PART II. 1826.

1. SEA SALUTATION.

Thalatta! Thalatta! 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.

The billows were heaving, 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! 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.

O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands! 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!

Thou valiant retreating heart! 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.

Heavily lies on the ocean the storm, 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.

Poor, but merry little ship, 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.

Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms, 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. 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.

In the North a woman is living, 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.

O thou black sun, how often, 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!

Peace, ye billows and sea-mews! 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.

The beauteous sun 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 ’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.

“How fair is the sun!”-- 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.

“Believe me”--here added my friend, 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. “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.

Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling, 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:

“Ye black-leggèd birds, “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!

“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden! “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! “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!”

Thus is he boasting and boasting, 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:

“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool! “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, “Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost, “And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off “Into eternal night.”

Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides, 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.

Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair light 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.

No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be! ’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.

Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed I The airy pantheon, The solemnly mute and fearfully moving Figures gigantic.

He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven; 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 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.

O ye Gods, I never could love you, 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-- 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.--

For evermore, ye ancient deities, 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.

By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d sea Standeth a youth, His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings, And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:

“O answer me life’s hidden riddle, “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-- “Tell me what signifies man? “From whence doth he come? And where doth he go? “Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”

The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal, 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.

There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward, 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.

’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deck 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.

The dark-grey clouds of the afternoon Deeper are sinking fast over the sea, Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them, And between them the ship drives on.

Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast, 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!

All this time the ship is fighting 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.

All this swaying and hov’ring and tossing 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!

As the winter-wanderer at evening Longs for a comforting warm cup of tea, 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.

Happy the man who arrives safe 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, But most of all the form of my loved one, That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.

O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one! 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!

The worthy man! we sat together, 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.

True men indeed! 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, No, in the best and politest society, Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.

Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round me 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.

Thou 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.

As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalks 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.

Red and blue-colour’d flowers! 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.”)

In olden legends, golden castles stood 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.

Hemm’d close in by gloomy mountains Proudly o’er each other rising, Lull’d to sleep by wildly-dashing Cataracts, like some fair vision,

In the valley lies the charming Cauterets. Its snow-white houses All have balconies; upon them Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.

Laughing loudly, downward look they On the chequer’d noisy market, Where there dance a male and female Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.

Atta Troll and his dear wife ’tis (Her they call the swarthy Mumma), Who are dancing, and with wonder The Biscayans are rejoicing.

Stately, and with solemn grandeur, Dances noble Atta Troll; Yet his shaggy partner’s wanting Both in dignity and manners.

Yes, I have a shrewd suspicion That she is too much accustom’d To the vulgar shameless dances At the Grand’-Chaumière at Paris.

E’en the excellent bear-leader, Who with chain conducts the couple Seems the immorality Of her dance to notice plainly.

And he oft bestows upon her With his whip fast-falling lashes, And the swarthy Mumma howls then, And awakes the mountain echoes.

This bear-leader six Madonnas Wears upon his pointed hat, To protect his head from bullets Or from lice perchance it may be.

O’er his shoulder there is hanging, Many-hued, an altar covering, Doing office as a mantle; Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.

He had been a monk when younger, Then became a robber-captain; Then, to join the two vocations, Took the service of Don Carlos.

When Don Carlos had to scamper With the knights of his round table, And his paladins were driven To pursue some honest calling,

(Thus Schnapphahnski turn’d an author) Then our knight became bear-leader, And across the country travell’d Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.

And in sight of all the people, In the market, they must dance now; Atta Troll must in the market Of this city dance in fetters!

Atta, Troll, who once was dwelling Like a haughty desert-monarch On the airy mountain, dances In a valley to the rabble!

And for filthy lucre merely He must dance, who formerly In the majesty of terror Felt himself so high exalted!

When his younger days recalls he, His lost lordship of the forest, Then growl forth despairing noises From the soul of Atta Troll.

Gloomy looks he, like a swarthy Moorish prince of Freiligrath;[29] As the latter drums but badly, So with rage he badly dances.

But instead of pity, wakes he Only laughter. Even Juliet From the balcony laughs downward At his leaps of desperation.--

Juliet has not in her bosom Any feelings; French by nation, Outwardly she lives; her outside Is delightful and enchanting.

Her sweet looks compose a blissful Net of rays, within whose meshes Is our heart fast held in prison, Like a fish, and gently struggles.

CAPUT II.

That a swarthy Freiligrathian Moorish prince with anxious longing On the big drum’s skin should rattle, Till with violence ’tis broken,

Is a very drum-affecting And a drumskin-breaking matter-- But just fancy the confusion When a bear has burst his fetters!

Both the music and the laughter Straight are hush’d; with screams of terror Rush the people from the market, Pale as death turn all the ladies.

Yes, from out his slavish fetters Atta Troll has freed himself Suddenly, and springing wildly, Through the narrow streets he hastens--

(Each one civilly makes way), Up the rocks he nimbly clambers, Then looks down, as if in scorn,--then Vanishes within the mountains.

On the empty market stand now Swarthy Mumma, and bear-leader All alone. In angry fury On the ground his hat he flingeth,

Trampling on it,--the Madonnas Trampling also, tears the covering From his ugly naked body, Swears at such ingratitude,

Such black bear’s ingratitude! For he constantly had treated Atta Troll in friendly fashion, And instructed him in dancing.

All he had to him was owing, E’en his very life. In vain they Offer’d him a hundred dollars For the skin of Atta Troll!

Then upon the poor black Mumma, Who, a form of silent sorrow, On her hinder paws imploring, Stood before the much enraged one,

Fell the much enraged one’s fury With redoubled strength. He beats her, Calls her even Queen Christina, Madame Muñoz and Putana.--

All this happen’d in a beauteous Sultry summer afternoon, And the night which then succeeded To that day was quite superb.

Almost half that night consumed I On the house’s balcony; Juliet was beside me standing, Gazing on the stars above us.

Sighing said she: “Ah, in Paris “Fairest are the stars of all, “When they on a winter evening “In the street mud are reflected!”

CAPUT III.

Summer-night’s dream! All-fantastic, Aimless is my song. Yes, aimless As our love and as our living, As Creator and creation!

His own will alone obeying, Galloping along or flying, Revels in the realms of fable My belovèd Pegasus.

He’s no serviceable, virtuous Carthorse of the citizens, Nor a battle-steed of party, With pathetic neighs and stamping!

Golden-mounted are the hoofs all Of my white and wingèd charger, Cords of pearls the guiding reins are, And at will I let him wander.

Bear me whereso’er thou wouldest! Over steep and merry hill-paths, Where cascades with mournful shrieking Warn ’gainst madness’s abysses!

Bear me on through silent valleys, Where the solemn oaks are standing, While primeval sweet traditions From their knotted roots have birth!

Let me drink there, while I moisten My dim eyes,--ah, now I languish For the sparkling wondrous water That imparts both sight and knowledge!

All my blindness goes! my gaze Pierces to the deepest rock-cleft, To the cave of Atta Troll, And I understand his language!

Strange ’tis how familiar to me This bear-language now appeareth! In my dear home have I never Heard those sounds in earlier days?

CAPUT IV.

Ronceval, thou noble valley! Whensoe’er I hear thy name, That blue flower so long departed O’er my bosom sheds its fragrance!

Then the glitt’ring dream-world rises Which for thousand years had faded, And the mighty spirit-eyes Gaze upon me, till I’m awe-struck!

Rattling sounds awake. There struggle Saracen and Frankish knight; As though bleeding and despairing Ring Orlando’s bugle-notes

In the vale of Ronceval, Hard beside Orlando’s gap-- Christen’d thus, because the hero, Seeking how to force a passage,

With his trusty sword Duranda Struck with such death-dealing fury On the wall of rock, that plainly To this day are seen its traces--

There within a gloomy hollow, Close surrounded by a thicket Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden, Lies the cave of Atta Troll.

In the bosom of his fam’ly Rests he after all the hardships Of his flight and the distresses Of his public show and travels.

Sweet the meeting! all his young ones Found he in that happy cavern Where with Mumma he begot them,-- Four his sons, and daughters two.

Well-lick’d maidens were the latter, Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters Brown the youths, the youngest only With the single ear is black.

Now this youngest was the darling Of his mother, who when playing Happen’d once to bite his ear off, And for very love she ate it.

He’s a very genial stripling, At gymnastics very clever, And he turns a somersault Like the posture-master Massmann.

Sprig of autochthonic humour, He his mother-tongue loves only, And has never learnt the jargon Of the Grecian and the Roman.

Fresh and free and good and merry, Soap he holds in detestation, (Luxury of modern washing,) Like the posture-master Massmann.

But our young friend is most genial Where upon the tree he clambers, Which along the steepest rock-side From the deep abyss upriseth,

And extendeth to the summit, When the family at night-time Gather all around their father, Toying in the evening coolness.

Then the old one loves to tell them What he in the world has witness’d; How he many men and cities Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,

Like Laertes’ noble offspring, But in one thing still unlike him,-- Namely, that his wife went with him, His dear black Penelope.

Atta Troll then also tells them Of the wondrous approbation That he, by his skill in dancing, Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.

He assured them young and old Had exultingly admired him, When he danced upon the market To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.

In particular the ladies, Those dear connoisseurs of all things, Had with vehemence applauded, And had ogled him with favour.

O the vanity of Artists! Our old dancing bear with simpers Calls to mind the time when late he To the public show’d his talent.

Overcome by self laudation, He would fain by act exhibit That he’s no mere boaster only, But a really first-rate dancer.

From the ground then sudden springs he, On his hinder paws upstanding, And, as formerly, he dances The gavotte, his favourite dance.

Mute, with muzzles gaping open, The young bears look on with wonder, While their father in the moonlight Capers here and there thus strangely.

CAPUT V.

In the cavern, by his young ones, Sick at heart, upon his back lies Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he At his paws, and sucks, and growls:

“Mumma, Mumma, swarthy jewel, “Whom I out of life’s wide ocean “Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean “Once again I now have lost thee!

“Shall I ne’er again behold thee, “Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only, “Where, set free from earthly trammels, “Thy dear soul is glorified?

“Would that I, alas! could once more “Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle, “My dear Mumma, which so sweetly “Stroked me over, as with honey!

“Would that I again could snuffle “That sweet smell, thy own peculiar, “O my dear and swarthy Mumma, “Charming as the scent of roses!

“But, alas! my Mumma’s pining “In the fetters of those rascals, “Who, the name of men adopting, “Deem themselves creation’s masters.

“Death and hell! These men unworthy “Aristocracy’s arch-emblems, “Look down on the an’mal kingdom “Proudly and disdainfully.

“Take away our wives and children, “Fetter us, ill-treat us, even “Kill us, for the sake of selling “Our poor hide and our poor carcass!

“And they think themselves permitted “Wicked deeds like this to practise “‘Gainst us bears especially, “And the rights of man they call it!

“Rights of man indeed! Fine rights these. “Tell me who bestow’d them on you? “Nature certainly ne’er did so, “For she’s not unnatural!

“Rights of man indeed! Who gave you “This great privilege, I wonder? “Reason certainly ne’er did so, “For she’s not unreasonable!

“Men, pray are ye any better “Than we others, just for eating “All your dinners boil’d or roasted? “In a raw state we eat ours,

“Yet is the result the same “To us both.--No, food can never “Make one noble; he is noble “Who both nobly feels and acteth.

“Men, pray are ye any better “Just because the arts and science “With success ye follow? We now “Never give ourselves the trouble.

“Are there not such things as learnèd “Dogs, and horses too, who reckon “Just like councillors of Commerce? “Do not hares the drum play finely?

“Are not many beavers adepts “In the art of hydrostatics? “Were not clysters first invented “By the cleverness of storks?

“Write not asses criticisms? “Are not apes all good comedians? “Is there any greater mimic “Than Batavia, long tail’d monkey?

“Are not nightingales good singers? “And is Freiligrath no poet, “Who can sing of lions better “Than his countryman the Camel?

“I myself the art of dancing “Have advanced as much as Raumer “That of writing. Writes he better “Than I dance,--yes, I the bear?

“Men, why are ye any better “Than we others? Upright hold ye, “It is true, your heads, but in them “Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.

“Men, pray are ye any better “Than are we, because your skin is “Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage “Ye but share with every serpent.

“Human race, two leggèd serpents! “Well I see the reason why ye “Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye “Hide your serpent-nakedness!

“Children, guard yourselves against these “Hairless and misshapen creatures! “My dear daughters, never marry “Any monster that wears breeches!”

More than this I’ll not report now, How the bear in his wild mania For equality, kept reasoning All about the human race.

For, to say the truth, I also Am a man, and never will I Tell again such foolish libels, Which are, after all, offensive.

Yes, I am a man, and better Than the other sucking creatures, And the interests of the race Ne’er will I renounce promoting.

In the fight with other creatures Faithfully I’ll ever struggle For humanity,--the holy Rights of man that he is born to.

CAPUT VI.

Yet perchance ’tis beneficial For us men, who form the higher Kind of livestock, to discover How they reason down below us.

Yes, below us, in the gloomy Mournful spheres of fellowship, In the beasts’ inferior strata, Brood resentment, misery, pride.

That which natural hist’ry ever, Equally with common custom, Has for centuries admitted Is denied with impious muzzle.

That false doctrine by the aged In the young ones’ ears is grumbled Which assails both cultivation And humanity on earth.

“Children!” Atta Troll thus growl’d, As he hither roll’d and thither On his carpet-wanting couch: “Unto us belongs the Future!

“If each bear but thought as I do, “If all beasts but thought so too, “With united forces would we “Take up arms against the tyrants.

“Then the bear would form alliance “With the horse, the elephant “Twine his trunk in loving fashion “Round the valiant ox’s horn.

“Bear and wolf of every colour, “Goat and monkey, e’en the hare “For a time would work in common, “And our triumph would be certain.

“Union, union is the’ essential “Requisite; alone, we’re conquer’d “Easily, but join’d together “We would overreach the tyrants.

“Union! union! and we’ll triumph, “And Monopoly’s vile sway “Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish “A just kingdom for us beasts,

“Full equality for all, then, “Of God’s creatures, irrespective “Of their faith, or skin, or odour, “Be its fundamental maxim!

“Strict equality! Each donkey “Be entitled to high office; “On the other hand, the lion “Carry to the mill the sack.

“As respects the dog, indeed he “Is a very servile rascal, “Since for centuries has man “Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.

“Yet in our free state we’ll give him “Once again his olden rights, “His prescriptive birthright, and he “Soon again will be ennobled.

“Yes, the Jews shall then enjoy too “All the rights of citizens, “And by law be made the equals “Of all other sucking creatures.

“Only dancing in the market “For the Jew shall not be lawful; “This amendment I insist on “In the interest of my art.

“For a sense of style, of rigid “Plastic art in motion’s wanting “To that race, who really ruin “What there is of public taste.”

CAPUT VII.

Gloomy, in his gloomy cavern, Squats, in his belov’d home-circle, Atta Troll, the misanthrope, And he shows his teeth, and growls thus:

“Men, the pert and vulgar fellows! “Smile away! From all your smiling “And from your offensive yoke too “Shall the coming day release us!

“I am always most offended “By that sour-sweet kind of quiv’ring “Round the mouth,--these smiles of man “Find I really past all bearing!

“When I in his pallid visage “See display’d that fatal quiv’ring, “All my entrails in my body “Turn right round with indignation.

“More impertinently even “Than by words, a man lays open “By his smile the deepest hidden “Insolence of his vile spirit.

“They are always smiling! Even “When by decency is needed “Real solemnity of feature,-- “E’en in love’s most solemn moment!

“They are always smiling! Even “When they’re dancing. In this manner “They degrade this noble science, “Which should be a kind of worship.

“Yes, the dance throughout all ages “Was a pious act of faith; “Solemnly around the altar “Turn’d the priests in mystic circle.

“Thus in olden time King David “Danced before the ark of cov’nant; “Dancing was an act of worship, “Was a prayer upon the legs!

“I have ever understood thus “Dancing, when upon the market “To the people I was dancing, “Who with their applause repaid me.

“This applause, I must confess it, “Often made me feel quite happy; “For extorting admiration “From one’s foes is very sweet!

“But in their enthusiasm “Still they smile. The art of dancing “Powerless is to make them better, “And they frivolous remain.”

CAPUT VIII.

Many a very virtuous burgher Smells but badly, whilst the servants Of a king with ambergris Or else lavender are scented.

Virgin spirits may be met with Which of green soap bear the odour, Whilst the criminal with rose-oil May have wash’d himself demurely.

Do not therefore turn your nose up, Gentle reader, if the cave of Atta Troll may not remind you Of Arabia’s sweetest spices.

Tarry in that reeking circle, ’Mid those miserable stenches, Where to his young son the hero As from out a cloud thus speaks:

“Child, my child, thou youngest offspring “Of my loins, now place thy one ear “Close beside thy father’s muzzle, “And suck in my solemn words!

“Guard against man’s ways of thinking, “They destroy both soul and body; “‘Mongst all men there’s no such thing as “Any ordinary man.

“E’en the Germans, once so noble, “E’en the very sons of Tuisco, “Our own primitive relations, “They too have degenerated.

“They’ve become now faithless, godless, “Even preaching atheism-- “Child, my child, be on thy guard, “‘Gainst both Feuerbach and Bauer![30]

“Never be an Atheist, “Monster void of all respect for “The Creator--a Creator “’Twas who made this universe!

“High above us, sun and moon “And the stars too (both the tail-less “And all those with tails provided) “Are reflections of His power.

“Down below us, land and sea “Are the echo of His glory, “And each living creature praises “Evermore His excellencies.

“E’en the smallest silver-louse that “In the aged pilgrim’s beard “In life’s pilgrimage is sharer, “Sings the great Eternal’s praises!

“In yon starry bright pavilion, “On the golden seat of power, “World-directing and majestic, “Sits a mighty polar bear.

“Free from spot and snow-white glitt’ring “Is his skin; his head is cover’d “With a crown of diamonds, “Which illumines all the heavens.

“In his face is harmony, “And the silent deeds of thinking; “If he signs but with his sceptre, “All the spheres resound with singing.

“At his feet bear-saints are sitting “Piously, who meekly suffer’d “While on earth, and in their paws they “Hold the palms of martyrdom.

“Ofttimes one amongst them rises, “Then another,--by the Spirit “Seeming mov’d, and straightway dance they “Their most solemn sacred dance--

“Sacred dance, where mercy’s radiance “Renders talent quite superfluous, “And the soul for very rapture “From the skin attempts to leap!

“O shall I, unworthy Troll, “E’er partake this great salvation? “And from earth’s debasing sorrows “To the realms of bliss soar upwards?

“O shall I, all-drunk with heaven, “In the stars’ pavilion yonder, “With the palm and with the glory, “Dance before the Master’s throne?”

CAPUT IX.

Like the tongue as red as scarlet, Which a swarthy Freiligrathian Moorish prince with scornful fury From his sullen mouth protruded,

So the moon from out the gloomy Clouds of heaven advanced. Afar off Cataracts are roaring, sleepless And morosely through the night.

Atta Troll upon the summit Of his fav’rite rock stands lonely, Lonely, and to the abyss Downward howls he in the nightwind:

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,-- “Him ye christen shaggy bear, “Growler, Isegrim, and Bruin, “And heav’n knows how many others.

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so, “The uncouth and boorish creature, “I’m the awkward dromedary “Of your scorn and cruel laughter.

“I’m the butt of all your wit, “I’m the bugbear, with whose terrors “Ye at night your children frighten, “Human children, when they’re naughty.

“I’m the joke of all your idle “Nurs’ry stories, well I know it, “And I now proclaim it loudly “To man’s paltry world below.

“Hear it, hear; a bear am I, “My descent I’m not ashamed of, “But am proud of it, as though I “Sprang from Moses Mendelssohn!”

CAPUT X.

Two dark figures, wild and surly, And upon their all-fours gliding, Force their way across the gloomy Grove of firs at midnight’s hour.

This is Atta Troll, the father, And his son, young master one-ear. Where the wood grows somewhat lighter By the stone of blood they halted.

“This old stone”--growl’d Atta Troll,-- “Is the altar where the Druids “In the days of superstition “Human sacrifices offer’d.

“O their cruelty accursèd! “All the hair upon my back “Bristles when I think upon it; “Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!

“Now these men are more enlighten’d, “And no longer kill each other “Merely in excessive zeal “For the interests of heaven.

“’Tis no longer pious fancies, “Madness, nor enthusiasm, “But mere vanity and self-love “Makes them now commit their murders.

“On the good things of the earth “Eagerly they’re ever seizing; “’Tis an endless round of fighting, “For himself each person stealeth!

