek with answers to supply us:—
’Neath the cross’s weight laborious,
While upon his steed the Wicked
Rides all-proudly and victorious?
That our God is not almighty?
Or hath he himself offended?—
Such a thought seems wild and flighty.
Till at length our mouths securely
With a clod of earth are fasten’d,—
That is not an answer, surely?
II.
Was press’d ’gainst her bosom with yearning;
But, alas! to grey soon turn’d my hair,
Where had fallen her tears so burning.
She kiss’d till my eyes were faded;
My spinal marrow dried up became,
By her mouth’s wild sucking pervaded.{515}
My spirit is fetter’d closely;
’Tis often angry, and makes a din,
And storms and struggles morosely,
Can be kill’d by mere execrations;
Submit to thy fate, and patiently try
To bear Heaven’s dispensations.
III.
That serpent terrible and creeping!
While I, alas! all-motionless,
On the same spot am ever weeping.
Hath shone, no sunbeam e’er hath risen;
For nothing but the churchyard’s vault
Shall I exchange this fatal prison.
Perchance the phantasies which nightly
Hold in my brain their shifting dance
Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly.
Of some old heathen gods or devils;
They gladly choose the empty skull
Of a dead poet for their revels.
Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning,
The poet’s corpse-hand ofttimes seeks
To place on record in the morning.
IV.
Upon my way, but slothfully
Stoop’d not to pluck them in that hour,
And on my proud steed hasten’d by.
Now when beneath me yawns the tomb,
Oft in my thought, with bitter anguish,
Returns the’ unheeded flowers’ perfume.{516}
With a bright yellow violet fair;
Wild beauty! How I grieve with yearning,
To think that I enjoy’d thee ne’er!
Have not yet lost their olden might
The dull hearts of earth’s sons and daughters
To steep in Lethe’s blissful night.
V.
I saw them ruin’d utterly;
I heard them weeping, dying sadly,—
And yet I utter’d not a sigh.
Yea, to the churchyard follow’d I,
And then—with appetite I swallow’d,
My noontide meal, I’ll not deny.
With feelings sadden’d and oppress’d:
Like sudden glowing love once cherish’d
They strangely storm within my breast.
That in my memory spring to light;
My sadness turns to ceaseless yearning,
I call upon her day and night.
The faded flower oft comes again;
Methinks a posthumous devotion
To my love’s glow it offers then.
With strong and ever stronger power;
Unto my lips press thine, and soften
The bitterness of this last hour.
VI.
So neat, so cool—in vain I waited blindly
Till came the hour wherein thy gentle heart
Would ope, and inspiration play its part.{517}
Which prose and reason deem but wanderings,
But yet for which the noble, lovely, good
Upon this earth rave, suffer, shed their blood.
Once in glad summer days we roam’d the while;
Bright laugh’d the sun, sweet incense in that hour
Stream’d from the beauteous cup of every flower.
Red kisses on us, which like fire did burn;
Even the smallest daisy’s faint perfume
Appear’d a life ideal then to bloom.
In a white satin dress, demure and slow,
Like some girl’s portrait limn’d by Netscher’s art,
A little glacier seem’d to be thy heart.
VII.
Thy full acquittal hath been spoken;
The verdict says: the little one
By word or deed no law hath broken.
While madd’ning flames were raging through me;
Thou stirredst not, no word thou spak’st,
Yet thou’lt be ever guilty to me.
A voice accusing ceaseth never
To charge thee with ill will, and say
That thou hast ruin’d me for ever.
Its musty rolls from thought long banish’d
And yet at morning, with my dream,
Lo, the accuser too hath vanish’d!
With all its records, refuge taken—
One only haunts my memory still:
That I am ruin’d and forsaken.
VIII.
Illuming night with sudden glow;
It served with dazzling force to show
How deep my misery is, how fright’ning.
Who, ’mid my life’s sad desolation,
Stood’st, like the sculptor’s mute creation,
As cold as marble, and as fair.
For into speech her lips are waking,
From out her eyes the tears are breaking,
The stone feels for me tenderly.
Have pity, Lord, though thou mayst chasten,
Thy peace bestow, and quickly hasten
This fearful tragedy’s conclusion.
IX.
Woman’s; this I see full clearly;
And the paws and lion’s body
Are the poet’s fancy merely.
Of this true sphynx. E’en the clever
Son and husband of Jocasta
Such a hard one found out never.
Her own riddle’s explanation;
If the answer she discover’d,
Earth would fall from its foundation.
X.
They’re thinking and spinning,
They’re sighing and grinning;
Their very aspect is hideous only.
The threads she setteth,
And each one wetteth;
So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.{519}
In a circle ’tis whirling,
In droll fashion twirling;
The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.
Hold the scissors so dreary,
She hums Miserere,
And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.
My life’s thread so sadd’ning,
Escaping this madd’ning
Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!
XI.
In the blest land of Paradise;
No fairer women there will love me
Than those whom here on earth I prize.
Could there replace my darling wife;
To sit on clouds, whilst psalms I’m singing,
Would small enjoyment give to life.
Upon this lower world to dwell;
But first from sufferings reprieve me,
Some money granting me as well.
With sin and misery; yet I
Have learnt full well the art of going
Along its pavement quietly.
For ’tis but seldom that I roam;
Beside my wife I’d fain employ me
In slippers and loose-coat at home.
My soul drinks in the music dear
Of that sweet voice, so gaily rattling,—
Her look so faithful is and clear!{520}
Lord, ask I! Let me stay below
For many a day its blessings giving,
Beside my wife in statu quo!
9. THE DRAGONFLY.
By the waves of the rivulet glancing;
She dances here and she dances there,
The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair.
Admires her dress of azure gauze,
Admires her body’s bright splendour,
And also her figure so slender.
His modicum small of reason lost;
Her wooers are humming of love and truth,
Brabant and Holland pledging forsooth.
“Brabant and Holland are nought to me;
“But haste, if my charms you admire,
“And fetch me a sparklet of fire.
“And I my supper must cook instead;
“The coals on the hearth are burnt away,—
“So fetch me a sparklet of fire, I pray.”
When off the beetles flew, like a bird.
They seek for fire, and soon they find
Their home in the wood’s left far behind.
In garden-bower burning bright;
And then with amorous senseless aim,
They headlong rush in the candle’s flame.
