Part 2

Yet still in the rock may be heard in rhyme A wondrous tuning and ringing, As though he would from his youthful time A song of love be singing.

And a gold yellow drop of natrolite From the dark stone oft comes peeping; Those are the tears which Sir Basált For his crushed love ever is weeping.

THE BOULDER.

Einst ziert' ich, den Aether durchspähend, Als Spitze des Urgebirg's Stock, Ruhm, Hoheit und Stellung verschmähend, Ward ich zum erratischen Block.

Once high on the mountain-peak rising, In sunlight I shone like a flame; But height and position despising, A wandering boulder became.

They say of a thinker's bold sallies, He goes where the ice will not bear; I was beckoned to false hollow valleys, By snow maids, seductive and fair.

Thus driven by furious fancies, I went down the hill with a shout; But atoned for my youthful romances By a thousand years rolling about.

Cried the Glacier, his teeth sharply showing, Here, my blade, you'll be polished right well, And from my moraine-offal going, As a stranger be borne from the dell.

Then be scratched and be scraped and be driven, I rolled to a rock that was cracked, But with blows was knocked upward to heaven, Be twisted, be puffed, and be whacked.

Just try to be proper and decent In chaotic upheavals of mud! Down I sunk, down to periods recent, When the ice wall went off in the flood.

And rough is the rôle he unravels Who plays in an ice part--ah, me! On a flake I set out on my travels, And the ice cake soon melted at sea.

Plimp, plump! down I went to the bottom, For ages lay sleeping in clay, Until the heat finally caught 'em, And Glacier and Flood dried away.

Then the Sun, with a hotter light blazing, Shone down where the billows once played; And with the rhinoceros grazing, The mammoth was seen in the glade.

Now we from the driving ice fast-time Are useful, although it be late, And to heathen and Christian for pastime Give stones for the Church and the State.

* * * * *

Two geologists made up this ditty In the vale between Aaré and Reuss; And the inn where they sang it, so witty, Was all built of boulders of gneiss.

They sang with deep feeling dramatic, To the landscape of Findling so fine; Then went like two boulders erratic, Both tumbling and stumbling with wine.

THE COMET.

Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen Feld Wie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt! Ich leb' in steten Sorgen, Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ... Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu Zeit Dann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.

I a poor comet on high, you see, How windy and wild is my destiny! I live in constant sorrow, My light e'en I must borrow; I only appear from time to time, Then must wander away in gloom and grime.

By lady Sun I'm ever distracted, And to her by power magnetic attracted; Yet she will not endure That I should rise up to her, I must long for her from flights afar, For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.

The fixed stars all in bitter fun Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son. They say I still go tottering Here, there, among them pottering, And where I once on my way have been Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.

The planets regard me with scorn, and say That I always come bothering in their way. Dame Venus and her sisters Call me one of those crazy twisters, 'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small. Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'

That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp, And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp. And down on earth a-squinting, I see the learned ones printing, 'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be, Though he should spin to all eternity.'

E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly, Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely, And should he write--I ask all-- And am I such a rascal?-- 'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam, With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'

But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide? You don't know me yet from the innermost side. Some day I'll catch you--curse ye? And make you cry for mercy? Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope, For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.

GUANO SONG.

Ich weiss eine friedliche Stelle Im schweigenden Ocean, Krystallhell schäumet die Welle Zum Felsengestade hinan.

I know of a peaceful island Afar in the silent sea, Where around the rocky highland Pure billows are foaming free. In the harbour no ship is resting, No sailor is on the strand; And thousands of white birds nesting, Are the guards of the lonely land.

Ever pondering pious questions, They labour right faithfully, For blessed are their digestions, And flowing like poetry. For the birds are all 'Philosophen,' To the principal precept inclined; If the body be properly open, Then all will go well with the mind.

And the children pursue more enlightened What their fathers in silence begun. To a mountain it rises, and whitened By rays of a tropical sun. In the rosiest light these sages Look down at the future and say, In the course of historical ages We shall fill up the ocean some day.

And the recognition of merit Is theirs in these later days, For in Suabian land we hear it When the Böblinger Rapsbauer[5] says: 'God bless you--guano sea-gull, Of the far away coast of the west: In spite of my countryman Hegel, The stuff which you make is the best.'

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[Footnote 5: Böblinger Rapsbauer. A Böbling farmer who plants rape-seed. Böblingen is the Little Pedlington of Germany. It is possible that the author intimates by this name the title of a very obscure provincial newspaper.--Translator.]

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ASPHALTUM.

Bestreuet aie Häupter mit Asche, Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang, Heut giebt's bei trübfliessender Flasche Einen bituminösen Gesang.