“Yes! the heritage of all “Is the individual’s booty; “Of the rights, then, of possession “Speaks he, thinking of his own!

“Of his own! Possession’s rights too! “O, the cruel theft, the lying! “None but man could have invented “Such commingled fraud and madness.

“Private property was never “Made by Nature; pocketless, “With no pockets in our skins, we “Ev’ry one the world first entered.

“Not a single one amongst us “At his birth had such a pocket “In his body’s outer skin, “Where he might conceal his robb’ries.

“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being, “Who with foreign wool so nicely “Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness “To provide himself with pockets.

“Pockets! They’re as much ’gainst nature “As is private property, “As possession’s rights themselves are-- “Men in fact are but pickpockets!

“Fiercely hate I them! My hatred “Unto thee, my son, bequeath I; “Here upon this altar shalt thou “Swear to man undying hatred!

“Be implacably the death-foe “Of those wicked vile oppressors “To the very end of life,-- “Swear it, swear it here, my son!”

And the youngster swore, as once did Hannibal. The moon, all yellow, On the stone of blood look’d wildly, And the pair of misanthropes.

By-and-by we’ll tell the story How the young bear ever faithful To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall In another Epic praise him.

As respects friend Atta Troll, We will leave him for the present, Presently to come across him, All the surer, with a bullet.

All thy stealthy machinations, Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty, Now at length are terminated, And thy hour will sound to-morrow!

CAPUT XI.

Like some drowsy bayaderes Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring In their snowy shirts of clouds, Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.

Yet they soon become enliven’d By the sun-god stripping from them All the veil that’s hanging o’er them Lighting up their naked beauty!

Early in the morn I started With Lascaro on our journey Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.

So they call the bridge which leadeth Out of France and into Spain, To the land of west barbarians, Who’re a thousand years behind us,--

Yes, a thousand years behind us In all modern civ’lisation; My barbarians to the eastward But a hundred years behind are.

Slowly, almost trembling, left I France’s sacred territory, Blessèd fatherland of freedom And the women that I love!

On the middle of the bridge A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle, Misery in his eyes was lurking.

An old crazy mandoline With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he; Shrill the discord which re-echoed From the rocks, as in derision.

Oftentimes his figure bent he Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter, Tinkling harder then than ever, While the following words he sang:

“In the middle of my bosom “Stands a little golden table; “Round the little golden table “Stand four little golden chairs.

“On the golden chairs are sitting “Little ladies, golden arrows “In their hair,--at cards they’re playing, “But ’tis only Clara wins.

“As she wins, she laughs with slyness; “Ah! within my bosom, Clara, “Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner, “For thou holdest nought but trumps.”

Wand’ring onward, to myself I Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness Sits and sings upon yon bridge, That from France to Spain leads over.

“Is this madman but the emblem “Of the interchange ’mongst nations “Of their thoughts? or his own country’s “Wild and crazy title-page?”

We arrived not until evening At the wretched small posada, Where an olla-podrida In a dirty dish was smoking.

There I swallow’d some garbanzos, Heavy, large as musket-bullets, Indigestible to Germans, Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.

Fit companion to the cooking Was the bed. With insects pepper’d It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are Far the greatest foes of man.

Fiercer than the wrath of thousand Elephants, I find the hatred Of one tiny little bug, When across my bed it crawleth.

One must let them bite in quiet,-- This is bad enough,--still more ’tis If one crushes them. The stink then Keeps one all night long in torment.

Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble Is the fight with noxious vermin, Who a stench employ as weapons,-- Is a duel with a bug!

CAPUT XII.

How they rave, the race of poets, E’en the tame ones, singing ever And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely “The Creator’s mighty temple--

“Is a temple all whose glories “To our Maker’s fame bear witness, “Sun and moon and stars all hanging “In its cupola as lamps.”

Well and good, my worthy people! Yet confess that in this temple Are the stairs uncomfortable, Bad and inconvenient stairs!

All this up-and-down-stairs going, Mountain-climbing and this jumping Over rocks is very tiring To the legs as well as spirit.

Close beside me walk’d Lascaro, Pale and lanky, like a taper; Never spoke he, never laugh’d he, He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.

Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man, Dead long since, but yet his mother Old Uraca’s magic science Kept him living in appearance.--

That accursèd temple-staircase! It exceeds my comprehension How my neck escaped from breaking, Stumbling o’er a precipice.

How the cataracts were shrieking! How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees Till they howl’d! The clouds began too Crashing suddenly--bad weather!

In a little fishing cottage By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we Shelter and some trout for luncheon; Most delicious were the latter.

In an arm-chair was reclining, Ill and grey, the ferryman; On him his two pretty nieces, Like a pair of angels, waited.

Stoutish angels, rather Flemish, Seeming from a frame descended Of a Rubens; gold their tresses, Full of health their eyes, and liquid.

Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled, With a secret slyness in them; Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous, Giving pleasure to the fancy.

Dear, affectionate young creatures, Keeping up a sweet discussion, As to which drink would be relish’d Most of all by their sick uncle.

If the one the cup should bring him Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms, Then the other hastes to feed him With an elder-flow’r decoction.

“I’ll not drink of either of them,” “Cried impatiently the old man; “Fetch some wine, that I may offer “To my guests some better drink!”

Whether it was wine they gave me At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick By the name of Mum they’d call it.

Of the very best black goat-skin Was the wine-skin, stinking foully; Yet the old man drank with pleasure, And he seem’d quite well and joyous.

He recounted the achievements Of the smugglers and banditti Merrily and freely living In the Pyrenean forests.

Many old traditions also Well he knew: amongst the others Were the battles of the giants With the bears in times primeval.

Yes, the bears then and the giants Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry Of these mountains and these valleys, Ere by man they were discover’d.

But when man arrived, the giants Fled away from out the country Stupified, for little brains Are contain’d in heads gigantic.

And ’tis said the silly fellows, On arriving at the ocean, And observing how the heavens In its azure depths were mirror’d,

Cleverly supposed the ocean To be heaven, and plunged down in it, Full of godlike confidence, And were drown’d, the whole together

As respects the bears, however, They are gradually being Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly In the mountain still decreasing.

“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man, “One gives place unto another, “And when men are put an end to, “Then the dwarfs will be the masters.

“Yes, the clever little people, “Who the mountain’s womb inhabit, “‘Mongst the golden mines of riches “Digging and collecting nimbly.

“How they from their hiding-places “With their small sly heads keep peeping! “Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight, “And then trembled at the future;

“At the power their gold will give them; “Ah, I fear lest our descendants “Fly for refuge, like the stupid “Giants, to the watery heaven!”

CAPUT XIII.

In the black and rocky caldron Rest the waters deep of ocean; Stars, all pale and melancholy, Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.

Night and silence. Oars are moving. Like a splashing wondrous secret Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces Play the part of ferrymen,

Joyously and nimbly rowing; Ofttimes glisten in the darkness Their stout naked arms, illumined By the stars,--their great blue eyes, too.

By my side Lascaro sitting Is as pale and mute as usual, And the fearful thought shoots through me: Is he but a very corpse then?

I myself,--am I dead also, And embarking on my journey With my ghostly comrades by me To the chilly realm of shadows?

And this lake, can it be Styx’s Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina, In default of Charon’s presence, Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?

No! I am not yet departed And extinguish’d; in my spirit Is the living flame of life still Glowing, blazing and exulting.

And these maidens, gaily pulling At their oars, and o’er me splashing With the water dripping from them, Full of merriment and laughter,--

These two fresh and sprightly damsels Are most certainly not ghostly Chambermaids in hell residing, Waiting-maids of Proserpina!

That I might be fully certain Of their upper-worldliness, And by practical experience Ascertain my own existence,

Hastily my lips applied I To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples, And then framed this syllogism: Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!

When we reach’d the shore, again I Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens; In this coin, and no other, Would they take the passage-money.

CAPUT XIV.

Violet-colour’d mountain summits Smile from out the sunny gold-ground; To the slope a village clingeth, Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.

When I climb’d up to it, found I That the old ones all had flown, And that none were now remaining Save the young, who could not fly yet;

Pretty boys, and little maidens, Almost hidden in their scarlet Or white woollen caps, whilst playing At a marriage, in the market.

Still they play’d regardless of me, And I saw how the enamour’d Mouse-prince knelt pathetically To the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.

Poor young prince! Alas! he’s married To the beauty. She morosely Wrangles, bites him, and then eats him; When he’s dead, the game is over.

Almost all the day I linger’d With the children, and we chatted Like old friends. They fain would ask me Who I was, and what my business.

“Dear young friends, my native country “Is call’d Germany,” I told them: “Bears are found there in abundance, “And my business is bear-hunting.

“There I’ve torn the skin from many “Of their bearish ears, and sometimes “Found myself full sorely handled “By the paws of Master Bruin.

“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily “I was forced to keep on wrangling “In my own dear home, and found it “Get at length beyond all bearing.

“And accordingly here came I, “Some more noble prey desiring, “And I fain would try my forces “‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.

“He’s a noble adversary, “Worthy of me. Ah! I often “Have in Germany been victor, “When my victory ashamed me.”

When I took my leave, around me Danced the pretty little beings In a rondo, whilst thus sang they: “Girofflino, Girofflette!”

Full of charming impudence Stepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me, Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times, While with pleasing voice thus sang she:

“When the king I chance to meet with, “Then I make him two low curtsies; “When the queen I chance to meet with, “Then I make her curtsies three.

“But whene’er the devil happens “With his horns to come across me, “Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times-- “Girofflino, Girofflette!”

“Girofflino, Girofflette!” Sang the chorus, and with bant’ring Round my legs kept gaily whirling With their circling dance and sing-song.

Whilst descending to the valley That sweet echo still pursued me Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping: “Girofflino, Girofflette!”

CAPUT XV.

Rocky blocks, of size gigantic, All-misshapen and distorted, Gaze upon me like fierce monsters Turn’d to stone, from times primeval.

Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ring High above me, like their double; They’re the pallid counterfeit Of those wild and stony figures.

In the distance roars the streamlet, And the wind howls through the fir-trees; ’Tis a noise inexorable, And as wretched as despair.

Solitude most terrible! Troops of jackdaws black are sitting On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees, Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.

Close beside me goes Lascaro, Pale and silent,--I myself, too, Looking like incarnate madness, With grim death as my companion.

Wild and wretched is the country; Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I On the roots of yonder stunted Tree can marks of blood discover.

It o’ershadoweth a cottage, Which is modestly half-hidden In the earth; with meek entreaty Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee.

They who this poor cot inhabit Are _Cagots_,[31] surviving relics Of a race that deep in darkness Lives a sad despised existence.

In the hearts of the Biscayans Still is rooted fast the loathing Of Cagots, dark heritage From dark days of superstition.

In Bagnères cathedral even Is a narrow grated entrance; This, the sacristan inform’d me, Was the door Cagots went in at.

Once to them all other ingress To the church was interdicted, And by stealth they had to enter In God’s holy house, like felons.

There, upon a lowly footstool, Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there All alone,--as though infected, Sever’d from the congregation.

But the consecrated tapers Of this century flare brightly, And their lustre scares the evil Shadows of the middle ages!

So outside remained Lascaro, Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage Enter’d, and my hand extended Kindly to my suff’ring brother.

And I also kiss’d his infant, Who, close-clinging to the bosom Of his wife, suck’d greedily, Looking like a sickly spider.

CAPUT XVI.

When thou see’st yon mountain summits From a distance, they are gleaming As though deck’d with gold and purple, Proud and princely in the sunlight.

But when close at hand, this splendour Vanishes, and, as in other Earthly loveliness and glory, ’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.

What to thee seem’d gold and purple Is, alas! but common snow, Common snow, which, pale and wretched, Lives a weary life and lonely.

Just above me heard I plainly How the hapless snow was crackling, To the heartless cold winds telling All the tale of its white sorrows.

“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it, “In the desert waste the hours! “O these hours that seem quite endless, “Like eternities hard frozen!

“Hapless snow! O had I only, “‘Stead of on these mountain summits, “Fallen into yonder valley, “Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,

“Then should I have softly melted, “And become a brook, whilst fairest “Village maidens in my waters “Would have washed their smiling faces.

“Yes, perchance I should have floated “To the ocean, there becoming “Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d “To adorn a monarch’s crown!”

When I heard this pretty language, Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful “Whether such a brilliant future “Would have met thee in the valley.

“Comfort take! But few amongst you “Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen “Probably in some small puddle, “And become a piece of dirt!”

Whilst I in this friendly fashion With the snow held conversation, Came a shot, and from above me Fell to earth a tawny vulture.

’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro, Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features Still continued fix’d and solemn, His gun-barrel only smoking.

He in silence tore a feather 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.

Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him, As his shadow with the feather On the white snow of the mountain, Black and long, was onward moving.

CAPUT XVII.

Like a street there runs a valley, Known by name of Spirit-Hollow; Rugged cliffs on either side of’t Rise to giddy elevation.

On the widest, steepest slope there, Peers Uraca’s daring cottage Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley; Thither follow’d I Lascaro.

With his mother held he counsel In mysterious signal-language, As to how great Atta Troll Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d.

For we had explored his traces Carefully, and he no longer Could escape us. Now are number’d, Atta Troll, thy days on earth!

As to whether old Uraca Was in truth a mighty witch Of distinction, as the people In the Pyrenees asserted,

I’ll not venture to determine; This much know I, her exterior Was suspicious, and suspicious Was her red eyes’ constant dripping.

Evil was her look, and squinting, And the poor cows (’tis reported) Whom she look’d on, in their udders Had the milk dried suddenly.

It is even said that many Fatted swine and strongest oxen She had put to death, by merely Stroking with her wither’d hands.

She at times for such offences Was exposed to accusations To the justice. But the latter Was a follower of Voltaire,

Just a modern, shallow worldling, Void of faith and penetration, And the’ accusers sceptically Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.

Publicly Uraca follow’d Quite an honest occupation, Namely, selling mountain-simples And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.

Full her cottage was of suchlike Curiosities, and frightful Was the smell of fungi in it, Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.

There was quite a fine collection Of the vulture tribe display’d there, With their wings extended fully, And their monstrous beaks projecting.

Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mounted To my head and stupified me? Wondrous feelings stole across me, As I gazed upon those birds.

They’re perchance enchanted mortals, Who, by magic art o’erpower’d, To the wretched stuff’d condition Of poor birds have been converted.

Fixedly they gaze upon me, Sadly, yet with much impatience; Often they appear to throw Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.

But the latter, old Uraca, Close beside her son Lascaro Cowers in the chimney corner, Melting lead and casting bullets,--

Bullets that by fate are destined To destroy poor Atta Troll. How the flames with hasty motion Quiver o’er the witch’s features!

She incessantly keeps moving Her thin lips, but nothing says she; Mutters she the witches’ blessing, That the casting be successful?

Oft she chuckles and oft nods she To her son, but he continues Earnestly his occupation, And as silently as Death.

Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings, To the window went I, seeking For fresh air, and then look’d downward O’er the valley far below me.

What I saw on that occasion ’Tween the hours of twelve and one, I will faithfully and neatly Tell you in the following chapters.

CAPUT XVIII.

And it was the time of full moon On St. John the Baptist’s evening, When the wild hunt’s apparition Rush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.

From the window of Uraca’s Witchlike hut I excellently Could observe the spirit-army As it sped along the valley.

Capital the place I stood in For observing what was passing; I enjoy’d a full sight of the Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.

Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing, Yelping dogs and neighing horses, Notes of hunting-horns and laughter, How they joyously re-echoed!

On in front by way of vanguard Ran the wondrous game they hunted, Stag and sow, in herds enormous, With the pack of hounds behind them.

Huntsmen out of every region And of every age were gather’d; Hard by Nimrod of Assyria, For example, rode Charles X--.

High upon their snowy horses On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d The piqueurs, the leashes holding, And the pages with the torches.

Many in the wild procession Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman In the golden glist’ning armour,-- Was he not the great King Arthur?

And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark, Wore he not his green and glancing Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him All the’ appearance of a frog?

In the long train also saw I Many intellectual heroes; There I recognized our Wolfgang, By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.

Being damn’d by Hengstenberg, In his grave he cannot slumber, But his earthly love for hunting With the heathen throng continues.

By his mouth’s sweet smile I also Knew again the worthy William,[32] Whom the Puritans had likewise Cursed with bitterness; this sinner

Needs must join at night that savage Army, on a black steed mounted; On an ass, and close beside him Rode a man,--and, O good heavens,

By his weary, praying gestures, By his pious snow-white nightcap, By his grief of soul, I straightway Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!

Just for writing commentaries On the world-child Shakespear, must he After death, poor fellow, with him Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!

Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis, Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d; Who ne’er moved, except when praying, Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!

Would not all the aged maidens, Long accustomed to caress him, Shudder if they came to hear that Francis was a savage huntsman!

When he breaks into a gallop, The great William with derision Looks on his poor commentator Who at donkey’s pace goes after,

Helplessly and wildly clinging To the pommel of his donkey, Yet in death as well as lifetime Following faithfully his author.

Many ladies saw I also In the spirits’ wild procession, Many beauteous nymphs amongst them With their slender, youthful figures.

They astraddle sat their horses, Mythologically naked; Yet their long and curling tresses Fell low down, like golden mantles.

Garlands on their heads they carried, And with saucy backward-bending Supercilious wanton postures Leafy wands kept ever swinging.

Hard beside them saw I certain Closely-button’d dames on horseback On their ladies’ saddles sitting With their falcons on their fists.

As in parody behind them On their knackers, lanky ponies, Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d Women, looking like comedians.

Full of beauty were their features, But perchance a little bold; Madly were they shouting with their Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.

How they joyously re-echoed, Notes of hunting-horns and laughter, Yelping dogs and neighing horses, Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.

CAPUT XIX.

But, resembling beauty’s trefoil, In the midst of the procession Figures three I noticed; ne’er I Can forget those lovely women.

Easily the first one knew I By the crescent on her forehead; Like a statue pure, all-proudly Onward rode the mighty goddess.

High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic, Half her breast and hip disclosing; Torchlight, moonlight both were playing Gaily round her snowy members.

White as marble were her features, Cold as marble too; and fearful Was the numbness and the paleness Of that face, so stern and noble.

Yet within her black eye plainly Terribly but sweetly sparkled A mysterious, glowing fire, Spirit-dazzling and consuming.

O, how alter’d was Diana Who, with haughty chastity, To a stag once turn’d Acteon, And as prey to dogs abandon’d!

Does she expiate this crime now Join’d to these gallant companions? Like a wretched spectral creature Nightly through the air she travels.

Late, indeed, but all the stronger She to thoughts of lust awakens, And within her eyes ’tis burning, Like a very brand of hell.

All the lost time now laments she, When mankind were far more handsome And by quantity perchance she Now makes up for quality.

Close beside her rode a beauty Whose fair features were not chisell’d In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d With the Celtic race’s charms.

This one was the fay Abunde, Whom I easily distinguish’d By the sweetness of her smile, And her mad and hearty laughter!

Hale and rosy were her features, As though limn’d by Master Greuze; Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open, Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.

Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she, That the wind to lift attempted; Even in my brightest visions Never saw I such fair shoulders!

Scarcely could I keep from springing Out of window to embrace them; Ill should I have fared, however, For my neck should I have broken.

She, alas! would but have titter’d If before her feet, all-bleeding, In the deep abyss I tumbled,-- Ah! a laugh like this well know I!

And the third of those fair women, Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,-- Was she but a female devil Like the other two first mention’d?

Whether devil she or angel, Know I not; in case of women One knows never where the angel Ceases, and the deuce commences.

On her glowing sickly features Lay an oriental charm, And her costly robes reminded Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories.

Soft her lips, just like pomegranates, And her nose a bending lily, And her members cool and slender As the palms in the oasis.

On a snowy palfrey sat she, Whose gold bridle by two negroes Was conducted, who on foot By the princess’ side were walking.

And in truth she was a princess, Was the queen of far Judæa, Was the lovely wife of Herod, Who the Baptist’s head demanded.

For this deed of blood she also Was accurs’d, and as a spectre With the wild hunt must keep riding, Even to the day of judgment.

In her hands she evermore Bears the charger with the Baptist’s Head upon it, which she kisses,-- Yes, the head she kisses wildly.

For she once loved John the Baptist; In the Bible ’tis not written, Yet in popular tradition Lives Herodias’ bloody love.

Otherwise there’s no explaining That strange fancy of the lady,-- Would a woman ever ask for That man’s head for whom she cared not?