The beetles and their fond hearts so doom’d:
While some with their lives did expiation,
Some only lost wings in the conflagration.{521}
Burnt off! In a foreign land, I ween,
He must crawl on the ground like vermin fell,
With humid insects that nastily smell.
Are the worst of plagues, in exile’s day.
We’re forced to converse with every sort
Of noxious creatures, of bugs in short,
Because in the selfsame mud we be.
Of this complain’d old Virgil’s scholar,
The poet of exile and hell, with choler.
When I in my glory’s well-winged prime
In my native ether was playing,
On sunny flowers was straying.
Was thought of importance, and wheeling flew
With butterflies all of elegance rare,
And with the cricket, the artist fair.
To my fatherland now I ne’er can return;
I’m turn’d to a worm, that will soon expire,
I’m rotting away in foreign mire.
The dragonfly, that azure coquette,
With figure so fine and slender,
The fair but cruel pretender!
10. ASCENSION.
While the poor soul, when gone its breath,
Escaping from earth’s constant riot,
Was on its way to heavenly quiet.
And spake these words with a heavy sigh:
“Saint Peter, give me inside a place,
“I am so tired of life’s hard race.{522}
“In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best
“With darling angels at blindman’s-buff,
“Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”
A bunch of keys appear’d to be stirr’d,
And out of a lattice, the entrance near,
Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.
“The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train,
“The idlers and the Hottentots—
“They come alone and they come in knots,
“And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest,
“And there be angels, and there be blest.
“Halloa, halloa! For gallows’ faces
“Like yours, for such contemptible races
“Were never created the halls of bliss,—
“Your portion’s with Satan, far off from this.
“Away, away, and take your flight
“To the black pool of endless night.”—
To continue to play a blustering part,
So added these words, its spirits to cheer:
“Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear
“To that base troop of rogues to belong—
“Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong,
“Because it is my birthday to-day,
“And I feel just now in a merciful way.
“But meanwhile tell me the country and place
“From whence thou comest; and was it the case
“That thou wast married? It happens sometimes
“A husband’s patience atones for all crimes;
“A husband need not in hell to be stew’d,
“Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”
“My native town is Berlin by name,
“There ripples the Spree, and in its bed
“The young cadets jump heels over head;
“It overflows kindly, when rains begin—
“A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin!{523}
“I was a private teacher when there,
“And much philosophy read with care.
“I married a chanoinesse—strange to say,
“She quarrell’d frightfully every day,
“Especially when in the house was no bread—
“’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”
“Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack.
“In truth it is a puzzle to me
“Why people study philosophy.
“It is such tedious and profitless stuff,
“And is moreover godless enough;
“In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell,
“Till Satan carries them off to hell.
“Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations
“Against the thin and washy potations
“From whence upon her, with comforting gleam
“No eye of fat could ever beam.
“But now, poor soul, pray comforted be!
“The strictest commands are given to me,
“’Tis true, that each who whilst he did live
“To philosophy used his attention to give,
“Especially to the godless German,
“Should be driven away from hence like vermin.
“Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I
“Have said, so there is a reason why
“I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute
“The gate of heaven—quick, enter within it
“With utmost speed—
“Now all is right!
“The whole of the day, from morn’s first light
“Till late in the evening, thou canst walk
“Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk
“Along its jewel-paved streets so fair;
“But mind, thou must not meddle when there
“With any philosophy, or I shall be
“Soon compromised most terribly.
“When angels thou hearest singing, assume
“A face of rapture, and never of gloom;
“But if an archangel sang the song,
“Be full of inspiration strong,
“And say that Malibran ne’er pretended
“To have a soprano so rich and splendid;{524}
“And ever applaud each tuneful hymn
“Of cherubim and of seraphim.
“Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
“With Mario and Tamburini,
“Give them the title of Excellencies,
“And be not sparing of reverencies.
“The singers in heaven, as well as on earth,
“Have all loved flattery since their birth.
“The world’s great Chapel-master on high,
“E’en He is pleased when they glorify
“His works, and delighteth to hear ador’d
“The wonders of God, the mighty Lord,
“And when a psalm to His glory and praise
“In thickest incense clouds they raise.
“The glory of heaven causes ennui,
“Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play.
“All games alike are in my way,
“From doubledummy to faro I’ll go,—
“We’ll also drink. But, apropos,
“If thou should’st meet, when going from hence,
“The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence
“Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said,
“But say, from Vienna or Munich instead.”
11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.
That thou art for my anguish grieving—
Thou know’st not, wife, that ’tis for thee
The tear escapes thee, not for me.
That o’er thy spirit sometimes grew
The blest foreboding, showing thee
That we were join’d by fate’s decree?
United, bliss was ours below,
But sever’d, nought is ours but woe.
That we should love each other dearly.
Thy place should be upon my breast,
Here first awoke self-knowledge blest;
From out the realm of plants, with power
’Twas mine to free, to kiss thee, flower!—{525}
Raise thee to me, to highest life,
’Twas mine to give thee soul, my wife.
When in the hour-glass is the sand
Run out, weep not, ’tis order’d so—
Alone thou’lt wither, when I go;
Thou’lt wither, ere thou yet hast bloom’d,
Ere thou hast glow’d, be quench’d and doom’d;
Thou’lt die and be the prey of death
Ere thou hast learnt to draw thy breath.
Whom I have loved. How bitter now,
The moment we are join’d for ever,
To find the hour when we must sever.
The welcome meanwhile must give way
To sad farewell. We part to-day
For evermore, for ’tis not given
To us to meet again in heaven.
Beauty to dust will fall at last,
Thou’lt pass away, and crumble fast.
The poets’ fate will happier be,
Death cannot kill them utterly.
Annihilation strikes us ne’er,
We live in poesy’s land so fair,
In Avalon, where fairies dwell—
Dear corpse, for ever fare thee well!
12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.
The sister was poor, the brother was rich.
The poor one said to the rich one:
“Give me a piece of bread.”
“Leave me to-day in peace,
“While I give my yearly banquet
“To the lords of the Council all.
“The second doth pineapples eat,
“The third is fond of pheasant
“And Perigord truffles too.{526}
“The fifth in salmon delights,
“The sixth of each dish eateth,
“And drinketh even more.”
Went hungry back to her house;
She threw herself on her straw-bed,
And deeply sighed and died.
The scythe of death at last
Mowed down the wealthy brother,
As it the sister had mown.