Strew, strew all your heads with ashes, Hold your noses firmly and long; I sing by the lightning's pale flashes A wild and bituminous song.

The wind of the desert is sweeping, Like fire by the dead Dead Sea; There a Dervish appointment is keeping, With a maiden from Galilee.

'Twas ever a salty engulpher, In horrors excessively rich; In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur, And to-day it is piteous on pitch.

No washwoman comes with a bucket, No thirsty man comes with a mug; For the one who would venture to suck it Would wish that his grave had been dug.

Not a breath of a breeze is blowing, No waves on the waters fall, Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing, They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'

Two dark brown lumps were lying Like rocks on the Dead Sea shore, And while tenderly loving and sighing They sat down there--to rise no more.

For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would not Allow them to stir e'en a stitch, And seated in concert, they could not Rise up above concert pitch.

Then all the disaster comprising, They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great! We stick and we stick--there's no rising, We stick and forever must wait!'

There they sat like a lost pot and kettle, Their wails o'er the wilderness passed; They mummified little by little, And were turned to Asphaltum at last.

A little bird flew for assistance, Away to the townlet of Zoar; But benumbed it fell down in the distance, It smelt so, it fluttered no more.

And shuddering and pale as if flurried, A pilgrim procession went in-- From the smell of the benzine it hurried So fast you'd not say 't had been seen.

MORAL.

In love or in turning a penny Always study the field of your luck; In petroleum and naphtha full many Ere now have been terribly 'stuck.'

THE PILE BUILDER. A Lacustrine Lyric.

Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchten Ein Pfahlbaugerüstwerk im See Und fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchten Die Alpen in ewigem Schnee.

Damp smoky-like vapour is streaming O'er piles in the waters below. And far o'er the forest are gleaming The Alps in perpetual snow.

A man on a wood block is sitting In furs, for the wind-draught is strong: With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting, While he mournfully murmurs a song:

'See my face swollen up like the devil! Remark how in wind, as it spins, The history of Europe primæval With rheumatics and toothache begins!

'It is true that with stone-axe employment, Or with celts I can hammer my way, But no rational means of enjoyment Is known to the world in this day.

'Wild animals, wolfish or beary, Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown; And when I build huts on the prairie The buffaloes batter them down.

'And so, to the beaver a debtor, I build for myself in the flood; The further from firm land the better, A pile-dam in shingle and mud.

'But much I am forced to dispense with What ages to come will behold; I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with, But as yet there's no iron or gold.

'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy, But exchange is not yet understood: A good glass of beer would be healthy; But never a drop has been brewed.

'And then how my horror increases To think of our cookery rude! How we crack a pig's bones into pieces, And suck out the marrow for food.

'And how can the soul be expected To form an ideal of taste, When nothing but poles are erected Around in a watery waste?'

He sang With a voice hoarse and failing, With rheumatics his temper was grim; Two wild bears slipped over the poling, And, climbing, came snapping at him.

Down he threw, as with anger he flushes, Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay, Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes, And paddled with curses away.

Where once the Lacustrians plying, Drove many a pillar or stake, A strata of relics is lying 'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.

And he who this song made for singing, Himself through those layers has mined, And the relics to daylight upbringing, Felt pride as a mortal refined.

HESIOD.

Licht glühte des Helicon Klippe In Mittagspurpur und Blau.

Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountain In the purple of mid-day and blue, As by Aganippe's clear fountain A shepherd boy slept in the dew. In seeking the lambs of his master, From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood, But now all the strength of the pastor By the heat of the sun was subdued.

Then from sun-lighted fields of old story, Came Nine who were heavenly fair; Their limbs were of beauty a glory, And a glory of gold was their hair. They moved as in musical numbers, To the grove, Aganippe across, And laid by the youth in his slumbers, Their gifts in the emerald moss.

The first a bronze style like a feather, The second an inkstand of brass, The third a neat album in leather, The fourth a Bohemian glass, The fifth gave red wax and a taper, The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath, The seventh cigars wrapped in paper, The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.

The ninth bent her knee in the heather, And kissed him full tender and true, Then vanished on high in the æther As angels invariably do. Up sprung the young dreamer and panted And sang in a measure sublime, And swung, like a creature enchanted, A twig of wild laurel in time.

Then up came his friends 'mong the peasants And praised his good fortune that day, And led him with all his fine presents To Askra in festive array: And there all the wisest or rudest, Considered the matter in doubt, Until the Nomarchos as shrewdest To Böotia this sentence gave out.

'To him heaven opens a portal, No more at the flocks let him look. He is destined to be an immortal, Write poems--and publish a book.' They found him a rod neat and slender, In long garments they gave him to God; Then he wrote them the Farmer's Calénder, And Theogony too--Hesiod.