She was somewhat angry, may be, With him,--had him, too, beheaded; But when she upon the charger Saw the much-loved head lie lifeless,

Sore she wept, and lost her senses, And she died of love’s delirium. (Love’s delirium! Pleonasm! Love must always be delirium!)

Every night arising, bears she As I’ve said, the bloody head In her hand as she goes hunting, Yet with foolish woman’s fancy

She at times the head hurls from her Through the air, with childish laughter, And then catches it again Very nimbly, like a plaything.

And as she was riding by me, On me look’d she, and she nodded So coquettishly and fondly, That my inmost heart was shaken.

Three times up and downward moving The procession pass’d, and three times Did the lovely apparition Greet me, as she rode before me.

When the train at last had faded, And the tumult was extinguish’d, Still that loving salutation Glow’d within my inmost brain.

And throughout the livelong night I my weary limbs kept tossing On the straw (for feather beds Were not in Uraca’s cottage),

And methought: What meaning was there In that strange, mysterious nodding? Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me With such tenderness, Herodias?

CAPUT XX.

’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrows Shot against the white mist fiercely, Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded, And in light and glory melted.

Finally the victory’s won, And the day, the triumphator, Stood, in full and beaming splendour, On the summit of the mountain.

All the birds in noisy chorus Twitter’d in their secret nests, And a smell of herbs arose too, Like a concert of sweet odours.

At the earliest dawn of morning To the valley we descended, And whilst friend Lascaro follow’d On the traces of the bear,

I the time to kill attempted With my thoughts, and yet this thinking Made me at the last quite weary, And a little mournful even.

Weary, then, and mournful sank I On the soft moss-bank beside me. Under yonder mighty ash-tree, Where the little streamlet flow’d,

Which, with its mysterious plashing So mysteriously befool’d me, That all thoughts and power of thinking From my spirit pass’d away.

And a raging yearning seized me For a dream, for death, for madness, For that woman-rider, whom I In the spirit-march had seen.

O ye lovely nightly faces, Scared away by beams of morning, Tell me, whither have ye fleeted? Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?

Under olden temples’ ruins, Far away in the Romagna (So ’tis said) Diana refuge Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.

Only in the midnight darkness From her hiding place she ventures, And rejoices in the chase With her heathenish companions.

And the beauteous fay Abunde Of the Nazarenes is fearful, And throughout the day she lingers Safe within her Avalun.

This fair island lies deep-hidden Far off, in the silent ocean Of romance, that none can reach save On the fabled horse’s pinions.

Never there casts care its anchor, Never there appears a steamer, Full of wonder-seeking blockheads, With tobacco-pipes in mouth.

Never reaches there the languid Sound of bells, so dull and tedious,-- That incessant bim-bom clatter Which the fairies so detest.

There, in never-troubled pleasure, And in youth eternal blooming, Still resides the joyous lady, Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.

Laughingly her walks there takes she Under lofty heliotropes, With her talking train beside her, World-departed Paladins.

Well, and thou, Herodias, prythee Say where art thou? Ah, I know it, Thou art dead, and liest buried By the town Jerusalem!

Stiffly sleeps by day thy body, In its marble coffin prison’d; Yet the cracking whips and halloing Waken thee at midnight’s hour,

And the wild array thou followest With Diana and Abunde, With thy merry hunting comrades, Who hold cross and pain detested.

O what sweet society! Could I hunt with you by night-time Through the forests! By thy side Always would I ride, Herodias!

For ’tis thee I love the dearest! More than yonder Grecian goddess, More than yonder Northern fairy, Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!

Yes, I love thee! Well I know it By the trembling of my spirit; Love thou me, and be my darling, Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.

I’m the very knight thou wantest! Little truly it concerns me That thou’rt dead and damn’d already, For I’m free from prejudices.

My own happiness ’tis only That concerns me, and at times I Feel inclined to doubt if truly To the living I belong!

Take me as thy knight, I pray thee, As thy Cavalier servente, And thy mantle will I carry And e’en all thy whims put up with.

Every night I’ll ride beside thee, With the army wild careering; Merrily we’ll talk and laugh then At my frenzied conversation.

Thus the time I’ll shorten for thee In the night; but yet by day-time All our joy will fly, and weeping On that grave I’ll take my seat.

Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weeping On the regal vault’s sad ruins, On the grave of thee, my loved one, By the town Jerusalem.

Aged Jews, who chance to pass me, Then will surely think I’m sorrowing For the temple’s desolation, And the town Jerusalem.

CAPUT XXI.

Argonauts without a ship, Who on foot the mountain visit, And instead of golden fleeces Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,--

We’re, alas! poor devils only, Heroes of a modern fashion, And no classic poet ever Will in song immortalize us.

Yet we notwithstanding suffer’d Serious hardships! O what rain Fell upon us on the summit, Where no tree or hackney-coach was!

Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken, And in buckets it descended; Jason surely was at Colchis Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath!

“An umbrella! Gladly would I “Give you six-and-thirty kings[33] “For the loan of one umbrella!” “Cried I,--and the water dripp’d still.

Fagg’d to death, and out of temper, We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies Late at night, as best we could, To the witch’s lofty cottage.

There beside the glowing fire-place Sat Uraca, busy combing Her great fat and ugly pug-dog; Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,

To attend to us instead, And my bed she soon got ready, Loosening first my espardillas, That uncomfortable foot-gear--

Help’d me to undress, my stockings Pulling off; I found them sticking To my legs, as close and faithful As the friendship of a blockhead.

“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you “Six-and-thirty kings for only “One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I, As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.

Freezing and with chattering teeth, I Stood awhile upon the hearth; By the fire then driven senseless On the straw at length I sank.

But I slept not. Blinking look’d I On the witch, who by the chimney Sat, and held the head and shoulders Of her son upon her lap,

Helping to undress him. Near her Stood upright her ugly pug-dog, And he in his front paw managed Cleverly to hold a pot.

From the pot Uraca took some Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the Ribs and bosom of her son, Rubbing hastily, with trembling.

And while rubbing him and salving, She a cradle-song was humming Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled On the hearth the ruddy flames.

Like a corpse, all yellow, bony, On his mother’s lap the son lay, Sorrowful as death, wide open Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.

Is he truly but a dead man Who each night by love maternal Hath a life enchanted giv’n him By the aid of strongest witch-salve?

Wondrous the half-sleep of fever, Where the leaden limbs feel weary As though fetter’d, and the senses O’er-excited, wide awake!

How the herb-smell in the chamber Troubled me! With painful effort Thought I where I had already Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.

How the wind a-down the chimney Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded Of dejected dried-up spirits,-- Like the sound of well-known voices.

Most of all was I tormented By the stuff’d birds, which were standing On a shelf above my head, Near the place where I was lying.

They their wings were slowly flapping And with awful motion, bending Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing Their long beaks, like human noses.

Ah! where have I seen already Noses such as these? At Hamburg, Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street? Sad the glimmering recollection!

I at last was overpower’d Quite by sleep, and in the place of Wakeful, terrible phantasmas, Came a healthful, steady dream.

And I dreamt that this poor cottage Suddenly became a ball-room Which by columns was supported, And by candelabra lighted.

Some invisible musicians Play’d from out Robert-le-Diable That fine crazy dance of nuns; All alone I walk’d about there.

But at length the doors were open’d, Open’d wide and then advanced With a step both slow and stately Guests of wonderful appearance.

They were solely bears and spirits! Walking bolt upright, each bear Led a spirit as his partner, In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.

In this manner pair’d, began they Waltzing up and down with vigour In the hall. The sight was curious, Laughable, but also fearful!

For the awkward bears soon found it Difficult to keep in step With the white and airy figures, Who whirl’d round with easy motion.

But those poor unhappy creatures Were inexorably driven, And their snorting overpower’d E’en the’ orchestral double bass.

Oftentimes one couple jostled ’Gainst another, and the bear Gave the spirit that had push’d him Some hard kicks on his hind quarters.

Often in the dance’s bustle Would a bear tear off the shroud From the head of his companion, And a death’s head was disclosed then.

But at length with joyous uproar Crash’d the trumpets and the cymbals, And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d, And there came the gallopade.

To the end of this I dreamt not,-- For a stupid clumsy bear Trod upon my corns, and made me Cry aloud, and so awoke me.

CAPUT XXII.

Phœbus in his sunny droschka Lash’d his flaming horses onwards, And had half his course already Through the spacious heavens completed,

Whilst I still in slumber lay, And of bears and spirits, strangely Intertwining with each other In quaint arabesque, was dreaming.

Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d, And I found myself alone; Both my hostess and Lascaro For the chase had started early.

In the hut the pug-dog only Still remain’d. Beside the hearth he Stood upright before the kettle, While his paws a spoon were holding.

Admirably had they taught him Whensoe’er the broth boil’d over Hastily to stir it round, And to skim away the bubbles.

But am I myself bewitch’d? Or still blazes there the fever In my head? I scarce can credit My own ears--the pug-dog’s talking!

Yes, he’s talking, and his accent Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming, As though buried in deep thought, Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:

“Poor unhappy Swabian poet! “In a foreign land I sadly “Languish, as a dog enchanted, “And a witch’s kettle watch!

“What a shameful sin is witchcraft! “O how sad, how deeply tragic “Is my fate,--with human feelings “Underneath a dog’s exterior!

“Would that I at home had tarried “With my trusty school companions! “They’re at any rate no wizards,-- “Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!

“Would that I at home had tarried “With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant “Wallflow’rs of my native country, “With its pudding-broth delicious!

“I’m half dead now with nostalgia-- “Would that I could see the smoke “Rising from the chimneys where they “Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”

When I heard this, deep emotion Came across me; quickly sprang I From the couch, approach’d the fireplace, And address’d him with compassion:

“Noble bard, say how it happens “That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage? “Tell me wherefore have they changed thee “Cruelly into a pug-dog?”

But with joy exclaim’d the other: “Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman, “But a German, understanding “All my silent monologue?

“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that “Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle, “When we o’er our pipes and glasses “Held discussions in the beershop,

“Always harp’d upon the thesis “That by travelling alone we “Could obtain that polish, which he “Had from foreign lands imported!

“So, that I might wipe away all “That raw crust which stuck upon me, “And like Kölle might acquire “Elegant and polish’d manners,

“From my country I departed, “And while thus the grand tour making, “Came I to the Pyrenees, “To the cottage of Uraca.

“I an introduction brought her “From Justinus Kerner[34], never “Thinking that this so-called friend “Was in wicked league with witches.

“Kindly welcomed me Uraca, “Yet, to my alarm, her friendship “Kept on growing, till converted “At the last to sensual passion.

“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d “Wildly in the wither’d bosom “Of this wretched, worthless woman, “And she now must needs seduce me!

“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me, “‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous “‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong “‘To the poet-school of Swabia.

“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship, “‘And the drawers she wears are made of “‘Thickest leather--Ah, good madam, “‘Do not violate my virtue!

“‘Other poets boast of genius, “‘Others fancy, others passion, “‘But the pride of Swabian poets “‘Is especially their virtue.

“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of! “‘Do not rob me of the modest “‘And religious simple garment “‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’

“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman “Smiled ironically; smiling “She a switch of mistletoe “Took, and then my head touch’d with it.

“Thereupon I felt a chilly “Strange sensation, like a goose-skin “Being o’er my members drawn; “Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not--

“On the contrary, a dog-skin “Was it rather; since that fearful “Moment have I been converted “As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”

Poor young fellow! Through his sobbing Not a word more could he utter; And he wept with so much fervour, That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.

“Listen now,” I said with pity: “Can I possibly relieve you “Of your dog-skin, and restore you “To humanity and verses?”

But the other raised his paws up In the air disconsolately And despairingly; at length he Spake with sighing and with groaning:

“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I “In this dog-skin must be prison’d, “If I’m freed not from enchantment “By a virgin’s self-devotion.

“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin, “Who ne’er touch’d a human being, “And the following condition “Truly keeps, alone can free me.

“This unsullied virgin must, “In the night of Saint Sylvester, “Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35] poems, “And not go to sleep one moment!

“If she keeps awake while reading, “And her modest eye ne’er closes,-- “Then shall I be disenchanted, “Be a man,--yes, be undogg’d!”

“In that case, good friend,” replied I, “I at any rate can never “Undertake to disenchant you, “For I’m no unsullied virgin;

“And still less should I be able “To fulfil the task of reading “All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems, “And not fall asleep instanter!”

CAPUT XXIII.

From the witch’s entertainment To the valley we descended, And our footsteps to the region Of the Positive return’d.

Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres! Airy figures! Fev’rish visions! We find rational employment Once again with Atta Troll.

In the cavern, by his young ones, Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping, With the snore of conscious virtue, And at length he wakes with gaping.

Near him squats young Master One-ear And his head he’s gently scratching. Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting, And upon his paws he’s scanning.

Likewise by their father’s side On their backs are dreaming lying Innocent four-footed lilies, Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.

Say, what tender thoughts are pining In the softly blooming spirits Of these snowy young bear-virgins? Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.

Most of all appears the youngest Deeply moved. Within her bosom She a blissful twinge is feeling, And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.

Yes, that little god’s sharp arrow Through her thick skin penetrated When she saw Him--O, good heavens Him she loves, a living man is!

Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;-- Whilst before his foes retreating He arrived by chance one morning At the mountain in his flight.

Woes of heroes touch all women, And within our hero’s features Were depicted want of money, Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.

All his military chest, Two-and-twenty silver groschen, Which he had when Spain he enter’d, Was the prey of Espartero.

E’en his watch was not preserved him, But remain’d at Pampeluna In a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom, Costly and of genuine silver.

And with long legs swiftly ran he, But unconsciously whilst running Won he something that’s far better Than the best of fights,--a heart!

Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe! O thou most unhappy bearess! If thy father knew the secret, He would growl in frightful fashion.

As the aged Odoardo[36] Stabb’d Emilia Galotti In his pride of citizenship, So would also Atta Troll

Sooner have destroy’d his daughter, Yes, with his own paws destroy’d her Than permitted her to tumble In the arms of any monarch

Yet he at this very moment Is of tender disposition, With no wish to crush a rosebud Ere the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]

Tenderly lies Atta Troll In the cavern, by his young ones. O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings, Mournful yearnings for the future.

“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes “Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children, “All my earthly pilgrimage “Is accomplish’d, we must part now.

“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping “Came a vision full of meaning, “And my soul enjoy’d the blissful “Foretaste of an early death.

“Now, I’m far from superstitious, “I’m no giddy bear,--yet are there “Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven “Unaccountable to thinkers.

“Over world and fate whilst poring, “Fell I fast asleep, with yawning, “And I dreamt that I was lying “Underneath a mighty tree.

“From the branches of this tree there “Trickled down some whitish honey, “Gliding in my open muzzle, “And I felt a sweet enjoyment.

“As I blissfully peer’d upwards, “Saw I on the very tree-top “Seven tiny little bears “Sliding up and down the branches.

“Tender, pretty little creatures, “With a skin of rose-red colour, “While, like silk, from their dear shoulders “Hung a something, like two pinions.

“Yes, those rose-red little bears “Were adorn’d with silken pinions, “And with sweet celestial voices, “Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!

“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold, “And from out my skin there mounted, “Like a soaring flame, my spirit, “Radiantly to heaven ascending.”--

Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering Tender grunting tones; a moment Paused he, full of melancholy-- But his ears with sudden impulse

Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they, Whilst from off his couch upsprang he, Trembling, bellowing with rapture: “Do ye hear that sound, my children?

“Is it not the darling accents “Of your mother? O, well know I, “’Tis the roaring of my Mumma! “Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”

Atta Troll, these words pronouncing, Hasten’d, like a crazy being, From the cavern to destruction! Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!

CAPUT XXI

In the vale of Ronceval On the very spot where whilome Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew To the foe his life surrender’d,

There, too, fell poor Atta Troll, And he fell by cunning, like him Whom the base equestrian Judas, Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.

Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion, Namely his uxorious feelings, Was a snare which old Uraca Cunningly avail’d herself of.

She the growl of swarthy Mumma Copied with such great perfection, That poor Atta Troll was tempted Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.

On the wings of yearning ran he Through the vale,--oft stood he, gently Snuffing at a rock in silence, Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.

Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro With his musket, and he shot him Through the middle of his heart, whence Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.

Once or twice his head he waggled, But at last with heavy groaning Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he, And his latest sigh was--“Mumma.”

Thus the noble hero fell; Thus he died. And yet immortal Will he in the poet’s numbers After death arise in glory.

Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers, And his glory, grown colossal, On four-footed solemn trochees O’er the face of earth stride proudly.

And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch Will erect in the Walhalla, Writing on it this inscription, In true lapidary style:

“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse; “Devotee; a loving husband; “Full of sans-culottic notions, “Thanks to the prevailing fashion.

“Wretched dancer; strong opinions “Bearing in his shaggy bosom; “Often stinking very badly; “Talentless; a character!”

CAPUT XXV.

Three-and-thirty aged women, Wearing on their heads the scarlet Old Biscayan caps we read of, Stood around the village entrance.

One, like Deborah, amongst them Beat the tambourine, and danced too, And she sang a song of triumph O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.

Four strong men upon their shoulders Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph; Upright sat he on the seat, Like a sickly bathing patient.

And behind, as if related To the dead bear, went Lascaro With Uraca; right and left she Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.

And the Mayor’s Assistant gave them Quite a speech before the town hall, When the grand procession got there, And he spoke on many subjects,--

As, for instance, on the increase Of the navy, on the press, On the weighty beetroot question, On the curse of party spirit.

After fully illustrating Louis Philippe’s special merits, He proceeded to the bear, And Lascaro’s great achievement.

“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker, As with his tricolour’d sash he Wiped the sweat from off his forehead, “Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!

“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d “France and Spain from Atta Troll, “Thou’rt the hero of both countries, “Pyrenean Lafayette!”

When Lascaro in this manner Heard officially his praises, In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he, And quite blush’d with satisfaction,

And in very broken accents, One word o’er another stumbling, Gave he utt’rance to his thanks For this most exceeding honour!

Every one with deep amazement Gazed upon this sight unwonted, And the aged women mutter’d In alarm, beneath their breath:

“Why, Lascaro has been laughing! “Why, Lascaro has been blushing! “Why, Lascaro has been speaking! “He, the dead son of the witch!”--

Atta Troll that very day was Flay’d, and then they sold by auction His poor skin. A furrier bought it For one hundred francs, hard money.

He most beautifully trimm’d it With a lovely scarlet border, And then sold it for just double What it cost him in the first place.

Juliet then became its owner At third hand, and in her bedroom Lies it now in Paris, serving As a rug beside her bed.

O, with naked feet how often Have I stood at night upon this Earthly brown coat of my hero, On the skin of Atta Troll!

And o’ercome by sad reflections, Schiller’s words I then remember’d: “What in song shall be immortal “Must in actual life first die!”[38]

CAPUT XXVI.

Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor Mumma Is a woman! Frailty Is her name! Alas! all women Are as frail as any porcelain.

When by fate’s hand she was parted From her glorious noble husband, She by no means died of sorrow, Nor succumb’d to her affliction.

On the contrary, she gaily Went on living, went on dancing As before, with ardour wooing For the public’s daily plaudits.

Finally she found a solid Situation, and provision For the whole of life, at Paris In the famed _Jardin des Plantes_.

When I chanced the other Sunday With my Juliet to go thither And expounded Nature to her, Of the plants and beasts conversing,

Showing the giraffes and cedars Of Mount Lebanon, the mighty Dromedary, the gold pheasants, And the zebra,--as we chatted

It so happen’d that at length we Stood before the pit’s close railing Where the bears are all collected,-- Gracious heavens, what saw we there!

An enormous desert-bear From Siberia, white and hairy, With a lady-bear was playing A too-tender game of love there.

And the latter was our Mumma! Was the wife of Atta Troll! Well I knew her by the tender Humid glances of her eye.

Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter! She it was,--yes, Madame Mumma With a Russian is now living, With a Northern wild barbarian!

With a simp’ring face a negro Who approach’d us, thus address’d me: “Is there any sight more pleasing “Than to see two lovers happy?”

I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir, “I’ve the honour of addressing?” But the other cried with wonder: “Don’t you really recollect me?

“Why, the Moorish prince am I “Who in Freiligrath was drumming; “Things in Germany went badly, “I was far too isolated.

“Here, however, where as keeper I am station’d, where I’m living ’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigers Of my home within the tropics,

“Here I find it much more pleasant Than your German fairs attending, Where I day by day was drumming And was fed so very badly.

“I quite recently was married To a fair cook from Alsatia; When within her arms reposing Feel I then at home completely.

“Her dear feet remind me closely Of our darling elephants; When she speaks in French, her language My black mother-tongue resembles.