His end approaching saw,
He sent for his notary quickly,
And straightway made his will.
The clergy he endow’d,
The schools, and the great museum
Of zoological things.
The great testator bequeath’d
To the deaf and dumb asylum
And Jewish Conversion fund.
On the new Saint Stephen’s tower;
It weighs five hundred centners,
Of first-rate metal too.
And sounds both early and late;
It sounds to the praise and glory
Of that most excellent man.
Of all the good he has done
To the town and his fellow-townsmen,
Whatever might be their faith.
In death as well as in life
The great bell’s ever proclaiming
Each benefaction of thine!{527}
And pomp was solemnized,
The people crowded to see it
And reverently gazed.
Like a vast canopy
Adorn’d with black ostrich feathers,
The splendid coffin lay.
And silver embroidery fine,
Upon the black ground the silver
The grandest effect produced.
In coal-black trappings disguised,
That fell, like funeral mantles,
Down even to their hoofs.
The servants in liveries black,
Their snow-white handkerchiefs holding
Before their sorrowing face.
In long procession form’d
Of black and showy coaches,
Totter’d along behind.
Remember, were also found
The noble lords of the Council,
And yet they were not complete.
Was pheasant and truffles to eat;
An attack of indigestion
Had lately carried him off.
13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.
(A true story, repeated after old documents and reproduced in excellent rhyme.)
He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.
For I have a belly of glistening gold.
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—
I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.
I know that no happiness riches enfold.
For I am in truth a haughty fly.—
The fly went away, a bath to take.
That she when I’m washing may wait on me,
For I am now a beetle’s bride.
For handsomer beetle never did live.
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.
With envy will burst full many a creature.
And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.
And lavender oil on my feet then pour,
When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.
As maids of honour to wait on me too.
The blossoms white of the orange so fine.
And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.
The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,
The commoner insects amongst them frisk.
Are coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.
Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
The bridegroom however has flown far away.
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.
Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.
14. MIMI.
“By the hearth demurely spinning,
“But a free cat on the roof,
“In the air, with manners winning.
“On the roof, in grateful coolness,
“Music in me purrs, I sing
“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”
Wild and wedding-songs stream thickly,
And the melody allures
All the cats unmarried quickly.
All the young cats, plain or brindled,
And with Mimi join in chorus,
Full of love, with passion kindled.
Who profane, for sordid wages,
Music, but of harmony
Are apostles true, and sages.{530}
Each is his own flute and viol;
All their noses trumpets are,
Bellies, drums, and no denial.
In one general intermezzo,
Playing fugues, as if by Bach,
Or by Guido of Arezzo.
Like capriccios of Beethoven,
Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’d
By their strains so interwoven.
Magic notes without an equal!
E’en the heavens they shake, the stars
All turn pallid in the sequel.
And the wondrous tones delightful,
Then Selene hides her face
With a veil of clouds so frightful.
Scandalous old prima donna—
Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scorns
Mimi’s voice, to her dishonour.
Spite the envy of Signora,
Till on the horizon’s seen,
Smiling rosily, Aurora.
15. GOOD ADVICE.
Boldly woo, and, not aside,
Civil they will be to-morrow,
And thou thus wilt win thy bride.
Give, then, the musicians gold;
Though thou wish them at the devil,
Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.{531}
Of a woman speak not ill;
With thy sausages don’t quarrel
When thou hast a sow to kill.
All the more attend its shrine;
To the parson be thou grateful,
Send him, too, a flask of wine.
Like a man of honour, scratch;
If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,
Slippers get with all despatch.
Be not in an angry mood;
Smiling say, instead of reasoning:
“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”
For a shawl, straight buy her two;
Buy her golden brooches, dresses,
Lace and jewels not a few.
Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain
Heaven to bless thy self-denial,
And on earth to peace attain.
16. REMINISCENCES OF HAMMONIA.[88]
Wandering gladly on we view,
All of them blue coats are wearing,
All of them red cheeks are bearing—
O the pretty orphan children!
And the money boxes rattle;
Liberal alms upon them flow,
That their secret sires bestow,—
O the pretty orphan children!
Many a poor child kiss apart,
Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),
Give him sweetmeats as a present—
O the pretty orphan children!{532}
Throws into the box a shilling,—
For he has a heart,—then gaily
Follows he his business daily—
O the pretty orphan children!
Next bestows, but not before
Heavenward looking, hoping blindly
That the Lord will view him kindly—
O the pretty orphan children!
Servants, make to-day again
Holiday, and drain their glasses,
Drinking to these lads and lasses—
O the pretty orphan children!
Follows them incognita;
As she moves, her form gigantic
Sways about, in manner frantic—
O the pretty orphan children!
Music fills the lofty tent,
Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;
There are fed in sumptuous manner
All these pretty orphan children.
Eating many a nice tit-bit,
Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,
While like little mice they’re munching,—
All these pretty orphan children.
On an orphan-house wherein
There no feasting is or gladness,
Where lament in ceaseless sadness,
Millions of poor orphan children.
Many want their dinner e’en;
No two walk together yonder,
Lonely, sorrowfully wander
Many million orphan children.
17. THE ROBBERS.
Embraced me on the couch, the fox
Her worthy husband from my box
My banknotes quietly was stealing.
Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?
Ah! what is truth? In days gone by
Thus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.
I soon shall ne’er again behold;
I see that he who has no gold
Will very soon be quite forgotten.
In yonder realms of light I see,
My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,
So stealing is not your vocation.
18. THE YOUNG CATS’ CLUB FOR POETRY-MUSIC
Upon the roof was collected
To-night, but not for sensual joys,
No wrong could there be detected.
No song of love did they utter
In the winter season, in frost and snow,
For frozen was every gutter.
Come over the whole cat-nation,
But chiefly the young, and the young cat feels
More earnest with inspiration.
Is extinct, and a newborn yearning,
A pussy-springtime of poetry
In art and in life they’re learning.
Is now returning to artless
And primitive music, and naïveté,
From modern fashions all heartless.{534}
Roulades with the quavers omitted
It seeks for poetry, music-void,
For voice and instrument fitted.
Which often bungles truly,
Yet oft in art unconsciously
Attains the highest stage duly.
Dame Nature to keep at a distance,
And will not show off its learning,—in fact
Its learning not having existence.
And with these intentions elated,
It holds its first winter concert to-night
On the roof, as before I have stated.