MODERN GREEK. BY ATHANASIOS CHRISTOPOULOS.

[Greek: Plouton den thelo Doxan den thelo Out' exousian Pote kammian.]

[Greek: Den thelo gnosin Oute kan tosên hOs' ein tou phullou Ki hos' ein tou xulou.]

[Greek: Toutes hê krues Ê phantasies hOso euphainoun Toso pikrainoun.]

TRANSLATION.

Reichthum und Ehre Nimmer ich 'gehre; Herrschaft und Würde; Wär mir nur Bürde.

I never desire Wealth or fame to acquire Honour and station Were but vexation.

And to be learned I'm no more concerned, Than in the thicket Are field-mouse and cricket.

All those cold cheating Phantom forms fleeting, 'Stead of reviving, Are vexing and driving.

MODERN GREEK.

[Greek: Thelo eirênên Psuchês galênên Chorous eroton Trelais kai kroton.]

[Greek: Thelo tragoudia, Kêpous, louloudia Kai choratadais 'Stais prasinadais.]

[Greek: Touta latreuo Touta xêleuo K' heis tout' apano Thel 'na 'pothano.]

TRANSLATION.

To me be given The sweet peace of heaven, A heart quiet resting, Frolic and jesting!

Dramas sweet ringing, Ball play and singing, Music entrancing, Wild whirling dancing!

Such I require, Such I desire, Rose-crowned, so To the bier I would go!

PUMPUS OF PERUSIA.

Feucht hing die Sonne. Des Novembers Schauer ging Mit leisem Frösteln durch das Land Hetruria.

_Anpumpen, to pump, is a German slang term for borrowing. Pumpus was the name of an Etruscan prince_.

Dim was the sunlight, and November shivering Ran with a light frost o'er the land Etruria, A gentle head-ache of the last night's origin, Went threading through the air with weary pinion-beat; A weak and bankrupt feeling lay on hill and dale, The sacred olive tree, whose last thin yellow leaf Thrilled in the wind, stretched mournfully its branches forth Barren and bare, as wanting what was needfullest; E'en the street pavement was suspicious. To the eye The old primæval basalt's firm material Seemed changed that day to very porous carbonate, And all things--all things--all things had a seedy look.

Such was the day when, in the early morning hour, A weary wight from Populonia's portal went; In vain the guard on the Cyclopean city wall Cast on the lord a hopeful glance for drink-money,-- He drew him back--and glared at him--and gave nothing. There where the road goes winding towards Suessulæ, And some old priest's strange ten-pin-towered monument Mournfully casts a shadow o'er the bleaching field, He paused awhile--in the reed grass stuck his javelin, And in his chlamys foldings sadly sought awhile, Then sought again--then made one more experiment-- Yet found not what he sought for.

Oh, who knows the pain Which rears up horse-like in a brave Etruscan heart When all things--all things--all things tend to poverty, And the horror of the Empty in the pocket dwells Where once the sesterce gaily by the denar rang!

The helm removing from his heavy-laden head, He raised his right hand to his forehead thoughtfully, His tearful glance went back to Populonia, And lurid lightning flickered from his hero-eye.

'Oh thou Chimæra Tavern!' said he mournfully, 'Was that the end of 't? Meant that the flock of birds Which three days past went croaking to the left hand side? Said that the oxen's, entrails enigmatical? Oh thou Chimæra Tavern, what is pleasanter Than entering as a guest into thy guest-chamber? There neatly waits the experienced tavern-keeper; And heroes round the cool wine are convivial; Around the noble hill-descended Dimeros. From drinking mouths comes wisdom flowing thoughtfully, While at the upper linen-covered long table, Where Tegulinum's augur to the latest hour, Sternly defying, stands it like a bronze column, And sings in glees; that wonderful astrologer;-- Oh thou Chimæra Tavern, tell--if possible-- Whither goes hurrying?--ha! what was't I nearly spoke?-- What word--thrice god-curst word--on which--oh horrible! Hangs the Etruscan fate--ay, that's it--Ready Money! Oh Fufluns! Fufluns! Bacchus--dark and terrible! Now all is gone--away and gone away--ha--hummm! And yet a deed, I swear 't shall now by me be done, Such as the stupid world in dream has never dreamed, Shuddering and cold--my name shall to posterity By this one deed be carried, awful, horrible, As true as I by this priest's grave am standing now, I--Pumpus of Perusia, the Etruscan prince.' He said--and went. A sunbeam fell uncannily On spear and helm. Cold light was o'er the cypresses, Deep the gale sighed--grave-deep--like moaning far-away.