“Oft she scolds me, and I think then Of the rattling of that drum Which had skulls around it hanging; Snake and lion fled before it.

“Yet with feeling in the moonlight Weeps she, like a crocodile Peeping from the tepid river To enjoy a little coolness.

“And she gives me charming tit-bits, And I thrive upon them, eating Once again, as on the Niger, With old African enjoyment.

“I am getting fat; my belly’s 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.)

“Where in heaven, Master Louis, Did you pick up all this crazy Nonsense?”--these the very words were hich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.

When he read the well-known poem Of Orlando’s frantic doings, Which politely Ariosto To his Eminence inscribed.

Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen, Yes, I round thy lips see plainly Hov’ring those exact expressions, By the same sly smile attended.

Often dost thou laugh whilst reading, Yet at intervals thy forehead Solemnly is wrinkled over, And these thoughts then steal across thee:

“Sounds it not like those young visions That I dreamt once with Chamisso, And Brentano and Fouqué, In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]

“Is it not the dear notes rising From the long-lost forest chapel? Sound the well-known cap and bells not Roguishly at intervals?

“In the nightingale’s sweet chorus Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass, Dull and growling, interchanging In its turn with spirit-whispers!

“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom! Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy! Dying sighs, which suddenly Into laughter are converted!”--

Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tis From the long departed dream-time; Save that modern quavers often ’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.

Signs of trembling thou’lt discover Here and there, despite the boasting; I commend this little poem To thy well-proved gentleness!

Ah! perchance it is the last free Forest-song of the Romantic; In the daytime’s wild confusion Will it sadly die away.

Other times and other birds too! Other birds and other music! What a crackling, like the geese’s Who preserved the Capitol!

What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,. While their claws hold farthing rushlights; Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle With the mighty thunderbolt!

What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis; Sick of love, they now are hating, And henceforward, ’stead of Venus, Draw the chariot of Bellona!

What a humming, world-convulsing! ’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers Of the springtime of the people, Smitten with a sudden frenzy!

Other times and other birds too! Other birds and other music! They perchance could give me pleasure Had I only other ears!

GERMANY.[40]

A WINTER TALE.

CAPUT I.

In the mournful month of November ’twas, The winter days had returnèd, The wind from the trees the foliage tore, When I tow’rds Germany journied.

And when at length to the frontier I came I felt a mightier throbbing Within my breast, tears fill’d my eyes, And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.

And when I the German language heard, Strange feelings each other succeeding, I felt precisely as though my heart Right pleasantly were bleeding.

A little maiden sang to the harp; Real feeling her song was conveying, Though false was her voice, and yet I felt Deep moved at hearing her playing.

She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes, Of sacrifices, and meeting Again on high, in yon better world Where vanish our sorrows so fleeting.

She sang of this earthly valley of tears, Of joys which so soon have vanish’d, Of yonder, where revels the glorified soul In eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.

The song of renunciation she sang, The heavenly eiapopeia, Wherewith the people, the booby throng, Are hush’d when they soothing require.

I know the tune, and I know the text, I know the people who wrote it; I know that in secret they drink but wine, And in public a wickedness vote it.

A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too, Shall be now for your benefit given! Our object is, that here on earth We may mount to the realms of heaven.

On earth we fain would happy be, Nor starve for the sake of the stronger; The idle stomach shall gorge itself With the fruit of hard labour no longer.

Bread grows on the earth for every one, Enough, and e’en in redundance, And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy, And sugarplums too in abundance.

Yes, sugarplums for every one, As soon as the plums are provided; To angels and sparrows we’re quite content That heaven should be confided.

If after death our pinions should grow, We’ll pay you a visit auspicious In regions above, and with you we’ll eat Sweet tarts and cakes delicious.

A song that’s new, and a better one, too, Resounds like fiddle and flute now; The Miserere’s at last at an end, The funeral bells are mute now.

The maiden Europe has been betroth’d To the handsome Genius Freedom; They clasp and kiss each other with warmth, As their newborn passions lead ’em.

The priestly blessing may absent be, But the wedding is still a wedding; So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride, And the future fruit of their bedding!

An epithalamium is my song, My latest and best creation; Within my soul are shooting the stars That proclaim its inauguration.

Those stars inspired blaze wildly on In torrents of flame, and with wonder I feel myself full of unearthly strength, I could rend e’en oaks asunder!

Since I on Germany’s ground have trod, I’m pervaded by magical juices; The giant has touch’d his mother once more, And the contact new vigour produces.

CAPUT II.

Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thus And sung by the little maiden, The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk, As soon as the coach was unladen.

They poked their noses in every thing, Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking; They sought for jewels, prohibited books, And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.

Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk! Ye will find in it really nothing; My contraband goods I carry about In my head, not hid in my clothing.

Point lace is there, that’s finer far Than Brussels or Mechlin laces; If once I unpack my point, ’twill prick And cruelly scratch your faces.

In my head I carry my jewelry all, The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid, The new god’s temple-ornaments rich, The god as yet not comprehended.

And many books also you’d see in my head, If the top were only off it! My head is a twittering bird’s nest, full Of books that they gladly would forfeit.

Believe me that matters are no worse off In the library e’en of the devil; E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41] ne’er wrote Any works that were half so evil.

A passenger who stood by my side Remark’d that we now had before us The famous Prussian Zollverein, The customhouses’ vast chorus.

“The Zollverein”--thus he observed,-- “Will found our nationality, “And join our scatter’d fatherland “In bonds of cordiality.

“’Twill give us external unity,-- “That kind that’s material and real: “The censorship gives us the other kind, “That’s ghostly and ideal.

“It gives us internal unity, “In thought as well as in feelings; “A united Germany need we to rule “Our outward and inward dealings.”

CAPUT III.

In the old cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle Lie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes; (Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born, Who the writer of so much trash is!)

As the smallest of poets I’d sooner live At Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river, Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle, And so be extinguish’d for ever.

In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogs Are ennui’d, and humbly implore us: “O stranger, prythee give us a kick, And to life for a time thus restore us.”

I saunter’d along in this tedious place For an hour, with great perseverance, And saw that the Prussian soldiery Are not the least changed in appearance.

The high red collar still they wear, With the same grey mantle below it-- (The Red betokens the blood of the French, Sang Körner the youthful poet).

They are still the wooden pedantic race, In every motion displaying The same right angle, and every face A frigid conceit still betraying.

They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts, Stuck up as straight as a needle, Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stick Once used as the best means to wheedle.

Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod, They carry it now inside them; Familiar _Du_ will recall the old _Er_ Wherein they were wont to pride them.

The long mustachio nothing more Than the pigtail of old discloses The tail that formerly hung behind Is hanging right under their noses.

I was not displeased with the new costume Of the cavalry, I must confess it; And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in fact With the steel point above it, to dress it.

It seems so knightly, and takes one back To the sweet romance of past ages, To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon, Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.

The middle ages it calls to mind, With their squires and noble inferiors, Who in their bosoms fidelity bore, And escutcheons upon their posteriors.

Crusades and tourneys it brings back too, And love, and respect at a distance, And times of faith, ere printing was known, When newspapers had no existence.

Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it shows An intellect truly enchanting! Right royal indeed the invention was, The _point_ is really not wanting!

If a storm should arise, a peak like this (The thought is terribly fright’ning) On your romantic head might attract The heavens’ most modern lightning!

At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms, I saw the bird detested Yet once again. With poisonous glare His eyes upon me rested.

Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fall In my hands, thou creature perfidious, I would tear thy feathers from off thy back, And hack off thy talons so hideous!

And then I would stick thee high up on a pole In the air, thou wicked freebooter, And then to the joyful shooting match Invite each Rhenish sharpshooter.

As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down, The crown and sceptre shall proudly Reward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow, “Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]

CAPUT IV.

’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne, The Rhine was past me rushing, The air of Germany on me breath’d, And I felt its influence gushing

Upon my appetite. I ate Some omelets, together with bacon; And as they were salt, some Rhenish wine Was by me also taken.

The Rhenish wine gleams like very gold, 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.

So sweet a tickling attacks the nose, One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder; It drove me out in the darkening night, Through the echoing streets to wander.

The houses of stone upon me gazed, As if wishing to tell me the mysteries And legends of times that have long gone by,-- The town of Cologne’s old histories.

Yes, here it was that the clergy of yore Dragg’d on their pious existence; Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preserved By Ulrich von Hutten’s[43] assistance.

’Twas here that the nuns and monks once danced In mediæval gyrations, Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44] by name, Wrote his bitter denunciations.

’Twas here that the flames of the funeral pile Both books and men once swallow’d; The bells rang merrily all the while, And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.

Stupidity here and spitefulness Like dogs in the street coquetted; In religious hatred the brood still exists, Though greatly to be regretted,

But see, where the moonlight yonder gleams, A form of a monstrous sort is! As black as the devil it rears its head,-- Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.

’Twas meant a bastile of the spirit to be, And the cunning papists bethought them: “In this prison gigantic shall pine away German intellects, when we have caught them.”

Then Luther appear’d, and soon by his mouth A thundering “Halt!” was spoken. Since then the Cathedral no progress has made In building, the charm being broken.

It never was finish’d, and this is as well, For its very non-termination A monument makes it of German strength And Protestant reformation.

Ye Cathedral-Society’s members vain, With powerless hands have ye risen To continue the work that so long has been stopp’d, And complete the ancient prison.

O foolish delusion! In vain will ye shake The money-boxes so bootless, And beg of the Jews and heretics too,-- Your labour is idle and fruitless.

In vain will Liszt on behalf of the fund Make concerts all the fashion, And all in vain will a talented king Declaim with impetuous passion.

Cologne Cathedral will finish’d be ne’er, Although the Swabian Solons Have sent a shipload full of stones To help it, nolens volens.

’Twill ne’er be completed, despite all the cries Of the ravens and owls without number, Who, full of antiquarian lore, In high church-steeples slumber.

Indeed, the time will by-and-by come, When instead of completing it rightly, The inner space as a stable will serve For horses,--a change but unsightly.

“And if the cathedral a stable becomes, “Pray tell us how they will then tackle “The three holy kings who rest there now, “Within the tabernacle?”

Thus ask they. But why should we, in these days, Stand up as their supporters? The three holy kings from the Eastern land Must find some other quarters.

Take my advice, and place them all In those three iron cages That high upon St. Lambert’s tower At Münster have hung for ages.

If one of the three should missing be, Select in his stead some other; Replace the king of the Eastern land By some regal Western brother.[45]

The king of the tailors[46] sat therein With his two advisers by him; But we will employ the cages now For monarchs who greatly outvie him.

On the right Balthasar shall have his place, On the left shall be Melchior’s station, In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not what When alive, was their right situation.

The Holy Alliance from out of the East, Now canonised so duly, Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’d Quite properly and truly.

Balthasar perchance and Melchior too Were men of but weak resolution, Who promised, when sorely press’d from without, Their kingdom a constitution,

And afterwards broke their word.--Perchance King Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen, Rewarded with black ingratitude His foolish fond subjects, the poor men!

CAPUT V.

And when I came to the bridge o’er the Rhine, Where the bastion its corner advances, There saw I Father Rhine flowing on In the silent moonbeam’s glances.

“All hail to thee, good Father Rhine, Now that I’m home returning! Full often have I on thee thought, With longing and deep yearning.”

Thus spake I, and heard in the waters deep A voice at once strange and moaning, Like the wheezing cough of an aged man, With grumbling and feeble groaning:

“Thou’rt welcome, and as thou rememberest me, I see thee, good youth, again gladly; ’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last, My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.

“At Biberich many a stone I’ve gulp’d down, “My digestion in consequence worse is; “Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas, “Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47] verses!

“My praises he chants, as though I were now “The purest and best-behaved maiden, “Who never allow’d any mortal to steal “The crown with her purity laden.

“Whenever I hear the stupid song, “I could tear my beard in a passion, “And feel inclined to drown myself “In myself, in a curious fashion!

“That I am a virgin pure no more “The French know better than any; “For they with my waters have mingled oft “Their floods of victory many.

“The stupid song and the stupid man! “Indeed he has treated me badly; “To a certain extent he has compromised me “In matters political sadly.

“For if the French should ever come back, “I must blush at their reappearance, “Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return “To heaven with perseverance.

“I always have loved full well the French, “So tiny yet full of sinew; “Still wear they white breeches as formerly? “Does their singing and springing continue?

“Right glad should I be to see them again, “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!

“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town, “Perchance will come as their drummer, “And march at their head, and his wretched wit “Play off on me all through the summer.”

Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints, And discontentedly splutter’d.-- In order to raise his sinking heart, These comforting words I utter’d:

“O do not dread, good Father Rhine, “The laugh of a Frenchman, which is “Worth little, for he is no longer the same, “And they also have alter’d their breeches.

“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white, “They also have alter’d the button; “No longer they sing and no longer they spring, “But hang their heads like dead mutton.

“They now are philosophers all, and quote “Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals; “Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink, “And many play also at skittles.

“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs, “But carry it even farther; “No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps, “But believe in Hengstenberg[49] rather.

“As for Alfred de Musset, indeed it is true “That he still to abuse gives a handle; “But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down “His tongue so devoted to scandal.

“And if he should play off his wretched wit, “We’ll punish him most severely, “Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets “With the women he loves most dearly.

“Then be contented, good Father Rhine, “Bad songs treat only with laughter; “A better song ere long thou shalt hear,-- “Farewell, we shall meet hereafter.”

CAPUT VI.

On Paganini used always to wait A Spiritus Familiaris, Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shape Of the late lamented George Harris.

Napoleon, before each important event, Saw a man in red, as they mention, And Socrates he had his Dæmon too, No fanciful mere invention.

E’en I, when I sat at my table to write, When the darkness of night had entwined me, Have sometimes seen a muffled form, Mysteriously standing behind me.

Hid under his mantle, a Something he held, And when the light happen’d to catch it, It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe, An executioner’s hatchet.

His stature appear’d to be under the mean, His eyes like very stars glisten’d; He never disturb’d me as I wrote, But quietly stood there, and listen’d.

For many a year I had ceased to see This very singular fellow, But found him here suddenly at Cologne, In the moonlight silent and mellow.

I saunter’d thoughtfully through the streets, And saw him behind me stalking, Just like my shadow, and when I stood still, He also left off walking.

He stood, as if he were waiting for me, And when I onward hurried, He follow’d again, and thus I reach’d The Cathedral yard, quite flurried.

I could not bear it, so turn’d sharp round, And said: “I insist on an answer; “Why follow me thus in the silent night, “And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?

“I come across thee just at the time “When world-wide feelings are dashing “Across my breast, and through my brain “The spirit-lightnings are flashing.

“Thou gazest upon me so fixedly-- “Now answer me, what is there hidden “Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams? “Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”

“The other replied in a somewhat dry tone, “If not a little phlegmatic: “I pray thee, exorcise me not, “And be not quite so emphatic!

“No ghost am I from the days gone by, “No grave-arisen spectre; “I have no affection for rhetoric, “I’m no philosophic projector.

“I am of a practical nature in fact, “And of silent resolution; “But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives, “I put into execution.

“And even when years have pass’d away, “I rest not, nor suffer distraction, “Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts; “Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.

“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I, “And, like a servant obedient, “The judgments execute pleasing to thee, “Whether right or inexpedient.

“Before the Consul they carried an axe “In Rome of old, let me remind thee “And thou hast also thy lictor, but he “Now carries the axe behind thee.

“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind, “And carry in all its splendour “The polish’d executioner’s axe-- “I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”

CAPUT VII.

I homeward went, and as soundly I slept As if by the angels tended; In German beds one cosily rests, For they are all featherbeds splendid.

How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet repose Of my own native country’s pillows, While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night, In my exile far over the billows!

One sleeps so well, and one dreams so well In our featherbeds delicious; The German spirit here feels itself free From all earth’s fetters pernicious.

It feels itself free, and upward soars To the highest regions Elysian; O German Spirit, how proud is the flight Thou takest in nightly vision!

The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh; 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.

The land belongs to the Russians and French, In the British the ocean is vested, But we in dream’s airy regions possess The mastery uncontested.

The art of ruling practise we here, And here we are never dissever’d, While other nations on earth’s flat face To develop themselves have endeavour’d.--

And as I slumber’d, methought in my dream I was once more sauntering slowly In the moonlight clear through the echoing streets Of Cologne’s ancient city so holy.

Behind me once again my black And mask’d attendant speeded; I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke, Yet on, still on, we proceeded.

We onward went. My heart in my breast Gaped open, and parted in sunder, And the red drops glided out of the wound In my heart,--a sight of wonder.

I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein, And often the fancy came o’er me To streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d, Each doorpost lying before me.

And every time that I mark’d a house In this very peculiar fashion, A funeral bell was heard in a tone Of mournful and soft compassion.

But now in the heavens the moon grew pale, And darkness came over me thickly, And over her face, like horses black, The stormy clouds sped quickly.

And still behind me onward went My dark companion ever, His hidden axe grasping,--on, still on, And pausing and resting never.

We went and went, till we reach’d at length The Cathedral precincts’ centre; The doors of the church wide open stood, And straightway did we enter.

Within its capacious expanse but death And night and silence hover’d, While here and there a glimmering lamp The darkness plainly discover’d.

I wander’d long the pillars among, And heard the footsteps only Of my attendant, who follow’d me still E’en here in the silence lonely.

At length we came to a certain place, With gold and jewels quite glorious, And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,-- ’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.

But the three holy kings, who were wont to lie Quite still, and in order befitting-- O sight of wonder!--were now upright Upon their sarcophagi sitting.

Three skeletons, deck’d in fantastic array, With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow, And each one held in his bony hand A sceptre, beside his fellow.

Like dancing puppets they moved about Their bones which so long had perish’d; They smelt of mould, and they also smelt Of incense fragrant and cherish’d.

One ’mongst the number soon moved his mouth, And utter’d a lengthy oration, Explaining the reasons why he claim’d My respectful salutation.

The first, because he was a corpse, Because a monarch, the second; Because a saint, the third,--but the whole Of little account I reckon’d.

I gave him an answer in laughing mood: “In vain is all thy endeavour! “I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect “As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!

“Away! away! In the deep grave alone “Your lengths ye ought to measure! “Real life will shortly confiscate “This chapel’s mighty treasure.

“Hereafter the merry cavalry “Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling; “If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used, “With clubs your exit compelling!”

When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round, And saw where was glimmering brightly My silent attendant’s terrible axe, And he read my meaning rightly.

So he quickly approach’d, and with the axe Remorselessly he shatter’d Those skeletons poor of bigotry, And into atoms scatter’d.

The echoing blows from the vaulted roof Rang wildly, in countless numbers; While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast, And I awoke from my slumbers.

CAPUT VIII.

From Cologne to Hagen it costs to post Five Prussian dollars, six groschen; The diligence chanced to be full, so I came In a chaise, though rough was the motion.

’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and grey The coach in the mud groan’d sadly; Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road, Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.

’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheek Could bear no other construction; The very dirt in the highway itself Is my fatherland’s production!

The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends, As they went along in a canter; Their very dung appear’d to me fair As the apples of Atalanta!

We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dull And busy, the town far from dirty; I last was there in the merry month Of May, in the year one and thirty.

All things then stood in blooming attire, And the sunlight sweetly was blinking; The birds were singing their yearning song, While the men were hoping and thinking.

Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights “Will depart from amongst us shortly; “Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks “Of iron, in fashion not courtly!

“And freedom shall come with sport and with dance, “With the banner, the white-blue-red one; “Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave “E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”

Alas! the knights remain as before; 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 pallid canaille, who used to look The pictures of faith, hope, charity, Have got red noses by tippling our wine With the utmost regularity.

And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lost For springing and raving all power; In Paris itself the tricolour flag Looks mournfully down from each tower.

The Emperor truly arose again, Yet the English, fearing a riot, Converted him into a peaceable man, And he let them inter him in quiet.

Yes, I myself his funeral saw, The golden carriage so splendid, And victory’s golden goddesses, Who the golden coffin attended.

Along the famous Champs Elysées, Through the Arc de Triomphe stately, Across the mist and over the snow The procession wended sedately.

The music was painful and out of tune, And frozen was every musician; The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d down Upon me in woeful condition.

In ghostly fashion the men all appear’d, All lost in old recollections,-- The wondrous imperial dream revived, Awakening olden affections.

I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes, And down my cheeks fast fleeted, When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shout Of “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.

CAPUT IX.

I left Cologne on my onward road At a quarter to eight precisely; We got to Hagen at three o’clock, And there had our dinners nicely.