Of this great idea so splendid;
I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,
That by thee it wasn’t attended.
With brandy elated greatly,
Three dozen pipers struck up the tune
That the poor cow died of lately.
In Noah’s ark were beginning
The whole of the beasts in unison
The Deluge to tell of in singing,
O what a mewing and yelling!
And even the chimneys all join’d in,
The wonderful chorus swelling.
Which sounded languid and shrieking
As Sontag’s voice became at the last,
When utterly broken and squeaking.
A grand Te Deum were chanting,
To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’d
By commonest frenzy and canting.{535}
The opera grand were essaying
That the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]
Composed for Charenton’s playing.
That an end was put to the party;
A cook was in consequence brought to bed
Who before had seem’d well and hearty.
Her memory, too, was affected,
And who was the father of her child
No longer she recollected.
Say who is the father, Eliza!
“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,
And simper’d and look’d the wiser.
19. HANS LACK-LAND.
A lofty object elates me;
Far different goats I now must shoot,
Far different game awaits me.
Thou canst in my absence daily,.
Play merrily on it, for thou hast learnt
To blow on the post-horn gaily.
To be the castle’s defender;
My German folk, like faithful dogs,
Will guard me and never surrender.
Their affection is almost provoking
My image is graven on every heart,
And every pipe they are smoking.
So simple and yet so clever;
One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,
Had been discover’d never.{536}
Your welfare shall be my sole glory—
O blissful thought! it makes me as proud
As the Gracchi’s mother in story.
And not by the light of mere reason;
I never could bear diplomacy,
And politics hate like treason.
Who had in the forest my training,
With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—
A foe to all nonsense and feigning.
No printed pamphlet invented;
I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,
“With cod for to-day be contented.
“The first donkey that comes about you;
“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,
“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”
I must end my long discourses;
My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,
Awaiting me with the horses.
With the ribbon all black-red-golden;
Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,
In the dress imperial and olden.
The purple robe so glorious,
The gift of the Saracen Sultan erst
To Otto, the Cæsar victorious.
Whereon, in each species of jewel,
A train of lions and camels is work’d,
And fabulous monsters and cruel.
Significantly blended
With eagles black on a yellow ground,—
The garment is really splendid.{537}
I reign’d with honest intention.—
Who knows? Posterity perchance
My name will never mention.
20. RECOLLECTIONS FROM KRÄHWINKEL’S DAYS OF TERROR.
The following orders now lay down
To all who love their city truly,
Enjoining them to keep them duly.
Who their rebellious spirit boast;
Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly)
The children of the soil are rarely.
For he by whom his God is spurn’d
Is sure at last to hold detested
All those on earth with power invested.
Must shut their shops without delay;
“Obey your rulers” should be ever
Both Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.
In any street without a light;
Where three or more in groups are standing,
Let them at once begin disbanding.
And lay them down in the guildhall;
And every kind of ammunition
Is subject to the same condition.
Ventures to reason, shall be shot;
He who by gestures dares to reason
Shall pay the penalty of treason.
So gracious, but withal so wise,
Who rule the fortunes of the city,
And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.
21. THE AUDIENCE.
(An old Fable.)
“In the Nile’s deep turbulent water;
“Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old,
“No patron of children’s slaughter.
“Find the sight of the children pleasant;
“So suffer the children to come, and first
“The big one, the Swabian peasant.”
And return’d, introducing slowly
The stalwart child from Swabia’s land,
Who made a reverence lowly.
“There’s no disgrace in that surely.”—
“Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,”
Replied the Swabian demurely.
Ask’d the other.—“In truth I’m descended
“From one of them only,” the Swabian replied,
“And not from the whole of them blended.”
“In Swabia as usual eaten?”—
“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d,
“They are not easily beaten.”
The monarch.—“Why, just at present
“The big ones are scarce, but in their place
“We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.
“On his ear many boxes lately?”
“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said,
“The former ones punish’d him greatly.”
“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”
“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,
“By the cobolds, who different made me.”{539}
“To love their fatherland dearly;
“So why hast thou left thy native home?
“Explain the reason clearly.”
“But turnips and sour-crout ever;
“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,
“I had left my fatherland never.”
Then the Swabian in deep supplication
Knelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant
“Their freedom once more to the nation.
“That he as a slave should perish;
“O, Sire, restore to the German folk
“The rights that they manfully cherish!”
The scene was really enthralling;
With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eye
The tear that was wellnigh falling.
“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;
“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,
“Of thy person I’ll give the possession
“To see thee safe over the border—
“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,
“The drums are beating to order.”
To a most affecting conclusion.
But from that moment the monarch allow’d
No more of his children’s intrusion.[90]
22. KOBES I.
When passions men’s minds were heating,
The German nation’s parliament
At Frankfort held its meeting.{540}
Appear’d the white lady ghostly,
The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—
They call her the Housekeeper mostly.
She is wont to make her appearance,
Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks play
With extra perseverance.
As she roam’d in the hours of slumber
Through the silent chambers, wherein were piled
The middle ages’ old lumber.
In her hands so pale and sickly;
She open’d the presses against the walls,
And the chests strew’d around her thickly.
There lies the bull all-golden,
The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,
And more of such fancies olden.
The purple frippery faded,
The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,
Now rusted and rot-pervaded.
At the sight, then with deep displeasure
She suddenly cries at the top of her voice:
“The whole of them stink beyond measure!
“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;
“And all the gaudy trumpery work
“Is swarming with noxious vermin.
“Once used at the coronation,
“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont
“To lie, as their lying-in station.
“Of the Emperor next elected;
“By the fleas in his coronation robe
“His health will be surely affected.{541}
“Whenever the Emperor itches—
“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas
“Who swallow up much of your riches.
“For rusty are now and all rotten
“The olden costumes—By modern days
“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.
“To Barbarossa quite truly:
“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,
“When I weigh the matter duly.’
“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,
“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves
“To be snared by genius or glory.
“All sons of the nobles reject ye;
“Select not the lion, select not the fox,
“The dullest of sheep elect ye.
“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;
“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,
“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.
“As Esop has shown in the fable;
“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,
“As the stork with his long bill is able.
“No Holofernes or Nero;
“He boasts no terrible antique heart,
“A soft modern heart has our hero.
“Yet in the arms of the helot
“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,
“Becoming a regular zealot.