The world was innocent then. As yet no one had known The law of contracts with its windings intricate, And e'en the sage in silver beard was ignorant Of loans or such a deed as money borrowing; Yet on that day i' the forest by Suessulæ One hero by another bold was borrowed from! This is the song of Pumpus of Perusia.

THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE.

Als die Römer frech geworden, Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden, Vorne beim Trompetenschall Ritt der Generalfeldmarschall Herr Quinctilius Varus.

When the Romans, rashly roving, Into Germany were moving, First of all--to flourish, partial-- Rode 'mid trumps the great field-martial, Sir Quinctilius Varus.

But in the Teutoburgian forest How the north wind blew and chor-rused; Ravens flying through the air, And there was a perfume there As of blood and corpses.

All at once, in sock and buskins Out came rushing the Cheruskins Howling, 'Gott und Vaterland!' They went in with sword in hand, Against the Roman legions.

Ah, it was an awful slaughter, And the cohorts ran like water; But of all the foe that day, The horsemen only got away, Because they were on horseback.

O Quinctilius! wretched general, Knowest thou not that such our men are all? In a swamp he fell--how shocking! Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking. And, besides, was smothered.

Then, with his temper growing wusser. Said to Centurion Titiusser, 'Pull your sword out--never mind, And bore me through with it behind, Since the game is busted.'

Scaevola, of law a student, Fine young fellow--but imprudent As a youth of tender years, Served among the volunteers,-- He was also captured.

E'en his hoped-for death was baffled, For ere they got him to the scaffold He was stabbed quite unaware, And nailed fast en derrière To his Corpus Juris.

When this forest fight was over Hermann rubbed his hands in clover; And to do the thing up right, The Cheruscans did invite To a first-rate breakfast.

But in Rome the wretched varmints Went to purchase morning garments; Just as they had tapped a puncheon, And Augustus sat at luncheon, Came the mournful story.

And the tidings so provoked him, That a peacock leg half choked him, And he cried--beyond control-- 'Varus--Varus--d--n your soul! Redde legiones!'

His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened, Who in the corner stood and listened, Remarked, 'Der teufel take me wenn He efer kits dose droops acain, For tead men ish not lifin.'

Now, in honour of the story, A monument they'll raise for glory. As for pedestal--they've done it; But who'll pay for a statue on it Heaven alone can tell us.

OLD ASSYRIAN--JONAH.

Im schwarzen Wallfisch zu Ascalon Da trank ein Mann drei Tag', Bis dass er steif wie ein Besenstiel Am Marmortische lag.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon A man drank day by day, Till, stiff as any broom-handle, Upon the floor he lay.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon The landlord said: 'I say, He's drinking of my date-juice wine Much more than he can pay!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon The waiters brought the bill, In arrow-heads on six broad tiles To him who thus did swill.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon The guest cried out: 'O woe! I spent in the Lamb at Nineveh My money long ago!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon The clock struck half-past four When the Nubian porter he did pitch The stranger from the door.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon No prophet hath renown; And he who there would drink in peace Must pay the money down.

BY THE BORDER.

Ein Römer stand in finstrer Nacht Am deutschen Grenzwall Posten, Fern vom Castell war seine Wacht, Das Antlitz gegen Osten.

Barritum civere vel maximum. Qui clamor ipso fervore certaminum a tenui susurro exoriens paullatimque adolescens situ extollitur fluctuum cantibus illisorum.--Ammian. Marcellin. xvi. 12.

A Roman stood in midnight lost, For the German line selected; Far from the castle was his post, His glances east directed. He heard a murmur and a fuss, And distant voices ringing-- No pæan of Horatius; Right savage was the singing: 'Ha--haw--haw! we got ye safe at last, Got ye by the skirt, too--got ye firm and fast, You scamp, you!'

With a maiden of the Chatten race He oft in love had meddled, And sought her in a lonely place, Disguised as one who peddled. Now came the vengeance--one, two, three! Now o'er the wall they're climbing, Screeching like cats in agony, With hatchet rattle chiming. 'Ha--haw--haw! we got you safe at last, Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast, You scamp, you!'

He drew his sword, he blew his horn, And like a warrior shook him; But vain were pluck and Roman scorn-- The savage Deutschers took him. They tied him fast, and in a word Away with him went bounding, And when the cohort came, it heard Far through the pine-trees sounding: 'Ha--haw--haw I we've got him safe at last, Got him by the skirt, too--got him firm and fast, You scamp, you!'

In the holy grove, toward the east, Were all the Chatten foemen, To celebrate the Odin feast Of Jul, with blood of Roman. He felt himself like roasted meat 'Twixt savage grinders going; Out sprang his blonde-haired darling sweet, And cried with tears hot flowing: Ha--haw--haw! I've got you safe at last, Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast, You scamp, you!'