The table was cover’d. Here found I all The old-fashion’d German dishes; All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail, The reward of my utmost wishes!

Stuff’d chestnuts all in green cabbages dress’d! My food when I was a baby! All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swim In the butter as nicely as may be!

One’s native country to each fond heart Grows ever dearer and dearer-- Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d, Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.

How the sausages sang in the spluttering fat. The fieldfares, those very delicious And roasted angels with apple sauce, All warbled a welcome propitious.

“Thou’rt welcome, countryman,” warbled they, “Full long hast thou been delaying! “Full long hast thou with foreign birds “In foreign lands been straying!”

Upon the table stood also a goose, A silent, kindhearted being; Perchance she loved me in younger days, When our tastes were nearer agreeing.

Full of meaning she eyed me, cordial but sad, And fond, like the rest of her gender; She surely possess’d an excellent soul, But her flesh was by no means tender.

A boar’s head they also brought in the room, 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.

On leaving Hagen the night came on, And I felt a chilly sensation Inside. At the inn at Unna I first Recover’d my animation.

A pretty maiden found I there, Who pour’d out my punch discreetly; Like yellow silk were her comely locks, Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.

Her lisping Westphalian accents I heard With joy, as she utter’d them clearly; The punch with sweet recollections smoked, I thought of my brethren loved dearly;

The dear Westphalians, with whom I oft drank At Göttingen, while we were able, Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks, And also sank under the table.

That loveable, worthy, Westphalian race! I ever have loved it extremely; A nation so firm, so faithful, so true, Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.

How proudly they stand, with their lion-like hearts, In the noble science of fencing! Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant, With vigorous arm dispensing.

Right well they fight, and right well they drink; When they give thee their hand so gentle To strike up a friendship, they needs must weep, Like oaks turn’d sentimental.

May heaven watch over thee, worthy race, On thy seed shower down benefactions, Preserve thee from war and empty renown, From heroes and heroes’ actions!

May it evermore grant to thy excellent sons An easy examination, And give thy daughters marriages good,-- So Amen to my invocation!

CAPUT XI.

Behold the wood of Teutoburg, Described in Tacitus’ pages; Behold the classical marsh, wherein Stuck Varus, in past ages.

Here vanquish’d him the Cheruscian prince, The noble giant, named Hermann;[50] ’Twas in this mire that triumph’d first Our nationality German.

Had Hermann with his light-hair’d hordes Not triumph’d here over the foeman, Then German freedom had come to an end, We had each been turn’d to a Roman!

Nought but Roman language and manners had now Our native country ruled over, In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’en As Quirites have flourish’d in clover!

An harúspex had Hengstenberg surely been, And groped about in the bowels Of oxen; Neander[51] an Augur, and based On flights of birds his avowals.

Birch-Pfeifer[52] had tippled her turpentine, Like the Roman ladies admired. (’Tis said that they, by its frequent use, A pleasing odour acquired).

Friend Raumer[53] had been no German scamp, But a regular Roman Scampatius, And Freiligrath written without using rhyme, Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.

The clumsy beggar, Father Jahn,[54] Had then been call’d Clumsianus; Me Hercule! Massmann[55] would Latin have talk’d, As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!

The friends of truth, instead of with curs In the papers, would in the arena Have had to wage a mortal fight With the lion, jackal, hyena.

One single Nero we now should have had, ’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery; Our veins should we have open’d, and so Defied the bailiffs of slavery.

Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away, A glorious triumph was Hermann’s; Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d, And we remain’d still Germans!

We Germans remain, and German we speak, As we before times have spoken; An ass is an ass, not asinus, The Swabian line is unbroken.

Friend Raumer remain’d a German scamp In our northern German climate; And Freiligrath no Horace became, But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.

Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes, Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas, And drinks no nasty turpentine Like those lovely Roman charmers.

O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee! 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.

Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on, When a crash took place, sudden and frightful-- A wheel came off, and we came to a stand, An occurrence by no means delightful.

The postilion dismounted, and made all haste To the village for help, and I found me At midnight alone in the darksome wood, While a howling I heard all around me.

The wolves it was, who wildly howl’d With half-starv’d voices all wiry; Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’d Their eyes so fierce and fiery.

Of my arrival certainly knew The beasts, and to honour me, proudly They lighted up the forest thus, And sang in chorus loudly.

I soon observed ’twas a real serenade, Design’d for my glorification, So threw myself in an attitude fit, And spoke with extreme animation:

“Brother wolves! it gives me great pleasure to-day “To tarry awhile ’midst your growling, “Where so many noble spirits have met, “Around me lovingly howling.

“My feelings just at the moment I speak “Are truly beyond all measure; “This present hour I ne’er shall forget, “So fraught with exceeding pleasure.

“I thank you for the confidence thus “Evinced beyond denial, “And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown “In every period of trial.

“Brother wolves! ye ne’er doubted that true I remain’d, “Ye set all the rogues at defiance, “Who falsely asserted that I had of late, “Struck up with the dogs an alliance,

“And turn’d an apostate, and e’en in the fold “As a Councillor soon they would show me-- “To answer such base assertions as these “I feel to be really below me.

“The sheepskin that I for a time had on “As a piece of warm clothing merely, “Believe me, will never make me love “The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.

“No sheep am I, and no dog am I, “No Councillor, or such like; “A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth “A wolf’s are very much like.

“A wolf am I, and with the wolves “I ever will be a yelper; “Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves, “And God will be your helper!”

This was the speech deliver’d by me, Without the least preparation; In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told, It appear’d, though with much mutilation.

CAPUT XIII.

The sun arose near Paderborn, With a look by no means bright’ning In fact he leads but a sorry life, This wretched earth enlight’ning.

As soon as he has lighted one side, And hastens with beams all sparkling To lighten the other, already the first Is getting gloomy and darkling.

Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down, The Danaids’ bucket never Gets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ball In vain is the sun’s endeavour.

And when the mist of morning dispersed, I saw by the wayside projecting In the early glow, His figure, who died On the cross a death so affecting.

I’m filled with dejection every time That I see Thee, my poor Relation, Whose mission was to redeem the world, And be mankind’s salvation.

A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed, The lords of the Council stately; O why didst Thou speak of Church and State In a manner to wound them greatly?

To Thy misfortune the printing art To mortals had then not been given, Or else a book had been written by Thee On the subjects relating to heaven.

The Censor would then have erased whate’er Satirical seem’d in its diction, And so the loving censorship Have saved Thee from crucifixion.

Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mount Another text Thou hadst taken! Sufficient genius and talent were Thine, And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.

Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourge From the temple, in just indignation-- Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the cross Thou dost suffer a sad expiation.

CAPUT XIV.

The wind was humid, and barren the land, The chaise floundered on in the mire, Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears: “O Sun, thou accusing fire!”

The burden is this of the olden song That my nurse so often was singing-- “O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was then Like the note of the forest horn ringing.

This song of a murderer tells the tale, Who lived a life joyous and splendid; Hung up in the forest at last he was found, From a grey old willow suspended.

The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’d On the willow’s stem, written entire; The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas-- O Sun, thou accusing fire!

The Sun was accuser,--’twas he who condemn’d The murderer foul, in his ire. Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost: “O Sun, thou accusing fire!”

When the song I recall, the remembrance too Of my dear old nurse never ceases I see once more her swarthy face, With all its wrinkles and creases.

In the district of Münster she was born, And knew, in all their glory, Many popular songs and wondrous tales, And many a wild ghost-story.

How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told how The king’s daughter, in days now olden, Sat all alone on the desert heath, While glisten’d her tresses so golden.

Her business was to tend the geese As a goosegirl, and when at nightfall She drove the geese home again through the gate, Her tears would in piteous plight fall.

For nail’d up on high, above the gate, She saw a horse’s head o’er her; The head it was of the dear old horse Who to foreign countries bore her.

The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d: “O Falada! hangest thou yonder?” The horse’s head from above replied: “Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”

The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d: “O would that my mother knew it!” The horse’s head from above replied: “Full sorely she would rue it!”

With gasping breath I used to attend When my nurse, with a voice soft and serious, Of Barbarossa began to speak, Our Emperor so mysterious.

She assured me that he was not dead, as to think By learned men we were bidden, But with his comrades in arms still lived In a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.

Kyffhauser is the mountain’s name, With a cave in its depths benighted; By lamps its high and vaulted rooms In ghostly fashion are lighted.

The first of the halls is a stable vast, Where in glittering harness the stranger Who enters may see many thousand steeds, Each standing at his manger.

They all are saddled, and bridled all, Yet amongst these thousands of creatures, No single one neighs, no single one stamps, Like statues of iron their features.

Upon the straw in the second hall The soldiers are seen in their places; Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race, With warlike and insolent faces.

They all are full arm’d from top to toe, Yet out of this countless number, Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs, They all are wrapp’d in slumber.

In the third of the halls in lofty piles Swords, spears, and axes are lying, And armour and helmets of silver and steel, With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.

The cannons are few, but yet are enough To build up a trophy olden. A standard projects from out of the heap, Its colour is black-red-golden.

In the fourth of the halls the Emperor lives, For many a century dosing On a seat made of stone near a table of stone, His head on his arm reposing.

His beard, which has grown right down to the ground, Is red as a fiery ocean; At times his eye to blink may be seen, And his eyebrows are ever in motion.

But whether he sleeps or whether he thinks For the present we cannot discover; Yet when the proper hour has come, He’ll shake himself all over.

His trusty banner he then will seize, And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly; His cavalry straight will awake and spring From the earth, all rattling loudly.

Each man will forthwith leap on his horse, Each stamping his hoofs and neighing; They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world, While their trumpets are merrily playing.

Right well they ride, and right well they fight, No longer they slumber supinely; In terrible judgment the Emperor sits, To punish the murd’rers condignly,--

The murderers foul, who murder’d erst Her whose beauty such awe did inspire, The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,-- O Sun, thou accusing fire!

Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid, And sat in their castles cheerful, Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath, And the cord of vengeance fearful.

My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring, How dear are the thoughts they inspire! My heart superstitiously shouts with joy: “O Sun, thou accusing fire!”

CAPUT XV.

A fine and prickly rain now descends, Like needle-tops cold, and wetting; The horses mournfully waggle their tails, And wade through the mud with sweating.

Upon his horn the postilion blows The old tune loved so dearly: “Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”-- Its memory crosses me clearly.

I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep, And as for my dream, this is it: To the Emperor Barbarossa I In the wondrous mount paid a visit.

On his stony seat by the table of stone Like an image no longer I saw him, Nor had he that very respectable look With which for the most part they draw him.

He waddled about with me round the halls Discoursing with much affection, Like an antiquarian pointing out The gems of his precious collection.

In the hall of armour he show’d with a club 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.

He took in his hand a peacock’s fan, And clean’d full many a dusty Old piece of armour, and many a helm, And many a morion rusty.

The standard he carefully dusted too, And said, “My greatest pride is, “That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk, “And not e’en one insect inside is.”

And when we came to the second hall, Where asleep on the ground were lying Many thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said, Their forms with contentment eyeing:

“We must take care, while here, not to waken the men, “And make no noise in the gallery; “A hundred years have again passed away, “And to-day I must pay them their salary.”

And see! the Emperor softly approach’d, While he held in his hand a ducat, And quietly into the pocket of each Of the sleeping soldiery stuck it.

And then he remark’d with a simpering face, When I observ’d him with wonder: “I give them a ducat apiece as their pay, “At periods a century asunder.”

In the hall wherein the horses were ranged, And drawn out in rows long and silent, Together the Emperor rubb’d his hands While his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.

He counted the horses, one by one, And poked their ribs approving; He counted and counted, and all the while His lips were eagerly moving.

“The proper number is not complete,”-- Thus angrily he discourses: “Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough, “But still am deficient in horses.

“Horse-jockeys I’ve sent to every place “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.

“I only wait till the number’s complete, “Then, making a regular clearance, “I’ll free my country, my German folk, “Who trustingly wait my appearance.”--

Thus spake the Emperor, while I cried: “Old fellow! seize time as it passes; “Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough, “Then fill up their places with asses.”

Then Barbarossa smiling replied: “For the battle there need be no hurry; “Rome certainly never was built in one day, “Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.

“Who comes not to-day, to-morrow will come, “The oak’s slow growth might shame us; “_Chi va piano va sano_ wisely says “The Roman proverb famous.”

CAPUT XVI.

The carriage’s jolting woke me up From my dream, yet vainly sought I To keep awake, so I slumber’d again, And of Barbarossa thought I.

Again we went through the echoing halls, 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.

He told me that not one mortal word From the world above had descended For many a year,--in fact not since The Seven-years’ war had ended.

With interest he for Karschin[57] ask’d, For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious), For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail, The Countess Du Barry notorious.

“O Emperor,” cried I, “how backward thou art! Old Moses is dead and forgotten, With his Rebecca; and Abraham too, The son, is dead and rotten.

“This Abraham and Leah, his wife, gave birth “To Felix[58], who proved very steady; “His fame through Christendom far has spread, “He’s a Chapel-master already.

“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead, “And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too; “Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though, “Still lives--at least she is said to.

“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat, “For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her “As long as he lived, but when she was old “They cruelly guillotined her.

“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed, “By the doctors attended and seen to; “But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined, “And Antoinette the Queen too.

“The Queen the greatest courage display’d, “And died like a monarch, proudly; “But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined, “Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”--

The Emperor suddenly came to a stand, And stared, as if doubting my meaning, And said: “For the sake of heaven explain “What is meant by that word guillotining?”

“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied, “Is a method newly constructed, “By means of which people of every rank “From life to death are conducted.

“For this purpose, a new machine is employ’d”-- “I continued, while closely he listen’d; “Invented by Monsieur Guillotin, “And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.

“You first are fasten’d to a board; “’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you “Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs “A triangular axe just above you.

“They pull a string, and downward shoots “The axe, quite lively and merry; “And so your head falls into a bag, “And nothing remains but to bury.”

The Emperor here interrupted my speech: “Be silent! May heaven confuse it, “That foul machine! and God forbid “That I should ever use it!

“The King and Queen! What? To a board “Both fasten’d! What a position! “’Tis contrary to all respect, “And etiquette in addition!

“And who art thou, that darest to speak “So coolly and so much, man? “Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip “Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!

“My inmost bile is deeply stirr’d “At words so out of season; “Thy very breath is full of crime “And guilty of high treason!”

When in his zeal the old man rail’d, And treated me thus cavalierly, Surpassing all bounds,--I sharply replied, And told him my mind quite clearly.

“Barbarossa!” I cried, “thou’rt just as absurd “As an old woman’s silly fable; “Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid “To free ourselves we are able.

“The republicans all would scoff and jeer, “And shake their sides with laughter “To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown “Act as leader, while we went after.

“Thy standard, too, no more I respect; “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.

“In Old Kyffhauser ’twere better that thou “Shouldst pass thy days morosely; “In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now, “When I view the matter closely.”

CAPUT XVII.

I wrangled in dream with the Emperor thus,-- In dream,--I say it advisedly; In waking hours we never dare talk To princes so undisguisedly.

The Germans only venture to speak When asleep, in a dream ideal, The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts, So German and yet so real.

When I awoke, I was passing a wood, And the sight of the trees in such numbers, And their naked wooden reality, Soon scared away my slumbers.

The oaks with solemnity shook their heads; The twigs of the birch-trees, in token Of warning, nodded,--and I exclaim’d: “Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!

“Forgive, Barbarossa, my headstrong speech, “I know that thou art far wiser “Than I, for impatient by nature I am-- “Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!

“If guillotining contents thee not, “Retain the old plan for the present: “The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope “For the townsman and vulgar peasant.

“But frequently change the order, and let “The nobles be hang’d, beheading “The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike “For all who life’s pathways are treading.

“Restore again the Criminal Court “That Charles the Fifth invented; “With orders, corporations, and guilds “Let the people again be contented.

“To the sacred old Roman Empire again “In all its integrity yoke us; “Its musty frippery give us once more, “And all its hocus-pocus.

“The middle ages, if you like, “The genuine middle ages “I’ll gladly endure,--but free us, I pray, “From the nonsense that now all the rage is,--

“From all that mongrel chivalry “That such a nauseous dish is “Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit, “And neither flesh nor fish is.

“The troops of Comedians drive away, “And close the theatres sickly, “Wherein they parody former times,-- “O Emperor, come thou quickly!”

CAPUT XVIII.

The town of Minden’s a fortress strong, With arms and stores well provided; But Prussian fortresses, truth to say, I never have abided.

We got there just as evening fell; The planks of the drawbridge sadly Beneath us groan’d, as over we roll’d, And the dark moat gaped on us madly.

The lofty bastions on me gazed With threat’ning and sulky wonder; The heavy gate open’d with rattling loud, And closed with a noise like thunder.

Alas! my soul felt as sad as the soul Of Odysseus, the world-renown’d warrior, When he heard Polyphemus rolling a rock In front of the cave as a barrier.

A Corporal came to the door of the coach For our names; I replied to this latter act: “I’m Nobody call’d; I an oculist am, “Who couch the giants for cataract!”

At the inn I found my discomfort increase, My victuals fill’d me with loathing; I straight went to bed, but slept not a wink, So heavy I found the bed-clothing.

The bed was a large, broad featherbed, Red damask curtains around it, The canopy wrought with faded gold, While a dirty tassel crown’d it.

Accursèd tassel! of all my repose It robb’d me all the night through; It hung over head, like Damocles’ sword, And threaten’d to pierce me right through!

A serpent’s head it often appear’d, And I heard its hissing mysterious: “In the fortress thou art, and canst not escape”-- A position especially serious!

“O would that I were”--I thought with a sigh,-- “Of my peaceable home a sharer, “With my own dear wife in Paris once more, “In the Faubourg-Poissonière!”

I felt that a Something oftentimes Was over my forehead stealing, Just like a Censor’s chilly hand, And all my thoughts congealing.

Gendarmes, in the dresses of corpses conceal’d, In white and ghostly confusion Surrounded my bed, while a rattling of chains I heard, to swell the illusion.

Alas! the spectres carried me off, And at length with amazement I found me Beside a precipitous wall of rocks, And there they firmly had bound me.

Detestable tassel, so dirty and foul! Again it appear’d before me, But now in the shape of a vulture with claws And black wings hovering o’er me.

And now like the well-known eagle it seem’d And grasp’d me, and breathing prevented; It ate the liver out of my breast, While sadly I groan’d and lamented.

Long time I lamented, when crow’d the cock, And the feverish vision faded; Perspiring in bed at Minden I lay, To a tassel the bird was degraded.

I travell’d with post-horses on, And free breath presently drew I On the domain of Bückeburg, As by my feelings knew I.

CAPUT XIX.

O Danton, great was thy mistake, And thy error was paid for dearly! One can carry away one’s fatherland On the soles of one’s feet, pretty nearly.

Of the princely domain of Bückeburg One half to my boots clung in patches; In all my life I never have seen A place that in filth its match is.

At the town of Bückeburg shortly I stopp’d, To see the ancestral castle Whence my grandfather came; my grandmother though Of Hamburg was part and parcel.

I got to Hanover just at noon, And there had my boots clean’d neatly, And afterwards went to visit the town; When I travel, I do it completely.

By heavens, how spruce the place appear’d! No mud in its streets was lying; Many handsome buildings there I saw, In massive splendour vying.[59]

I was mostly charm’d by a very large square, Surrounded by houses superior; There lives the king and his palace there stands, Of a really handsome exterior,--

(The palace I mean.) On each side of the door A sentry-box had its station; Redcoats with muskets there kept guard, Of threat’ning and wild reputation.

My cicerone said: “Here lives “King Ernest Augustus, a tory “Of the olden school, and a nobleman,-- “Very sharp, though his hairs are hoary.

“In safety idyllic here he dwells, “For he’s far more securely protected “By the scanty courage of our dear friends “Than his satellites ever effected.

“I see him sometimes, and then he complains “How very tedious his post is,-- “The regal post, of which he here “In Hanover now the boast is.

“Accustom’d to a British life, “And plagued by spleen, to cure it “He finds it not easy, and greatly fears “That he cannot much longer endure it.

“T’other day I found him at early morn “By the fireside mournfully bending; “For his dog, who was sick, with his own royal hands “A comforting draught he was blending.”

CAPUT XX.

In an hour from Harburg to Hamburg I went; The shades of evening were thick’ning, The stars in the heavens their greetings sent, And the air was soft and quick’ning.

And when I reach’d my mother at last, She was wellnigh frighten’d with gladness; She cried “My darling child!” and clasp’d Her hands together with madness.

“My darling child, full thirteen years “Have pass’d since our last meeting; “You surely are hungry; tell me now “What you’ll take in the way of eating?