“As president Kobes elected;
“He shared with them their last piece of bread,
“They held him vastly respected.{542}
“Had never been at college,
“And out of his head composed his books
“By the light of intuitive knowledge.
“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;
“With foreign wisdom and training he
“Had injured his intellect never.
“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit
“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!
“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!
“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,
“And from his lips incessantly
“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.
“His words with long ears are provided;
“A pregnant woman who heard him speak
“Gave birth to a donkey decided.
“His idle hours to flavour;
“The stockings that he with his own hands knit
“Have met with particular favour.
“By Apollo and all the Muses;
“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand
“A goose-quill laboriously uses.
“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting
“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne
“No means of amusement omitting.
“To life these Funken deserving;
“The valiant band will surround his throne,
“As the guard imperial serving.{543}
“And march over France’s borders,
“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair
“Bring under Germany’s orders.
“Intent on a scheme long suspended,
“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,
“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.
“Then Kobes will get in a passion,
“And sword in hand, will bring the French
“To account in a regular fashion.
“(By France from the empire estreated);
“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,
“When once the Cathedral’s completed.
“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;
“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,
“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!
“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,
“Shall be his ministers of state,
“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.
“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,
“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,
“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]
“Will be Kobes’s habitation;
“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,
“They’ll have an illumination.
“Into joyous barks will be breaking,
“And the three holy kings from the land of the East
“In their chapel will soon be awaking.{544}
“All dancing with rapture and springing;
“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains
“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—
With loud uproarious laughter;
Through all the resounding halls of the place
The echo rang wildly long after.
13. EPILOGUE.
Foolish words and empty story!
Better far the warmth we prove
From a cow-girl deep in love,
With her arms around us flung,
Reeking with the smell of dung.
And that warmth is better too
That man’s entrails pierces through
When he drinks hot punch and wine,
Or his fill of grog divine,
In the vilest, meanest den
’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,
Who escape the gallows daily,
But who breathe and live all-gaily,
With as enviable fate
As e’en Thetis’ son so great.—
Rightly did Pelides say:
Living in the meanest way
In the upper world’s worth more,
Than beside the Stygian shore
King of shades to be; a hero
Such as Homer sang is zero.
ADDENDA TO THE POEMS.[93]
THE SONG OF SONGS.
Inscribed by our great Maker
In Nature’s mighty album erst,
When moved to life to wake her.
When thus he show’d compassion!
The coy rebellious stuff he work’d
In true artistic fashion.
The song most sweet and tender,
And wondrous strophes are her limbs,
So snowy-white and slender.
O what a godlike notion!—
Where the main thought, her little head,
Rocks with a graceful motion.
Her bosom’s rosebuds dearly;
Enchanting the cæsura is
That parts her breasts severely.
No abstract poem this is!
With lips that rhyme deliciously
It smiles and sweetly kisses.
Grace shines in each direction;
The song upon its forehead bears
The stamp of all perfection.
Will humbly kneel to show it;
Bunglers are we, compared with thee,
Thou glorious heavenly Poet.{546}
I’ll bow in adoration,
And to its study day and night
Pay closest application.
No loss of time admitting;
So shall I soon with overwork
Be thinner than befitting.
THE SUTTLER’S SONG.
(From the Thirty Years’ War.)
I love each gallant fellow;
Without distinction I love them all,
The blue as well as the yellow.
I love the musketeers, too;
The officers, privates, and recruits,
And those of older years too.
I love the brave fellows sincerely;
And then the artillery,—one and all,
I love them truly and dearly.
I love the Italians and Dutchmen;
I love the Bohemians, Spaniards, and Swedes,
I love both many and much men.
Whatever his faith or persuasion,
Provided a man is sound in health,
I love him on ev’ry occasion.
Than his outside clothing,—God bless him.
Away with his cov’ring, that I to my heart
May fondly and warmly press him!{547}
With any mortal to dally;
And as for the man who can’t pay on the spot,
For him I keep a tally.
In the light of the sun smiles gaily,
And I am now drinking malmsey wine
From a fresh-open’d barrel daily.
POSTHUMOUS POEMS.
HORSE AND ASS.
With carriages, engine, and tender;
The chimney vomited forth its smoke,
Like a dashing old offender.
A grey horse, at the sound of the whistle,
Stretch’d out his head; an ass stood by,
Demurely chewing a thistle.
At the train; then strangely quivering
In every limb, he sigh’d, and said:
“The sight has set me a-shivering!
“A chesnut, or black, or bay horse,
“My skin with the fright its colour would change,
“And make me (as now) a grey horse.
“To be swept away in fate’s eddy;
“Although I’m a grey horse, I cannot but see
“A black future before me already.
“Will certainly kill us poor horses;
“For riding and driving will man prefer
“Iron steeds, if so great their force is.
“Alike for riding and driving,
“Good-bye to our oats, good-bye to our hay
“What chance have we of surviving?{549}
“He gives away nothing gratis;
“They’ll drive us out of our stables, and we
“Shall starve—what a cruel fate ’tis!
“Like mortals whose natures are blacker;
“We cannot fawn like men and dogs,
“But shall fall a prey to the knacker.”
Meanwhile the ass hard by him
Had quietly chew’d two thistle-tops,
As if nothing could terrify him.
With his tongue first licking his muzzle:
“With what the future may have in store,
“My brains I shall not puzzle.
“By a future that’s far from pleasant;
“But we modest asses are not afraid
“Of dangers future or present.
“May be done without, true, alas! is;
“But Mister Steam, with his chimney long,
“Can never replace us asses.
“Made by man with his senses besotted,
“The ass as his portion will always have
“Sure means of existence allotted.
“Who, moved by a calm sense of duty,
“Turn the mill every day, as their fathers have done,—
“A sight not deficient in beauty.
“The meal in the sack well shaking,
“And people eat their bread and their rolls,
“As soon as they’ve finished the baking.{550}
“The world will keep spinning for ever;
“And as changeless even as Nature herself,
“The ass will alter never.”
* * *
MORAL.
And the proud steed must hungry be;
But L——, the ass, I boldly say,
Will never want his oats and hay.
THE ASS-ELECTION.
The beasts’ republic decided
To be with a single ruler at last
As its absolute head provided.
Electoral billets were written;
Intrigues on every side were rife,
With party zeal all were bitten.