“I’ve here some fish, and goose-flesh too, “And handsome oranges also!”-- “Then give me some fish, and goose-flesh too, “And handsome oranges also!”

And whilst I ate with an appetite good, My mother was lively and merry; She ask’d me this, and she ask’d me that, And her questions were awkward, very.

“My darling child, in your foreign home “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?”

“The fish is good, my mother dear, “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.”

And when I had finish’d the excellent fish, The goose next made its appearance; My mother again ask’d for this and for that, With the same ill-timed perseverance.

“My darling child, which land do you think “Is the best for people to dwell in,-- “This place, or France? which nation’s the best? “What thing does each excel in?”--

“A German goose, my mother dear, “Is good as one of the courses; “But the French stuff geese far better than we, “And they also have better sauces.”

And when the goose had taken its leave, The oranges presently follow’d, And tasted so unexpectedly nice, That with pleasure they quickly were swallow’d.

But now my mother again began Her questions with very much pleasure; She ask’d me a thousand things, but some Were awkward beyond all measure.

“My darling child, pray tell me now, “If politics still you’re inclined to? “Which party in the state to support “Have you the greatest mind to?”--

“The quality, my mother dear, “Of your oranges cannot be beaten; “The sweet juice I swallow with much delight, “But I leave the peel uneaten.”

CAPUT XXI.

They bit by bit are building again The hapless half-burnt city; Like a half-shorn poodle Hamburg now looks, An object to waken one’s pity.[60]

Full many a street has disappear’d That mournfully one misses-- Where is the house, wherein I kiss’d Love’s first delicious kisses?

Where is the printing-house, where I My _Reisebilder_ printed? The oyster shop, where I oysters gulp’d down With appetite unstinted?

The Dreckwall too,--where is it now? I now should seek it vainly; Where the pavilion, where I ate So many cakes profanely?

Where is the town-hall, wherein sat The senate and burghers stately? A prey to the flames! The flames spared not Whatever was holiest lately.

The people still were sighing with grief, And with most mournful faces The history sad of the great fire told, And pointed out all its traces:--

“It burnt in every corner at once, “All was smoke and flames fiercely flashing; “The churches’ towers all blazed on high, “And tumbled in with loud crashing.

“The old exchange was also burnt, “Where our fathers in every weather “Were wont to assemble for centuries past, “And honestly traded together.

“The bank, the silvery soul of the town, “And the books which have always served us “To note the assets of every man, “Thank heaven! have been preserved us.

“Thank heaven! In every land they made “On our behalf large collections; “A capital job,--we got no less “Than eight millions in all directions.

“The money from every country flow’d “In our hands, which were far from unwilling, “And plenty of food they also sent, “And we gladly accepted each shilling.

“They sent us clothes and bedding enough, “And bread, and meat, and soups too; “The King of Prussia, to show his regard, “Would fain have sent us troops too.

“Our losses in property thus were replaced, “A matter of mere valuation; “But then the fright,--our terrible fright, “Admits of no compensation!”

I cheeringly said: “My worthy friends, “You should not lament and bawl so! “A far better city than yours was Troy, “And yet it was burnt down also.

“Rebuild your houses as fast as you can, “And dry up every puddle; “Get better engines and better laws, “That are not quite such a muddle.

“Don’t put in your nice mock-turtle soup “So very much Cayenne pepper; “Your carp are not wholesome with so much sauce, “Or when eaten with scales, like a leper.

“Your turkeys will not do much harm, “But be on your guard ’gainst disaster “From the knavish bird that lays its eggs “In the wig of the burgomaster.

“’Tis not for me to tell you the name “Of this bird of bad reputation; “When thinking about him, the food in my maw “Is stirr’d with indignation.”

CAPUT XXII.

More changed than even the city itself Appear’d the people within it; Like walking ruins they totter’d about, As if ready to tumble each minute.

The thin still thinner than ever appear’d, The fat appear’d still fatter, The children were old, and the old were young, (In their second childhood the latter).

Full many that I had left as calves, As oxen were herding together, And many a gosling had now become A goose in fullest feather.

The aged Gudel I found be-rouged, And dress’d with syren-like brightness; She had procured some dark black hair, And teeth of dazzling whiteness.

The best preserved of all was my friend The paper-dealer, good fellow; Like John the Baptist, round his head Was floating his hair so yellow.

I only saw D---- a long way off, He slipp’d away so fleetly; I hear that his soul was burnt, but insured For a large amount discreetly.

I also saw my old Censor again In the fog, and lowly stooping I met him in the goose market by chance, And he seem’d completely drooping.

We shook each other’s hands, and some tears In his eye appear’d collecting; He was so pleased to see me once more! The scene was truly affecting.

I found not all, for many a one Had quitted this scene for ever; My Gumpelino,[61] ’mongst others, alas! Was gone, to appear again never.

That noble one had surrender’d his soul To Him by whom it was given, And now had a glorified seraph become In the blissful realms of heaven.

In vain for the crooked Adonis I sought, (Though I look’d in every direction,) Who used to sell pots and pans in the street,-- A very cheap collection.

And Sarras, the trusty dog, was dead, A loss of a serious nature; Friend Campe[62] would sooner have lost a whole host Of writers than this good creature.

The population of Hamburg town Has from time immemorial consisted Of Jews and Christians; ’tis also the case That the latter are rather close-fisted.

The Christians all behave pretty well, And pass their time in clover, And promptly pay their bills of exchange, Ere the days of grace are over.

The Jews are however divided again Into two very different parties; The old one goes to the synagogue, In the temple the new one’s heart is.

The new party eat the flesh of swine, Their manners are somewhat dogmatic; They democrats are, but the older school Is much more aristocratic.

I love the old, and I love the new, Yet I swear by the prophet Jonas That certain fish I love still more,-- Smoked sprats they are commonly known as!

CAPUT XXIII.

Though as a republic Hamburg was ne’er As great as Venice or Florence, Yet Hamburg has better oysters; one gets The best in the cellar of Laurence.

I went there with Campe at evening time, When splendid was the weather, Intending on oysters and Rhenish wine To have a banquet together.

I found some excellent company there, And greatly was delighted To see many old friends, such as Chaufepié, And new ones, self-invited.

There Wille was, whose very face Was an album where foes academic Right legibly had inscribed their names In the shape of scars polemic.

There Fucks was also, a heathen blind, And personal foe of Jehovah, Who believed but in Hegel, and slightly perhaps In the Venus of Canova.

My Campe was our Amphytrion there, And smiled and enjoy’d the honour; His eye was beaming with happiness, Just like an ecstatic Madonna.

I ate and drank with an appetite good, And these thoughts then cross’d my noddle: “This Campe is really an excellent man, “And of publishers quite the model.

“Another publisher, I feel sure, “Would have left me of hunger to perish; “But he has given me drink as well, “His name I ever shall cherish.

“I thank the mighty Lord of all “Who this juice of the grape created, “And Campe to me as a publisher gave, “Whose merits can’t be overrated.

“I thank the mighty Lord of all “Who by His own mere motion “Created on earth the Rhenish wine, “And the oysters in the ocean.

“Who also made the lemons to grow, “The oyster’s flavour to sweeten,-- “O may I peacefully to-night “Digest what I have eaten!”

The Rhenish wine makes my feelings soft, All quarrelsome thoughts congealing Within my breast, and kindling instead A philanthropic feeling.

It now compell’d me to leave the room, And through the streets to wander; My soul sought a soul, and the sight of each dress Of a woman made it still fonder.

In moments like this, with grief I could melt, While my yearning makes me tremble; The cats appear to me all too grey, And Helens the women resemble.--

And when I came to the Drehbahn Street, I saw in the moonbeams glancing The noble form of a woman fair, With stately grace advancing.

Her face was perfectly healthy and round, Her cheek like a damask rose was, Like a turquoise her eye, like a cherry her mouth, While somewhat reddish her nose was.

Her head was cover’d with a cap Of snowy stiff linen, not ragged, But folded like a mural crown, With turrets and battlements jagged.

She wore as her dress a tunic white Which down to her calves descended; And O what calves! The pedestals they Of two Doric columns splendid.

A very worldly naïveté Could be read in her every feature, But her superhuman hinder parts Betray’d a superior creature.

She now approach’d me, and straightway said: “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!

“Perchance thou seekest the souls so fair “Who so often used to meet thee, “And all night long in this beautiful place “With their reveries loved to greet thee.

“By that hundred-headed hydra, Life, “That monster fierce, they were swallow’d; “Thou’lt find those olden times no more, “Nor those friends once lovingly follow’d.

“No longer thou’lt find those beauteous flowers, “Which enchanted thy youthful bosom; “’Twas here they bloom’d,--they’re wither’d now, “And the tempest has scatter’d each blossom.

“Yes, wither’d, and stripp’d, and trampled down “By destiny’s footsteps appalling-- “My friend, this is ever the fate upon earth “Of all that is sweet and enthralling!”--

“Who art thou?” I cried--“like a dream of old times “Thy appearance doth strangely beset me; “Where is thy dwelling, enormous one? “I’ll follow thee there, if thou’lt let me.”

The woman then smiled, and thus she replied: “Thou art wrong, I’m a decent and quiet “And highly moral personage too, “By no means given to riot.

“I’m none of your foreign lorettes, my friend, “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 art startled perchance to bear this news, “Thou once undaunted singer? “Art thou prepared to follow me still? “Then quick, and no more let us linger.”

But I in reply laugh’d loudly and cried: “I’ll follow thee instanter! “If thou’lt go in front, I’ll go behind,-- “Yes, even to hell in a canter!”

CAPUT XXIV.

How I managed to mount the narrow stairs I haven’t the slightest notion; Perhaps the spirits carried me up With some invisible motion.

But here, in Hammonia’s little room, The hours pass’d swiftly o’er me; The goddess confess’d the sympathy That she had ever felt for me.

“Look here”--said she, “in former days “The minstrel who sang the Messiah “Was dearest to me of all the throng, “With his piously-sounding lyre.

“To this day the bust of my Klopstock stands “On that chest of drawers, but though on it, “For many a year it has only served “As a block for holding my bonnet.

“Thou’rt my favourite now, and thy likeness hangs “At the head of my bed in due order; “And see, a fresh laurel now surrounds “The cherish’d portrait’s border.

“Yet thy attacks on my sons, I confess, “Repeated by thee so often, “Have sometimes caused me the greatest pain; “Thy language thou must soften.

“I trust that time has cured thee now “Of rudeness so cold-hearted, “And somewhat greater tolerance “For even the fools imparted.

“But say how thou camest to travel north “At such an unclement season? “The weather already is winterly quite,-- “I fain would know the reason.”

“O worthy goddess!” I said in reply, “In the bosom’s inmost recesses “Are slumbering thoughts which often awake “At a time which rather distresses.

“Externally things went on pretty well, “But within I was weigh’d down with anguish, “Which every day grew worse and worse,-- “For home I ceased not to languish.

“The air of France, so usually light, “Began to be oppressive; “I long’d to breathe some German air, “To relieve this burden excessive.

“I yearn’d for German tobacco-smoke, “And the smell of German peat too; “My foot impatiently quiver’d, the ground “Of Germany to beat too.

“I sigh’d all night, and I long’d and long’d “Yet once again to view her, “The old woman who close to the Dammthor lives, “And Lotte, who lives close to her.

“The thought of that old and worthy man “Who always freely reproved me, “And then his protection over me threw, “To many a sigh now moved me.

“I fain would hear again from his mouth “The words ‘young stupid!’ repeated, “Which always in my younger days “My heart like music greeted.

“I yearn’d for the blue smoke that high in the air “From German chimneys reaches, “For the Lower-Saxony nightingales, “For the silent groves of beeches.

“I yearn’d for all the sorrowful spots, “The places where once I resorted, “Where once I trail’d my youthful cross, “And my crown of thorns supported.

“I fain would weep where I formerly wept “Those tears so bitter and burning; “The love of fatherland methinks “They call this foolish yearning.

“I love not to talk of it; ’tis nought else “But a whim of the’ imagination; “Shamefaced by nature, I hide my wounds “From public observation.

“O how I detest the trumpery set “Who, to stir men’s passion heated, “Of patriotism make a show “With all its ulcers fetid.

“They’re shameless and shabby beggars all, “Who live upon people’s charity; “For Menzel[63] and all his Swabians, here’s “A penn’orth of popularity!

“My goddess! thou hast found me to-day “Of a tender disposition! “I’m rather ill, but a little care “Will soon recruit my condition.

“Yes, I am ill, and thou canst refresh “My spirits in a minute “By means of a cup of excellent tea, “With a little rum mix’d in it.”

CAPUT XXV.

Some tea the goddess quickly made, And then the rum pour’d she in; But she herself preferr’d the rum Without a drop of tea in.

Against my shoulder she lean’d her head, And rather tumbled her bonnet Or mural crown, and gently she spake, While I reflected upon it:

“I often have thought with much alarm “That in Paris, that wicked city, “With the frivolous French thou’rt living still,-- “’Tis really a very great pity.

“Without an object thou’rt passing thy time, “And hast not even beside thee “Some faithful German publisher who “As a Mentor might warn and guide thee.

“And then the temptations there are so great, “So many a sylph amuses, “Whose health is bad, and one’s peace of mind “One far too easily loses.

“Return not again, but stop with us, “Here modesty reigns still, and morals; “And here thou may’st gather, e’en in our midst, “In silence many fair laurels.

“In Germany stay, and thou’lt relish things more “Than thou wert formerly able; “We’re fast advancing, and thou must have seen “Our progress so rapid and stable.

“The censorship even less rigorous is, “Friend Hoffmann is milder and older; “His youthful passion for cutting up “Thy _Reisebilder_ is colder.

“Thou too art older and milder now, “And many things quietly takest, “And in a better spirit than once, “Past times thou now awakest.

“That matters in Germany used to go ill “Is a great exaggeration; “One could always escape, like the Romans of old, “From serfdom, by self-immolation.

“The people enjoy’d full freedom of thought, “For the masses it never was stinted; “Restrictions affected nobody, save “The limited number who printed.

“No lawless despotism then reign’d, “The worst of demagogues never “Were deprived of their rights of citizenship, “Till condemn’d for some wicked endeavour.

“Things never in Germany went so ill, “Whatever disputes may have risen; “Believe me, no mortal was e’er starved to death “Inside a German prison.

“In those long vanish’d days there bloom’d “Full many a fair apparition “Of simple faith and kindliness too,-- “Now all is doubt and sedition.

“The practical freedom that’s all outside “Will soon destroy the Ideal “That we bore in our bosoms,--as fair as a dream “Of lilies, and not more real!

“Our beautiful poetry’s fading fast, “Already ’tis somewhat faded; “The _Moorish King_ of Freiligrath, “Like the rest of the kings, is degraded.

“O couldst thou be silent, I soon would unseal “The book of fate, free from all error, “And suffer thee future ages to see “Within my magic mirror.

“That which to mortal man I ne’er show’d, “To thee would I gladly discover: “The future of thy fatherland,-- “Thou wouldst tell it, though, all the world over!”

“Good heavens, dear goddess!” I cried with delight. “It would give me most exquisite pleasure; “O let me the future of Germany see, “I know how a secret to treasure.

“I’m ready to swear whatever oath “Thou soonest would have me swallow, “As a pledge to thee of my secrecy; “So say what form I shall follow.”

But she rejoin’d: “Thou must swear to me “As by Father Abraham’s order “His servant Eliezer swore, “When starting to cross the border.

“Lift up my dress and place thy hand “Upon my thigh below it, “And swear that in speaking, the secret thou’lt keep, “And in thy works as a poet!”

The moment was solemn. I felt as though fann’d By the breath of ages long perish’d, When I swore the oath in the manner ordain’d By Abraham, our forefather cherish’d.

I lifted up the goddess’s dress, And placed on her thigh below it My hand, vowing secrecy both in my words And in my works as a poet.

CAPUT XXVI.

The cheeks of the goddess glow’d all-red (I think that the rum had ascended Up into her head) and she spoke in a tone In which sorrow was painfully blended:

“I’m fast getting old; I was born on the day “Of Hamburg’s first foundation; “My mother was a mermaid, who had “At the mouth of the Elbe her station.

“My father was a monarch renown’d, “Called Charlemagne the glorious; “He was still more wise than Frederick the Great, “And also still more victorious.

“At Aix-la-Chapelle is the seat where he sat “On the day of his coronation: “The seat where he sat at night devolved “On my mother, as nearest relation.

“My mother left it to me in her turn, “A common-looking article; “And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold “I wouldn’t surrender one particle.

“Behold, in yon corner stands a chair, “Both old and weather-beaten; “The leather that covers its arms is torn, “And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.

“Approach it now, and gently lift “The cushion from the settle; “Thou’lt see an oval opening then, “And under it a kettle.

“That is a magic kettle wherein “The magic forces are brewing; “On placing thy head in the aperture, soon “The future thou’lt clearly be viewing.

“Yes, Germany’s future there thou’lt see, “Like wondrously rolling phantasmas; “But shudder not, if out of the filth “Arise any foul miasmas!”

She spoke, and she laugh’d a singular laugh But I undauntedly hasted To hold my head over the terrible hole, And there I eagerly placed it.

I’ll not betray, for silence I vow’d, The things that I saw and felt there; I scarcely dare to utter a word, Good heavens, of what I smelt there!

With deep disgust I think to this day Of that smell, which blended together, In vile and accursèd union, a stench Of old cabbage and Russia leather.

And heavens! the stink that afterwards rose Was still more filthy and dirty; ’Twas as though they had swept together the soil From closets six and thirty.

I know full well what was said by Saint Just In the famous Committee of Safety: “Great illnesses cannot be cured by musk “And rose-oil,” he told them with naïveté.

And yet this German futurity’s smell Was infinitely stronger Than aught that my nose could e’er have conceived-- In fact I could bear it no longer.--

My senses I lost, and on opening my eyes Once more, I found myself sitting Beside the goddess, and leaning my head On her breast, in a manner befitting.

Her look it glisten’d, her mouth it glow’d, Her nostrils twitched, with bacchantic Excitement she clasp’d the poet, and sang With ecstasy fearful and frantic:

“Stay with me in Hamburg, I love thee full well, “And we’ll eat and drink with gladness “The oysters and wine of present times, “Forgetting the future’s sadness.

“Put on the cover, for fear lest the stench “Should all our pleasure cloud over; “I love thee no German poet had e’er “A more affectionate lover!

“I kiss thee, and I feel myself now “By thy genius quite inspired; “My spirit by a wondrous kind “Of paroxysm is fired.

“I feel as though I heard in the street “The watchmen singing in chorus; “’Tis wedding music and bridal songs, “Sweet friend, that are rising o’er us.

“The attendants on horseback also approach, “With their torches flaring brightly; “The torch-dance they dance in dignified wise, “And hop and spring about lightly.

“The noble and worshipful Senate is there, “And the elders according to station; “The burgomaster clears his throat, “Preparing a lengthy oration.

“In glittering uniforms also appear “The whole of the corps diplomatic, “In the name of the neighbouring states to present “Congratulations emphatic.

“A clerical deputation, too, comes, “By rabbis and pastors guided; “But, alas! here Hoffmann also draws near, “With his scissors, as censor, provided.

“The scissors rattle in his hand, “And eagerly he races “To seize thy body,--he cuts thy flesh-- “Methinks it by far the best place is.”

CAPUT XXVII.

When summer’s pleasant days have come I’ll tell you all the history Of the other wonders that came to pass In that long night of mystery.

The olden hypocritical race, Thank heaven, is rapidly dying; To the grave it is sinking, and owes its death To its ceaseless habit of lying.

Another race is rising up fast, By rouge and by sin untarnish’d, Of genial humour and thoughts,--to it I’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.

The youth which the poet’s goodness and pride Appreciates, puts forth its blossom, And warms itself at his radiant soul, And against his feeling bosom.

My heart is loving as the light, And pure and chaste as the fire; The noblest Graces themselves have tuned The chords of my sweet lyre.

’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songs My worthy father uses,-- The poet Aristophanes, The favourite of the Muses.

In the previous chapter I tried my hand At copying the conclusion Of the play of the “Birds,” which certainly is My father’s finest effusion.

The “Frogs” is also capital. This Is now, in a German translation, Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at Berlin For his Majesty’s edification.

The King likes the piece. This shows his taste For the old-fashion’d style of joking; The late King far more amusement found In modern frogs’ loud croaking.

The King likes the piece. But nevertheless Were the author still living, I kindly Would counsel him to trust himself In Prussia not too blindly.

The genuine Aristophanes Would find it no subject for laughter; We should see him move, wherever he went, With a chorus of gendarmes after.

O King, I really wish thee well When this piece of advice I’m giving: Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead, And tender be to the living.

Affront the living poets not, With weapons and flames they are furnish’d, More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove, By the poets created and burnish’d.

Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell, Regardless whether they know it; Affront the mightiest Lord of all, But O, affront not the poet!

The deities harshly avenge in truth Man’s crimes, and allow him no shelter; The fire of hell is passably hot, And there he must roast and must swelter.

Yet pious steps can the sinner release From the flames; for saying masses And giving to churches with liberal hand From torment a certain pass is.

When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend, And burst hell’s gloomy portals; And though he may sit in judgment strict, He still will acquit many mortals.

And yet there are hells from out of whose clutch There’s no escape to heaven; No prayers there avail, and powerless too Is the Saviour’s pardon even.

Is Dante’s hell to thee unknown, With its terrible trinary verses? The man whom the poet there has shut up Will never escape from his curses.

He ne’er will be freed from those musical flames 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._

When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath, Let thy faith soar the higher; And when thy soul is sad unto death, Then strike thou the lyre.

A flaming and glowing heroical song The chords breathe discreetly! All anger flies, and thy spirit ere long Will bleed to death sweetly.

RHAMPSENITUS.[64]

When the King Rhampsenitus Enter’d in the halls resplendent Of his daughter, she was laughing, As was also each attendant.

E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs, Follow’d in loud chorus after; E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxes Seem’d about to burst with laughter.

Then the princess said: “I fancied That I held the thief securely, But it was a dead arm only That my hand had seized so surely.

“I can see now how the robber To thy storehouse penetrated, And despite all bars and fast’nings All thy treasure confiscated.

“He a magic key possesses, “Which the door of house or stable “Straightway opens; to resist it “Are the strongest doors unable.

“Now I’m really not a strong door, “Nor could I resist his pleasure; “So this night, while treasure-watching, “Have I lost my little treasure!”

Round the chamber danced the princess, Laughing at this notion clever, And the maidens and the eunuchs Laugh’d again as loud as ever.

On that day all Memphis laugh’d too, E’en the crocodiles so bloody Laughingly their heads protruded From the yellow Nile-stream muddy,

When they heard the drum’s loud beating, And the foll’wing proclamation Shouted by the public crier On the bank, to all the nation:--

“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace “King of Egypt, to our loyal “Well-belovèd friends and subjects “Hereby send our greeting royal.

“In the night between the third and “Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred “Four and twentieth year before Christ, “Came a certain thief, who plunder’d

“Many jewels from the storehouse “Where we kept them, and more lately “Further thefts has perpetrated, “So that we have suffer’d greatly.

“To discover the offender, “Made we our belovèd daughter “Sleep beside the treasure; but he “Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.

“Now, to check this wholesale plunder, “And to show our deep affection “For the thief, our admiration, “And our grateful recollection,

“We will give our only daughter “As his lawful wife--God bless her!-- “And to princely rank promote him, “Owning him as our successor.

“Since our son-in-law’s abode is “Unknown to us just at present, “This our rescript shall inform him “That we’ve now made all things pleasant.

“Done the third of January “Thirteen hundred twenty-six “Years before Christ; here our seal we, “King Rhampsenitus, affix.”

And he kept his word; the thief he As his son-in-law soon counted, And when he was dead, the robber On the throne of Egypt mounted.

And he ruled like other monarchs, Trade and talent patronizing, And the fewness of the robb’ries In his reign was quite surprising.

THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King, Has half of India under his wing; Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obey His rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.

Each year with banner, trumpet, and drum To Siam the trains with the tribute come; Many thousand camels, with backs piled high With the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.

When the camels he sees with their heavy piles, 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.

Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious, So full of magnificence, so capacious, The reality’s splendour surpasses in glory The Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.

The “Castle of Indra” call they the hall In which are display’d the deities all, The golden images, chisell’d with care, And all incrusted with jewels so fair.

Full thirty thousand their numbers are, Their ugliness passes description far; A compound of men and animals dread, With many a hand and many a head.

In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly sees Some thirteen hundred coral trees, As big as palms, a singular sight, With spiral branches, a forest bright.

The floor of purest crystal is made, And all the trees are in it display’d, While pheasants of glittering plumage gay Strut up and down in a dignified way.

The ape on which the monarch doth dote A ribbon of silk wears round his throat, Whence hangs the key that opens the hall Which people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.

All kinds of jewels of value high All over the ground here scatter’d lie Like common peas, with diamonds rare That in size with the egg of a fowl compare.

On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appear The Monarch is wont to stretch himself here; The ape lies down by the monarch proud, And both of them slumber and snore aloud.

But the King’s most precious, costly treasure, His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure, The joy and the pride of Mahawasant Is truly his snow-white elephant.

As a home for a guest so highly respected A splendid palace the King has erected; Gay lotos-headed columns uphold Its roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.

Three hundred heralds stand at the gate, As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait; And kneeling down with low-bent back There serve him a hundred eunuchs black.

For his proboscis the daintiest meat On golden dishes they bring him to eat; From silver buckets he drinks his wine, Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.

With perfumes they rub him, and otto of roses On his head a chaplet of flowers reposes, The richest shawls that are made in the East As carpets serve for the dignified beast.

The happiest life appears to be his, But no one on earth contented is; The noble creature,--one cannot tell why,-- Gives way to a deep despondency.

The melancholy monster white Is wretched, all this profusion despite; They fain would enliven and cheer him again, But all their cleverest efforts are vain.

In vain with singing and springing there come The bayaderes; the kettle drum And cornet in vain the musicians play, But nothing can make the elephant gay.

As matters continue to go on badly, The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly; He sends for the wisest astrologer known, And bids him stand before his throne.

“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”-- 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.”

The other one threw himself thrice on the ground, 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.

“There lives in the North a woman fair, “Of lofty stature and beauty rare; “Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir, “But still not fit to be liken’d to her.

“Compared with her, he only appears “A little white mouse; her form she rears “Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana, “And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.

“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame; “Two lofty pilasters support the same, “And proudly and gracefully stand upright, “Of alabaster dazzling and white.

“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic, “In other words, love’s cathedral romantic! “As lamp there burns within the fane “A heart quite free from spot and stain.

“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin “To describe the charms of her snow-white skin; “E’en Gautier[65] unable to do it, alas! is, “Its whiteness all description surpasses.

“The highest Himalaya’s snow “Beside her seems ash-grey to grow; “The lily that she by accident thumbs “Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.

“The Countess Bianca is the name “Of this enormous snow-white dame; “At Paris she dwells, in the land of France, “And the elephant loves her by singular chance.

“By strange and wondrous elective affinity “She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity “And into his heart this lofty Ideal “First crept by means of a vision unreal.

“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy, “And he, who was once so joyous and healthy, “As a four-footed Werther sadly stands, “And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.

“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill! “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!’

“His body alone is in Siam, his mind “In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find; “And yet this parting of body and soul “Must greatly injure his health as a whole.

“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly, “He cares for nothing but vermicelli; “He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner; “His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.

“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive, “His return to the animal world contrive, “O King, then send the renown’d invalid “Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.

“When he on the spot in the actual sight “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.

“There where his mistress’s glances fall, “His spirit’s torments will vanish all; “Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface “Which in his bosom had taken their place.

“And then her voice, like a magical tune, “Will cure his distracted mind full soon; “The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise, “And feel as he felt in youthful days.

“All things are so very enchanting and pretty “On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city! “How thy elephant there will civilized be, “Amusing himself right merrily!

“But most of all, O monarch, take care “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,

“For a million of ducats or thereabouts; “Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts “About him, but say with an accent mellow: “‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”

The astrologer thus discoursed, and then He threw himself thrice on the ground again. The king with rich presents sent him away, And stretched himself, his course to survey.

He thought of this, and he thought of that; (Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat). His ape beside him took his seat, And both of them fell asleep with the heat.

What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate; 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.

At Dusseldorf castle on the Rhine They’re gaily masquerading; The waxlights sparkle, the company dance, The music their nimbleness aiding.

The beauteous Duchess dances too, And ceases laughing never; Her partner is a slender youth, Who seems right courtly and clever.

He wears a mask of velvet black, Whence merrily is peeping An eye just like a shining dirk From out of its sheath half creeping.

The carnival throng exultingly shout As they whirl in the waltz’s embraces, While Drickes and Marizzebill[66] Salute with loud noise and grimaces.

The trumpets crash, and the merry hum Of the double-bass increases, Until the dance to an end has come, And then the music ceases.

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg, “’Tis time for me to go now--” “The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart, “Unless your face you show now.”

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg, “My face is a hideous creature’s--” “The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid, “I insist upon seeing your features.”

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg, “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.”

In vain he struggled with gloomy words To change her determination; At length she forcibly tore the mask From his face for her information.

“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hall Exclaim with a feeling of terror, And timidly shrink;--the Duchess rush’d out, Her husband to tell of her error.

The Duke was wise, and all the disgrace Of the Duchess straightway effac’d he; He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down, Good fellow!” with accents hasty.

“With this stroke of the sword I make you now “A limb of the order knightly; “And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d “Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”

So the headsman became a nobleman proud, Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder; A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine, Though now they all underground are!

THE VALKYRES.[67]

While below contending forces Fight, above on cloudy horses Three Valkyres ride; their song Through the air re-echoes long.

“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel, “Each would bear away the laurel; “Conquest is the highest prize, “Highest worth in courage lies.

“No proud helmet gives protection, “Death brings all things in subjection; “And the hero’s blood is shed, “And the wicked win instead.

“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches! On the morrow in he marches, “Who the better one o’erthrew, “Winning land and people too.

“Senator and burgomaster “Go to meet the victor faster “With the keys that ope the gate, “And the train then enters straight.

“Cannon from the walls are crashing, “Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing, “Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky, “And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.

“On the balconies are standing “Smiling beauteous women, handing “To the victor flow’ry wreaths; “He with haughty calmness breathes.”

HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD.

The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d When he heard the tragical story That Harold the king had lost his life On Hastings battle-field gory.

Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he As messengers then selected, To seek at Hastings amongst the dead For Harold’s body neglected.

The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts, And return’d with faces averted: “O Father, the world goes wrong with us now, “We seem by Fortune deserted.

“The better man has fallen in fight, “O’ercome by that bastard demon; “Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land, “And make a slave of the freeman.

“The veriest rascal in Normandy now “Is lord of the island of Britain; “A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs “We saw as gay as a kitten.

“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth! “Ye Saxon sainted ones even, “Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace, “E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.

“The meaning now we can understand “Of the blood-red comet which lately “On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky “One night, and astonish’d us greatly.

“At Hastings there was realized “The evil star’s prediction; “Amongst the dead on the battle-field there “We sought with deep affliction.

“Till every hope had disappear’d “We sought in each direction; “The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say, “Escaped our close inspection.”

’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke; 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:

“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone, “In a hut in the forest, is dwelling “Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call, “In beauty once so excelling.

“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst, “Because her neck in its splendour “Resembled the neck of the swan; the king “Loved the maid with affection tender.

“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then “Forgot, like a faithless lover; Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years “Have since those days pass’d over.

“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight, “And bid her return with you quickly “To Hastings; her eye will discover the king “‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.

“And when you have found his body, with speed “To Waltham Abbey transfer him, “That we for his soul due masses may sing, “And like a Christian inter him.”

At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’d The hut in the forest, saying: “Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake, “And follow without delaying.

“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come, “And the routed Saxons are flying, “And on the field of Hastings the corpse “Of Harold the King is lying.

“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there “The body beneath the dead hidden, “To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care, “As we by the Abbot are bidden.”

Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself, And not one word she utter’d, But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hair In the wind all wildly flutter’d.

The poor woman follow’d with naked feet, 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 mist, which like a snowy veil, The battle-field was cloaking, Dispersed by degrees; the noisy daws Were flapping their wings and croaking.

Many thousand corpses were lying there On the earth with blood bespatter’d, Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steed Among the carcases scatter’d.

Poor Edith the Swanneck in the blood With naked feet now waded; No single spot the searching glance Of her piercing eye evaded.

Both here and there she sought, and she oft Had to scare away the devouring Black troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead; The monks behind her were cowering.

She sought throughout the livelong day, Till the shades of the evening were falling; When out of the poor woman’s breast there burst A shriek both wild and appalling.

For Edith the Swanneck had found at last The corpse of the king, poor creature! No word she utter’d, no tear she wept, She kiss’d each pallid feature.

She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth, Her arms encircled him tightly; She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king, Disfigured by wounds unsightly.

Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,-- And cover’d them over with kisses,-- Three little scars that her teeth had made, The signs of their former blisses.

And in the meantime the pair of monks Some branches of trees collected; These form’d the bier, on which they bore The body, with hearts dejected.

To Waltham Abbey the body they took, To bury it rightly and duly, And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpse Of him she had loved so truly.

The litanies for the dead she sang In childlike pious fashion, And in the night they fearfully rang,-- The monks pray’d, full of compassion.

CHARLES I.

In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the wood Sits the king, an object of pity; The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks, And sings this monotonous ditty:

“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw? “The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly; “Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st “In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.

“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow “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.

“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead, “And now no longer receive they,-- “Eiapopeia,--the faith in a God, “Still less in the king believe they.

“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice “And we from their presence are driven,-- “Eiapopeia,--I, monarch on earth, “And God, the monarch in heaven.

“My heart grows sicker day by day, “My brow grows sterner and sterner; “Eiapopeia,--my headsman art thou, “Thou child of the charcoal-burner!

“My song of death is thy cradle-song-- “Eiapopeia--thou’lt fumble “My grey locks about, and cut them off,-- “Thine axe on my neck will tumble.

“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw? “Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid; “Thou strikest off from my body my head,-- “The life of the kitten is ended.

“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw? “The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly; “The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,-- “My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

The plate-glass windows gleam in the sun In the Tuileries Castle gaily; And yet the well-known spectres of old Still walk about in it daily.

Queen Marie Antoinette still doth haunt The famous pavilion of Flora; With strict etiquette she holds her court At each return of Aurora.

Full dress’d are the ladies,--they most of them stand, On tabourets others are sitting, With dresses of satin and gold brocade, Hung with lace and jewels befitting.

Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell, And from underneath them are peeping Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,-- If their heads were but still in their keeping!

Not one of the number a head has on, The queen herself in that article Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts Of frizzling not one particle.

Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower, In dignity so resplendent, Maria Theresa’s daughter fair, The German Cæsar’s descendant,

She, curlless and headless, now must walk Amongst her maids of honour, Who, equally headless and void of curls, Are humbly waiting upon her.

All this from the French Revolution has sprung, And its doctrines so pernicious, From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine, And Voltaire the malicious.

Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly think That none of these hapless creatures Have ever observed how dead they are, How devoid of head and features.

The first _dame d’atour_ a linen shift brings, And makes a reverence lowly; The second hands it to the queen, And both retire then slowly.

The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneel Before the queen discreetly, That they may be able to draw on Her Majesty’s stockings neatly.

A maid of honour curtsying brings Her Majesty’s robe for the morning; Another with curtsies her petticoat holds And assists at the queen’s adorning.

The mistress of the robes with her fan Stands by, the time beguiling; And as her head is unhappily gone, With her other end she is smiling.

The sun his inquisitive glances throws Inside the draperied casement; But when the apparitions he sees, He starts in fearful amazement.

THE SILESIAN WEAVERS.[68]

No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing, 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!

“A curse on the God to whom our petition “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!

“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often “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!

“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving, “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!

“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away, “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.

All the gods of love are shouting In my heart, and blowing airy Flourishes, and crying: “Hail! “Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”

Not the queen of Otaheite Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty To convert; no, she I mean Is a wild untutor’d beauty.

Twice in every week appears she, All her subjects quite entrancing In that dear Jardin Mabille, Waltzes and the polka dancing.

Majesty in all her footsteps, Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her, Quite a princess every inch, Whichsoever way you take her.

Thus she dances--gods of love are In my heart all blowing airy Flourishes, and crying: “Hail! “Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”

2.

She dances. How her figure sways! What grace her every limb displays! There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging, As if she from her skin were springing.

She dances. When she twirls with skill Upon one foot, and then stands still At last with both her arms extended, My very reason seems suspended.

She dances. ’Tis the very same That once Herodias’ daughter came And danced to Herod. As she dances, Her eye casts round it deadly glances.

She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say, What shall be thy reward to-day? Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway Decapitate the Baptist straightway!

3.

Yesterday for very bread, 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, 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.

Thou hast been by fate befriended Better than at first I said; God be praised, all now is ended! God be praised, and thou art dead!

In thy poor and agèd mother’s Garret thou at length didst die. She, with love beyond all others, Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.

She a winding-sheet bought duly, And a coffin, and a grave; Somewhat close and wretched truly Was the funeral that they gave.

No priests at that funeral lonely Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully; Thy _friseur_ and poodle only As thy mourners follow’d thee.

“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often “Used to comb Pomare’s hair, “And her long black tresses soften, “Sitting in her easy chair!”

But the dog,--away he scamper’d At the churchyard gate anon, And was lodged and fed and pamper’d Afterwards by Rose Pompon.

She, the Provençaler, grudged thee Thy hard-earnèd name of queen, As a hated rival judged thee, Made thee victim of her spleen.

Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal, With thy mud crown on thy head, Thou art saved by God’s eternal Goodness, thou at last art dead.

As thy mother, so thy Father Mercy show’d thee from above; This He did, methinks, the rather In that thou so much didst love.

THE APOLLO GOD.

The convent stands high on the rocky steep, The Rhine beneath it glistens; The youthful nun doth eagerly peep Through the lattice window, and listens.

A bark of fable is sailing past, By the evening glow tinged brightly; While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast, With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.

Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth, With flowing auburn tresses; Of very ancient cut, in truth, His gold and purple dress is.

Before his feet nine women lie, Of marble-lovely graces; A tunic fair and loop’d up high Each slender form embraces.

The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings, And likewise plays his lyre; The song the poor nun’s bosom stings, And sets it all on fire.

She makes a cross, and once again The nun repeats the measure; The cross scares not her blissful pain, Nor checks her bitter pleasure.

2.

I am the god of music bright, Revered in every nation; In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height, My temple had its station.

In Greece I oft have sat and play’d On famed Parnassus’ mountain, Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade, Beside Castalia’s fountain.

My daughters sat around their Pa, And raised a vocal chorus; They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la! While laughter floated o’er us.

The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra! From out the forest loudly; There hunted Artemisia, My little sister, proudly.

And whensoe’er I took some sips,-- I can’t describe it neatly,-- From out Castalia’s fount, my lips Burst into music sweetly.

I sang--my lyre, as it replied, O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping; I felt as if I Daphne spied Behind the laurels peeping.

I sang--ambrosial incense stream’d, And lightly o’er me hover’d; And the whole world around me seem’d By a bright halo cover’d.

A thousand years from Grecia’s land Have I been sadly banish’d; Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land Remain’d, though I have vanish’d.

3.

In the costume of the Beguins, In the cloak with cap upon it Of the coarsest blackest serge, Is the youthful nun envelop’d.

Hastily along the Rhine banks Paces she adown the highway On the road to Holland, asking Eagerly of every passer:

“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo? “He a scarlet cloak is wearing, “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre, “And he is my darling idol.”

None will answer her inquiry, Many turn their backs in silence, Many stare upon her smiling, Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”

But along the highway trotting Comes a slovenly old man; Making figures in the air, he Keeps on singing through his nose.

He a clumsy wallet carries, And a little hat three-corner’d, And with sharp and smiling eyes he Listens to the nun’s inquiry:

“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo? “He a scarlet cloak is wearing, “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre, “And he is my darling idol.”

He however gave this answer, Whilst his little head he waggled Here and there, and comically At his sharp beard kept on twitching:

“Have I chanced to see Apollo? “Yes, I certainly have seen him “When at Amsterdam full often, “In the German synagogue.

“He was there the leading singer, “Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch, “Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,-- “But he’s not my idol truly.

“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too “I remember; genuine scarlet, “And the price per ell eight florins,-- “Not all paid for to this moment.

“His old father, Moses Jitscher, “Know I well; he’s circumciser “To the Portuguese, I fancy, “And to various sovereigns also.

“And his mother is a cousin “Of my sister’s husband, trading “On the Gracht in pickled gherkins, “And in worn-out pairs of breeches.

“In their son they take no pleasure; “On the lyre he plays not badly, “But, I grieve to say, far better “Plays he at taroc and ombre.