The asses’ committee was aided;
Cockades, whose colours were black, gold, and red,[94]
They boastfully paraded.
Who yet were afraid of voting,
So greatly they dreaded the outcry coarse
The long-ear’d party denoting.
As a candidate, greater and greater
Wax’d the noise, and an old long-ear, to his shame,
Shouted out “Thou art only a traitor.
“One drop of asses’ blood proper;
“No ass art thou, and I almost know
“That a foreign mare was thy dropper!{551}
“Quite answers the zebra’s description;
“The nasal twang of thy voice is allied
“To the Hebrew as well as Egyptian.
“A dull ass, of an intellect paltry;
“The depths of ass-nature to thee are unknown
“Thou hear’st not its mystical psalt’ry.
“That sound which all others surpasses;
“An ass am I, and each hair in the skin
“Of my tail the hair of an ass is.
“A German ass am I solely;
“The same as my fathers, who all were so brave,
“So thoughtful, demure, and so holy.
“Or practising gallantry gaily;
“But trotted off with the sack to the mill
“In frolicsome fashion daily.
“Their skins, their mortal covering;
“Their happy spirits, high up in the sky,
“Complacently o’er us are hovering.
“That we fain would resemble you ever,
“And from the path that duty points out
“We’ll swerve a finger’s breadth never.
“From such long-ear’d worthies descended!
“From every house-top I’d fain shout with glee:
“‘An ass I was born—how splendid!’
“Was of genuine German extraction;
“From my mother, a German ass of worth,
“My milk suck’d I with great satisfaction.
“Like my fathers who now are departed,
“To stand by the asses, yes, stand to the end
“By the asses so dear and true-hearted.{552}
“To choose your king from the asses;
“A mighty ass-kingdom we thus will found,
“They being the governing classes.
“As ostlers we will not demean us;
“Away with the horses! Long live, hurrah,
“The king of the asinine genus!”
The asses cheer’d him proudly;
They all, in fact, were national,
And with their hoofs stamp’d loudly.
They put as a decoration;
He wagg’d his tail (though nothing he said)
With evident gratification.
BERTHA.
An angel I thought my lover;
She wrote the dearest letters to me,
With kindness teeming all over.
Her relations heard this by dozens;
My Bertha was a silly thing,
For she listen’d to aunts and cousins.
And yet I have been forgiving;
Had I married her first, I ne’er should have known
Either pleasure or love while living.
I think of Bertha the faithless;
The only wish I have left, is that she
May pass through her confinement scatheless.
IN THE CATHEDRAL.
Through the sacred edifice skippèd;
Her size was small, and light her hair,
From her neck her kerchief had slippèd.{553}
A sight of its marvellous creatures,
Its tombs, lights, crosses; I turn’d quite hot
When I gazed on Elspeth’s features.
At the sacred relics entrancing;
In their under-petticoats all trick’d out,
On the window the women were dancing.
Stood by me, while thus I inspected.
She had a very pretty pair
Of eyes, wherein all was reflected.
From the sacred edifice skippèd;
Her mouth was small, her neck was bare,
From her bosom her kerchief had slippèd.
THE DRAGONFLY.
In beetle-land, in the present day;
The butterflies their addresses pay
To the beauty with amorous passion.
She wears a gauze dress of delicate hue,
With very symmetrical movements too
She flutters about in splendour.
In her train, and many a young gallant
Thus swears: “I’ll Holland give, and Brabant
“If thou wilt be my lover.”
“Brabant and Holland are nothing to me,
“I want but a spark of light, to see
“In my little chamber clearly.”
Her lovers hasten to join in the race,
And eagerly seek, from place to place,
A spark of light for the beauty.{554}
He blindly rushes on to his doom,
And the cruel flames the victim consume,
And his loving heart, like paper.
* * * *
It comes from Japan, this fable,
Yet even in Germany, my dear child,
Are plenty of dragonflies, devilish wild,
Perfidious, and unstable.
OLD SCENTS.
And smilingly offer’d entreatingly,
I push’d away, o’erpower’d completely
By the sight of the flowers that blossom’d so sweetly.
I feel that in all this fair world below,
Its beauty, sunlight, joy, love are bereft me,
And nought but its bitter tears are left me.
A part in life and its circle fair,
That I belong to death’s kingdom dreary,
Yes, I, a corpse unburied and weary.
The dance of rats at the Opera!
But now I hear the odious scuffling
Of churchyard rats and grave-moles shuffling.
A perfect ballet, a joyous train
Of recollections perfumed and glowing,
From the hidden depths of the past o’erflowing,
In spangled dresses (full short, I regret),—
Yet all their toying, each laugh, each titter,
Can only render my thoughts more bitter.
The scent that maliciously tells once more
Of days long vanish’d and hours of gladness—
I weep at the thought with speechless sadness.
MISERERE.
For their lives, in pleasure vying,
I envy them only their happy death,
Their easy and painless dying.
Their lips in laughter extended,
They joyously sit at the banquet of life,—
The sickle falls,—all is ended!
Still blooming with life, these glad mortals,
These fav’rites of fortune reach at last
The shadowy realm’s dark portals.
They die with a joyous demeanour,
And gladly are welcomed at her sad court
By Proserpine, hell’s Czarina.
Seven years I daily languish
For death, as on the ground I writhe
In bitter and speechless anguish.
May be buried,—my sole ambition.
Thou knowest that I no talent possess
For filling a martyr’s position.
At a course so unconsequential;
Thou madest a joyous poet, without
That joy that is so essential.
And melancholy make me;
Unless I get better ere long, to the faith
Of a Catholic I must betake me.
In thine ears my wailings dreary—
The best of humorists then will be lost
For ever—O Miserere.
TO MATILDA.
A shepherd here, to watch o’er thee;
I nourish’d thee with mine own bread,
With water from the fountain head.
Against my breast I warm’d thee proudly;
There held I thee encircled well
Whilst rain in torrents round us fell;
When, through its rocky dark bed pouring
The torrent, with the wolf, was roaring,
Thou feared’st not, no muscle quiver’d,
E’en when the highest pine was shiver’d
By the fork’d flash—within mine arm
Thou slept’st in peace without alarm.
Pale death! My shepherd’s task so dear,
And pastoral care approach their end.
Into Thy hands, God, I commend
My staff once more. O do Thou guard
My lamb, when I beneath the sward
Am laid in peace, and suffer ne’er
A thorn to prick her anywhere.
May quagmires ne’er disturb her peace,
May there spring up beneath her feet
An ample crop of pasture sweet,
And let her sleep without alarm,
As erst she slept within mine arm!
FOR THE “MOUCHE.”[95]
And in the moonlight, pale and weatherbeaten,
Lay buildings, relics of past ages bright,—
The style, renaissant, of these wrecks time-eaten.{557}
Rose single columns from the mass there lying,
And on the firmament high o’er them spread
Gazed they, as if its thunderbolts defying.
Mingled with many a portal, many a gable,
Sculptures where man, beast, centaur, sphinx were found,
Chimera, satyr,—creatures of old fable.
The emblems of Judæa’s God combining
With Grecian grace, in fashion arabesque
The ivy round them both, its tendrils twining.
Amid the ruins stood, unmutilated;
And in the coffin lay a corpse in sight,
Of features mild, with sadness penetrated.
By Caryatides, with necks extended;
And many a bas-relief on either side
Was seen, of chisell’d figures strangely blended.
With all its heathen deities misguided;
Adam and Eve were there, decorously
With figleaf aprons round their loins provided.
Hector and Helen, Paris (that wild gay man);
Moses and Aaron also stood between,
With Esther, Judith, Holofernes, Haman.
Phœbus, Apollo, Vulcan, Madam Venus,
Pluto, Proserpina, and Mercury,
God Bacchus, and Priapus, and Silenus.
(The ass for speaking seem’d, in fact, created),
And Abraham’s temptation too, and Lot,
Who by his daughters was intoxicated.
The Baptist’s head was in the charger given;
The monster Satan too was there, and hell,
And Peter, with the heavy keys of heaven.{558}
The loves of Jove, with his vile actions blending;
How as a swan he ravish’d Leda fair,
And Danaë, in golden shower descending.
With her fleet dogs, and nymphs attired so trimly;
And Hercules, in woman’s clothes array’d,
Distaff on arm, the spindle whirling nimbly.
And Israel near it, with his oxen lowing;
The Lord a child within the temple stood,
Disputing with the doctors proud and knowing.
These forms a while observed, in thought suspended,
I suddenly conceived myself to be
The corpse, in that fair marble tomb extended.
A flower full fair, of strange configuration;
Its leaves were yellow-tinged and violet-hued,
The flower possess’d a wondrous fascination.
On Golgotha, they say, ’twas first created
The day they crucified God’s only Son,
And the Redeemer’s body lacerated.
Each instrument of torture then invented
And used at His sad martyrdom that day,
Is in its calyx duly represented.
The flower, each emblem of their cruel malice,—
For instance, scourge and rope and crown of thorns,
The hammer and the nails, the cross, the chalice.
And o’er my body bending with compassion,
As with a woman’s sorrow, kiss’d my hand,
My eyes, and forehead, in sad silent fashion.
The passion-flower, the yellow-hued and rare one,
Changed to a woman’s likeness,—ah! and she,
She was my loved one, she was mine own fair one!{559}
At once I knew thee by thy kisses yearning;
No lips of flowers so tender are and mild,
No tears of flowers so fiery are and burning.
With steadiness upon thy face entrancing;
Thou look’dst at me with raptured look amazed,
Strangely illumined in the moonlight glancing.
The thoughts that in thy mind in silence hover’d;
A word when spoken has no modesty,
By silence is love’s modest blossoms cover’d.
How in our silent, tender conversation
The time pass’d in that summer night’s fair dream,
When joy commingled was with consternation.
The glow-worm ask, why in the grass it gloweth,
The torrent, why it roareth in the burn,
The west wind, why it waileth as it bloweth.
The rose and violet, why so sweetly scented;
But ask not what, beneath the moon’s soft light,
The martyr-flower talk’d with her love lamented!
Enjoy’d, as in the marble tomb I slumber’d,
That beauteous, happy dream. It fleeted by,
Too soon the moments of my rest were number’d.
Canst give us pleasure in a lasting fashion;
Vain barbarous life, for joy is ever known
To give us restless bliss, convulsive passion.
For suddenly arose a noise exciting,
It was a savage conflict, fierce and dread—
Ah, my poor flower was scared by all this fighting!
A quarrelling, a yelping, and a scolding;
Methought that many a voice I knew full well,—
It was the bas-reliefs my tomb enfolding!{560}
And are those marble phantoms all disputing?
The fearful clamour of the wood-god Pan,
Moses’s fierce anathemas confuting.
The True and Beautiful will wrangle ever!
Greeks and Barbarians in wild rivalry
The ranks of man are always doom’d to sever.
To this long squabble, and their passion towering,
Had Balaam’s ass not come upon the scene,
The voices of the gods and saints o’erpowering.
That sobbing sound of sheer abomination,
Made me cry out in terrible dismay,
And I awoke at last in desperation.
THE END.
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] I believe that a translation of one of Heine’s works—his “Book of Songs”—was published in this country a few years ago, but I have not met with it. An American version of the “Pictures of Travel” also appeared in 1855.
[2] One of the finest in the collection, “The Grenadiers,” which is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of Béranger, was written as early as 1815, when Heine was not sixteen years old, and before Béranger had written his analogous poems “Le Vieux Drapeau,” “Le Vieux Sergent,” &c.
[3] The Arminius of Tacitus.
[4] A suburb of Frankfort, on the further side of the Main.
[5] German litterateurs of more or less note.
[6] In the original, Hell and Kind, well-known writers. It is necessary to translate the names for the sake of the pun.
[7] The word “Gimpel” in the original has the double meaning of “bullfinch” and “blockhead,” and the point of this verse is therefore lost in a translation.
[8] See Heine’s Tragedy of that name.
[9] The Hindoo god corresponding to Cupid.
[10] Spring.
[11] The eminent Professor and Editor of Hegel’s works. He died in 1839.
[12] It is with real hesitation that I publish this lame and impotent conclusion to a legend the first two parts of which are in Heine’s best style.
[13] The three following verses are extracted by Heine verbatim from Schiller’s well-known “Lament of Ceres.” The version of them here given is taken from the translation of Schiller’s Poems published by me in 1851.
[14] Names for the three royal houses of Prussia, Austria, and Bavaria.
[15] See the account of the old Drum-Major Le Grand contained in the prose section of Heine’s “Pictures of Travel,” entitled “Book Le Grand.”
[16] A well-known republican poet and writer, born at Stuttgardt; at one time caressed, and afterwards banished, by the King of Prussia. He took an active part in the political troubles of 1848.
[17] See Schiller’s Play of “Don Carlos.”
[18] Evidently a satire on the King of Prussia.
[19] A famous theological writer, who died in 1850, at the age of ninety. He was formerly Counsellor of the Consistory (Kirchenrath) at Würzburg, and for many years Professor of Church History, &c. at Heidelberg.
[20] A polite allusion to the late King of Bavaria and his Walhalla.
[21] This refers to a poem of Freiligrath’s, entitled “The Dead to the Living,” for which he was prosecuted, but acquitted, in 1848.
[22] A hill close to Berlin.
[23] I have here attempted to imitate a wretched pun in the original.
[24] A “blind passenger” means in German a person who travels without paying his fare.
[25] Berlin.
[26] It will be remembered that the sun is feminine in German.
[27] Edward Gans, a distinguished German professor, and pupil of Hegel, whose works he edited. He died in 1839.
[28] One section of the famous Bremen Cellar is called the Rose, and is said to contain hock of between two and three centuries old. Another part is called the Apostles’ Cellar, and has in it twelve vats, known as the Twelve Apostles, also full of very old wine.
[29] See Freiligrath’s Poems.
[30] Well-known German writers.
[31] A race not unlike the Crétins.
[32] Shakespear.
[33] Alluding to the large number of petty states into which Germany is divided.
[34] A well-known poet and physician, born in 1786, and founder of the so-called Modern Swabian School of Poetry.
[35] A voluminous writer, born at Stuttgardt in 1807. He attacked Heine’s School of Poetry, and was repaid by Heine in the same coin.
[36] See Lessing’s “Emilia Galotti.”
[37] See the concluding words of the last scene but one of the above play.
[38] See the end of Schiller’s “Gods of Greece.”
[39] This refers to the time of Heine’s residence in Berlin, when he was intimate with these and other well-known personages. See Sketch of his Life, ante.
[40] The slightly irregular metre of this fine poem is a close copy of the original.
[41] A popular German poet, born in 1798, who was deprived of his professorship in the University of Breslau, in 1842, for publishing a volume entitled “Unpolitical Songs.”
[42] The last four verses were erased by the censors from the original edition.
[43] A famous theologian, poet, and orator, and one of Luther’s chief followers. He died in 1523.
[44] A Dominican friar, who was one of Luther’s first antagonists.
[45] The first edition ended with this verse, which was struck out by the censors, and replaced by the five following verses.
[46] The remains of John of Leyden and his two chief accomplices were exposed in these cages, which still remain in their old position.
[47] A youthful poet, who excited great enthusiasm in Germany by a poem, written in 1840 (when a war with France on the Eastern question seemed not unlikely), beginning,—
[48] The well-known French poet, who replied to the above poem of Becker’s, by another commencing,—
[49] A noted theologian, born in 1802, and one of the leaders of the orthodox party in Prussia.
[50] Called Arminius by the Romans.
[51] The famous historian and professor of theology at Berlin. He died in 1850.
[52] A well-known actress and voluminous dramatic author, born in 1800.
[53] The historian.
[54] A professor of gymnastics.
[55] A linguist and professor of languages and gymnastics jointly. In the latter science he was a pupil of Jahn.
[56] A monument has been recently erected in Dettmoldt to commemorate the victory of Arminius over Varus.
[57] A poetess of some reputation, who died in 1791. Her granddaughter, Helmine Chezy, born in 1783, was also well known as a poetess and romance writer.
[58] The great composer Mendelssohn was grandson to the famous philosopher of that name.
[59] The rest of this chapter was erased by the censors from the original edition.
[60] The great fire at Hamburg took place in May, 1842, or shortly before this poem was written.
[61] A nickname of a relation of Heine’s.
[62] A leading publisher at Hamburg, employed by Heine to publish many of his works.
[63] A noted critic, poet, and historian, born in 1798. He had literary quarrels with both Heine and Börne.
[64] For the full particulars of this story see Herodotus, Book II. c. 121.
[65] The French author.
[66] Carnival masks.
[67] Or Valkyriors; a race of martial virgins, described in northern mythology as riding in the air and fighting under Odin.
[68] This poem was formerly suppressed by the censors.
[69] This poem was originally suppressed by the censors.
[70] Meaning the founder of the Teutonic race.
[71] A noted brigand, executed in 1803.
[72] A Polish term of endearment.
[73] This poem was originally suppressed by the censors.
[74] A poet and writer, born in 1816, and persecuted by the police for his liberal writings.
[75] An ancient Hebrew word for Almighty.
[76] A Hebrew word for Lord.
[77] Doubtless John Martin is here meant.
[78] A recent poet of no great reputation. He was the joint editor of the “Rhine Annual” with Freiligrath and Simrock.
[79] The famous philosopher, who at one time resided in Munich.
[80] The eminent painter, who decorated the Glyptothek and Pinacothek at Munich. He was afterwards Director of the Berlin Academy.
[81] One of Hutten’s well-known works was entitled “Epistolae Obscurorum Vivorum.”
[82] This poem recounts the untimely fate of a playmate, who was drowned when trying to save a kitten. See Heine’s Reisebilder, chapter vi.
[83] A parody on the beginning of Schiller’s “Hymn to Joy.”
[84] See also this story in Book I. of the “Romancero,” p. 411.
[85] Meyerbeer.
[86] The famous composer, whose real name was Beer.
[87] See Book II. of “Romancero.”
[88] The tutelar goddess of Hamburg. See Heine’s “Germany.”
[89] Liszt.
[90] The hero of this story is the well-known Swabian poet George Herwegh.
[91] Funken (or Sparks) was the name given to the soldiers of Cologne before the Revolution, who used to knit when on guard.
[92] Drickes and Marizebill are popular masks at the Carnival at Cologne.
[93] These two poems were first published in the Musenaumanach for 1854.
[94] The national colours of Germany.
[95] This was the nickname of a young lady whose acquaintance Heine made towards the end of his life, who attended him in his last illness, and for whom he felt a strong affection. The present poem was the last composition of Heine, and was written only two or three weeks before his death. It is undoubtedly one of the finest of his works.