“He is likewise a free-thinker, “Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh, “And then travell’d round the country “With some painted low comedians.

“In the shops and on the markets “Has he acted as Jack-pudding, “Holofernes, or King David, “But the latter most excell’d in.

“For the king’s own sorrows sang he “In the king’s own mother language, “Giving all the proper quavers “In the proper olden fashion.

“Recently some wenches took he “From the Amsterdam casino, “And he’s travelling with these Muses “Round the country as Apollo.

“One amongst them is a stout one, “Squeaking very much and grunting: “On account of her green laurel “Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”

HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69]

Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king, Few monarchs are half so splendid; In him a king the Bavarians revere, From an ancient line descended.

He’s fond of art: fair women to get For their portraits to sit, is his passion: In this painted seraglio takes he his walks, In eunuch-artistic fashion.

A marble place of skulls hath he Near Ratisbon constructed, And all the arrangements for every head In his own royal person conducted.

Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece, Where the merit of every man is Set forth, with his character and his acts, From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71]

But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all, Has no place in this proud mausoleum; The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out In a natural hist’ry museum.

King Louis is also a poet renown’d; Whenever sings or plays he, Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims: “O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”

King Louis is also a hero renown’d, Like his child, his little son, Otho, Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece (He disgraced it long ago, tho’).

When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be At Rome by the holy Father; A cat with ruffles a face like his With its Glory will look like rather.

As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos Are converted to Christianity, They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint, In proof of their perfect sanity.

TWO KNIGHTS.

Crapulinski and Waschlapski, Poles in Poland born and bred, Fought for their dear country’s freedom ’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.

Boldly did they fight, and lastly Found at Paris a retreat; Living, just as much as dying For one’s fatherland, is sweet.

Like Achilles and Patroclus, David and his Jonathan, Loved the pair of Poles each other, Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]

Neither e’er betray’d the other, Both were faithful friends and true, Notwithstanding that they Poles were, Born and bred in Poland too.

They the same apartment dwelt in, In the selfsame bed slept they, And in noble emulation Scratch’d themselves by night and day.

In the selfsame beershop dined they, And as neither was content That the other paid his reckoning, Neither ever paid a cent.

’Twas the selfsame washerwoman Did the washing for the pair; Humming, for their linen came she Every month to wash and air.

Yes, they really had their linen, Each one had two shirts, well-worn, Notwithstanding that they Poles were, Poles in Poland bred and born.

They to-day sit near the chimney, Where the flames a bright glow cast; Out of doors are night, a snowstorm, And the coaches driving past.

They a mighty bowl of punch have Drain’d already and devour’d; (Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d, And unwater’d and unsour’d.)

Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping, Tears their furrow’d faces streak: With a voice of deep emotion Thus doth Crapulinski speak;

“Would that I had here in Paris “My dear bearskin, my old cotton “Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap, “In my fatherland forgotten!”

Thus to him replied Waschlapski: “O thou art a driv’ller true; “Of thy home thou’rt over thinking, “Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.

“Poland has not yet quite perish’d, “Still our wives to sons give birth, “And our girls will do so likewise, “And produce us men of worth,

“Heroes, like great Sobieski, “Like Schelmufski and Uminski, “Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski, “And the mighty Eselinski.”

OUR MARINE.[73]

(A Nautical tale.)

A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt, And enjoy’d a sail delicious Far over the wide and boundless sea, The wind was quite propitious.

We gave our frigates the proudest names That we in our calendar reckon’d; One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d, And Prutz[74] we christen’d the second.

There floated the cutter Freiligrath, Whereon was seen the figure Of the Moorish king, which gazed below Like a moon (but as black as a nigger).

There floated Gustavus Schwab as well, A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer; On each of them stood a Swabian face, Each holding a wooden lyre.

There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which bore On its mast the escutcheon olden Of the famous German Admiralty, On tatters black-red-golden.

We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard, And bore ourselves like sailors; Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d, And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.

Full many, who formerly sipp’d but tea As husbands kind and forbearing, Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d, And, seaman-like, took to swearing.

So bright was our vision, we well nigh won A naval victory splendid; But when return’d the morning sun, Both fleet and vision had ended.

We still were lying at home in bed, Our limbs all over it sprawling; We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes, The following wise speech bawling:

“The world is round; why seek to be tost “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.

Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting, 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!

Girding up their tunics lightly, Clasping hands together tightly, Noble maidens, off’rings bringing, Twist, like whirlwinds at the least, Round the beast-- Kettle drums and laughter ringing!

Aaron’s self joins in the mazy 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.

Despots smiling yield their breath, Knowing after their own death That their slaves but change their master, And, if anything, work faster.

Ah, poor race! like horse and bull They the waggons still must pull, And their backs will soon be broken If they heed not what is spoken.

David said to Solomon On his deathbed: “List, my son! “My most dreaded foe of course is “Joab, general of my forces.

“This brave general many a year “I have view’d with hate and fear; “But, however I detest him, “I ne’er ventured to arrest him.

“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff, “Fearing God, art strong enough; “’Tis for thee an easy matter “That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”

KING RICHARD.

Through the silent glades of the forest there springs An eager horseman proudly; He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings Exultingly and loudly.

His armour is made of the brass most strong, But stronger still is his bosom; ’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along, That Christian chivalry’s blossom.

“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough “Exclaims with joyous assurance; “We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou “Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”

The king snuffs up the free air the while, Like a newborn creature lives he; He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,-- And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.

THE ASRA.

Daily went the wondrous lovely Sultan’s daughter at the cooling Hour of evening to the fountain, Where the waters white were plashing.

Daily at the hour of evening Stood the young slave at the fountain Where the waters white were plashing, Daily grew he pale and paler.

And one evening came the princess, And these sudden words address’d him: “Thou must tell me what thy name is, “And thy country and thy kindred!”

And the slave replied: “My name is “Mahomet, I came from Yemmen, “And my race is of those Asras, “Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”

THE NUNS.

Who at night the convent walls Passes, sees the windows brightly Lighted up, for there the spectres Make their gloomy circuit nightly.

’Tis dead Ursulines that join In the sad and dark procession; From the linen hoods are peeping Faces young of sweet expression.

Tapers bear they in their hands, Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious Strangely echo in the crossway Whispers low, wails sad and serious.

To the church the train moves on; Sitting on the wooden benches Of the quire, their mournful chorus Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches.

Like a litany it sounds, But the words are wild and shocking They are poor and outcast spirits At the heavenly portal knocking.

“Brides of Christ we used to be, “But by love of earth were chainèd, “And we render’d unto Cæsar “Things that unto God pertainèd.

“Charming is a uniform “And mustachios smooth and shining “For the epaulettes of Cæsar “Were our hearts in secret pining.

“Antlers to the brow we gave “By our shameless ill behaviour, “Which the crown of thorns once carried,-- “We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.

“Jesus,--mercy’s very self,-- “Softly wept o’er our transgression, “And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd “‘For disgracing your profession!’

“Grave-sprung spectres of the night, “We must wander in these dreary “Walls, our folly to atone for,-- “Miserere! Miserere!

“Ah, within the grave ’tis well! “Though indeed ’tis far more cheery “In the glowing realms of heaven,-- “Miserere! Miserere!

“Jesus sweet, forgive at length “Our transgression sad and weary; “Let us feel the warmth of heaven,-- “Miserere! Miserere!”

Thus the troop of nuns sing on, And a long-dead clerk is playing On the organ. Hands of spirits O’er the keys are wildly straying.

PALSGRAVINE JUTTA.

The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light, 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!

“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d, “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!”

The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows, 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.

To the Alpuxarres’ exile Went the youthful Moorish monarch; Silent and with heart full mournful Heading the procession rode he.

And behind, on lofty palfreys Or in golden litters riding, Sat the women of his household; Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.

And a hundred trusty followers Rode on noble Arab horses; Haughty steeds, and yet the riders Carelessly bestrode the saddles.

Not a drum and not a cymbal, Not a single song resounded; Silver bells upon the mules, though, Echoed sadly in the silence.

On the height, from whence the glances Sweep across the Duero valley, And Granada’s battlements For the last time rise before one,

There the mournful king dismounted, And he gazed upon the city Glittering in the light of evening, As though deck’d with gold and purple.

But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas! In the place of that dear crescent Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard On the tow’rs of the Alhambra.

Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry Broke from out the monarch’s bosom; Suddenly the tears ’gan falling Like a torrent down his cheeks.

Sadly from her lofty palfrey Downward gazed the monarch’s mother, Looking on her son’s affliction; Proudly, bitterly, she chided:

“Boabdil el Chico,” said she, “Like a woman thou bewailest “Yonder town, which thou neglectedst “To defend with manly courage.”

When the monarch’s dearest mistress Heard these words, so harsh and cruel, Hastily she left her litter, Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.

“Boabdil el Chico,” said she, “Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one! “From the deep abyss of sorrow “Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.

“Not alone the glorious victor, “Not alone the proud triumphant “Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune, “But misfortune’s bloody son, too,

“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior, “Who to destiny o’erpow’ring “Has succumb’d, will live for ever “In the memory of mortals.”--

“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh” To this very moment call they Yonder height from whence the monarch For the last time saw Granada.

Time has now fulfill’d full sweetly His beloved one’s prophecy, And the Moorish monarch’s name is Reverenced and held in honour.

Never will his glory vanish, Never, till the last chord’s broken Of the last guitar remaining In the land of Andalusia.

GEOFFRY RUDÈL AND MELISANDA OF TRIPOLI.

In the Château Blay still see we Tapestry the walls adorning, Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’ Own fair hands, no labour scorning.

Her whole soul was woven in it, And with loving tears and tender Hallow’d is the silken picture, Which the following scene doth render:

How the Countess saw Rudèl Dying on the strand of ocean, And the’ ideal in his features Traced of all her heart’s emotion.

For the first and last time also Living saw Rudèl and breathing Her who in his every vision Intertwining was and wreathing.

Over him the Countess bends her, Lovingly his form she raises, And his deadly-pale mouth kisses, That so sweetly sang her praises.

Ah! the kiss of welcome likewise Was the kiss of separation, And they drain’d the cup of wildest Joy, and deepest desolation.

In the Château Blay at night-time Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking On the tapestry the figures Suddenly to life are waking.

Troubadour and lady stretch their Drowsy ghostlike members yonder, And from out the wall advancing, Up and down the hall they wander.

Whispers fond and gentle toying, Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling, Posthumous gallánt soft speeches, Minnesingers’ times recalling:

“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music “Warmth is in my dead heart glowing, “And I feel once more a glimmer “In the long-quench’d embers growing!”

“Melisanda! I awaken “Unto happiness and gladness, “When I see thine eyes; dead only “Is my earthly pain and sadness.”

“Geoffry! Once we loved each other “In our dreams; now, cut asunder “By the hand of death, still love we,-- “Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”

“Melisanda! What are dreams? “What is death? Mere words to scare one! “Truth in love alone e’er find we, “And I love thee, ever fair one!”

“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings “In this moonlit chamber nightly, “Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams “I no more shall wander lightly.”

“Melisanda! Foolish dear one! “Thou art light and sun, thou knowest! “Love and joys of May are budding, “Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”--

Thus those tender spectres wander Up and down, and sweet caresses Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight Through the window’s arch’d recesses.

But at length the rays of morning Scare away the fond illusion; To the tapestry retreat they On the wall, in shy confusion.

THE POET FERDUSI.

1.

Men of gold, and men of silver! When a fool about a thoman Talks, of silver he is speaking, And he means a silver thoman.

In a prince’s mouth, however, Or a shah’s, a thoman’s always Golden, for a shah will only Give and take in golden thomans.

Worthy people have this notion, And Ferdusi thought so also, The composer of the famous And immortal work _Schah Nameh_.

This divine heroic poem At the Shah’s command composed he, Who for every verse a thoman Promised to bestow upon him.

Seventeen times bloom’d the roses, Seventeen times did they wither, And the nightingales sang sweetly And were silent seventeen times,--

And meanwhile the bard was sitting At the loom of thought, composing Day and night, and nimbly weaving His sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,--

Giant-carpet, where the poet Interwove with skill his country’s Chronicles from times of fable, Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,

Fav’rite heroes of his nation, Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous, Magic beings, hateful demons, Intertwined with flowers of fable.

All were blooming, all were living, Bright with colours, glowing, burning, With the heavenly rays illumin’d From the sacred light of Iran,

From the godlike light primeval, Whose last pure and fiery temple, Spite of Koran and of Mufti, In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.

When at last the work was finish’d, Then the manuscript the poet Sent to his illustrious patron, E’en two hundred thousand verses.

It was in the public bath room, In the bathing place at Gasna, That the Shah’s black messengers Found at last the bard Ferdusi.

Each a bag of money carried, Which before the poet’s feet he Kneeling placed, to be the guerdon To reward his minstrel labours.

Hastily the poet open’d Both the bags, his eyes to gladden With the gold so long kept from him,-- When he saw with consternation

That the bags contain’d within them Silver only, silver thomans, Some two hundred thousand of them;-- Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.

Laughing bitterly, the money He divided in three equal Portions, and a third part gave he To the two black messengers,

Each a third, to be his guerdon For the message, and the third part Gave he to the man who waited On his bath, as drinking-money.

Then his pilgrim staff he straightway Grasp’d, and left at once the city, And before the gate the dust he From his very shoes rejected.

2.

“Had he been, like other men, “Heedless of his words once spoken, “And his promise merely broken, “I had not been angry then.

“Suffer _this_? I never will! “His deceit my heart amazes, “Both his double-meaning phrases, “And his silence, falser still.

“He was noble, fair to see, “Proud his gestures were, and stately; “Other men excell’d he greatly, “Every inch a king was he.

“Firelike did his glance once meet me, “As the sun in yonder heaven “He, truth’s haughty image even-- “And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”

3.

Shah Mahomet full well has dined, And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.

In the garden at twilight, on purple seat He sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,

With looks respectful his servants stand: His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.

From marble vases a fiery gush Of luxuriant flowers appears to rush.

Like Odalisques with graceful arms Stand fanning themselves the slender palms.

The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d, As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.

But sudden to strains of the lute ere long Is heard a gentle mysterious song.

The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d: “Who wrote of this song the charming text?”

Ansari, from whom he sought to know it, Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”

“Ferdusi!”--exclaim’d the prince in dismay,-- “Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”

“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great “He has lived full long in a mournful state

“At Thus, the native town of the bard, “Where he in his garden works full hard.”

Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said: “Ansari, a thought has come in my head.

“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty “Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.

“And lade them all with every treasure “That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,

“With splendid articles, rich and rare, “With costly dresses and furniture fair

“Of sandal wood and ivory white, “With gold and silver tissues dight;

“With precious-handled goblets and pots, “And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,

“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade “That in my kingdom has ever been made.

“And don’t forget to pack with the rest “Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,

“As well as drinks of every kind “And eatables such as in pots we find,

“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian, “And gingerbread of every description.

“And also add a dozen steeds “As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,

“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals, “With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.

“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got, “Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.

“Thou must take them all with my kind regard “To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”--

Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest, And loaded the camels and mules with the best

And costliest presents, the value of which Was enough to make a whole province quite rich.

In propriâ personâ he left at last The palace, when some three days had past,

And with a general’s banner red In front of the caravan he sped.

At the end of a week to Thus came they; The town at the foot of the mountain lay.

The caravan the western gate With shouts and noises entered straight.

The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat, And songs of triumph rang through the street.

“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shout The camel drivers were calling out.

But through the East gate at the farther end Of Thus, at that moment chanced to wend

The funeral train so full of gloom, That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.

VOYAGE BY NIGHT.

The half-moon peer’d from the darksome clouds With coyness, while rock’d the sea; And when in the bark our places we took, Our number then was three.

There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oar With sad monotony; White foaming billows came with a roar, And sprinkled all of us three.

She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim, As void of motion too, As though she a marble statue were, Diana’s image true.

The moon disappear’d. The nightwind piped With chilly blast on high; When over our heads there suddenly rose A wild and piercing cry.

’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice, And at that terrible cry, Which fearfully rang like a warning call, All three felt like to die.

Am I in a fever? A vision is this Of nightly phantasy? Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dream Of wild buffoonery.

Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dream That I a Saviour am; And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross, As gentle as a lamb.

Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d, But soon I’ll set her free From sin and shame and sorrow and pain, And earthly misery.

Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified, Though bitter the medicine be; Although my heart may break, I myself Will mete out death to thee.

O folly wild and terrible dream! O madness fearful to see! The night is yawning, the ocean yells-- O God, have mercy on me!

Have mercy on me, O merciful God! O merciful God! Schaddey![75] A Something falls in the sea--Alas! Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]

The sun arose, we came to the land, Sweet smiled the spring to the view; And when at length we left the bark, Our number then was two.

THE PRELUDE.

This, then, is America! This indeed the new world is! Not the present, which already Europeanized, is with’ring.--

This indeed the new world is, As by Christopher Columbus From the ocean extricated; In its billowy freshness gleams it,

With its watery pearls still dripping, Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling, When the sunlight fair it kisses. O how healthy this new world is!

’Tis no churchyard of romance, ’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg, All made up of mouldy symbols, And of petrified perukes.

From the healthy earth are shooting Healthy trees, and none amongst them _Blasé_ is, or has consumption Eating up its spinal marrow.

On the branches are disporting Mighty birds. Of chequer’d colours Is their plumage. With their solemn Lengthy beaks, and eyes encircled

With black marks, like spectacles, They in silence gaze upon thee, Till they shriek with sudden clamour And like washerwomen chatter.

Yet I know not what they’re saying, Notwithstanding that I’m learned In birds’ tongues as Solomon, Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,

And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,-- Not the modern ones alone, But all dialects whatever, Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.

New the land is, new the flowers! New the flowers and new the fragrance! Fragrance wild, and never heard of, Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,

Teasing, prickling, full of passion-- And my subtle sense of smelling Racks itself with meditating: “Where have I e’er smelt this odour?

“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance, “In the sunny arms so yellow “Of that Javanese thin woman “Who was always eating flowers?

“Was it else at Rotterdam, “Near the Column of Erasmus, “In the wafer-shop notorious “With its most mysterious curtain?”

Whilst I in this puzzled fashion The new world was contemplating, Seeming to instil into it Still more bashfulness,--a monkey,

Who, affrighted, sought the bushes, Cross’d himself at my appearance, Crying with alarm: “A Spirit! “Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”--

“Monkey, be not thus confounded! “I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre; “Life within my veins is boiling, “I’m life’s most true-hearted son.

“Yet by living many years “With the dead, have I adopted “Dead men’s manners very likely, “And peculiar ways of thinking.

“All the fairest years of life “Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern, “In the Venusberg, and other “Catacombs of the Romantic.

“Have no fear of me, good monkey! “Thee I like, for on thy hairless “Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters “Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”--

Darling colours! Black-red-golden! Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours, Sorrowfully they remind me Of the flag of Barbarossa.

VITZLIPUTZLI.

1.

On his head he wore the laurel, And upon his boots there glitter’d Golden spurs,--but notwithstanding He was neither knight nor hero.

He was but a robber captain, Who within the book of glory Wrote with his own wicked hand His own wicked name of--Cortez.

Underneath Columbus’ name he Wrote his own,--yes, close beneath it, And the schoolboy at his lessons Learns by heart both names together.

After Christopher Columbus He now names Fernando Cortez, As the second greatest man In the new world’s proud Pantheon.

Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice! That our name should thus be coupled With the name of a vile scoundrel In the memory of mortals!

Were’t not better e’en to perish All unknown, than draggle with it Through eternity’s long ages Such a name in comradeship?

Master Christopher Columbus Was a hero,--and his temper, That was pure as e’en the sunlight, Was as gen’rous in addition.

Many people much have given, But Columbus to the world Hath a world entire imparted, And ’tis call’d America.

He had not the power to free us From our dreary earthly prison, But he managed to enlarge it And our heavy chain to lengthen.

Mortals thankfully revere him, Being, not of Europe only, But of Africa and Asia, Equally quite sick and weary.

One alone, one hero only Gave us more and gave us better Than Columbus--that one mean I Who a God bestow’d upon us.

His old father’s name was Amram, And his mother’s Jochebed, And himself, his name was Moses, And he is my greatest hero.

But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loitering Far too long with this Columbus; Know thou that our flight to-day is With the lesser man,--with Cortez.

So extend thy colour’d pinions, Wingèd steed! and carry me To the new world’s beauteous country That they Mexico entitle.

Carry me to yonder castle, Which the monarch Montezuma Kindly offer’d to his Spanish Guests, to be their habitation.

Not mere food and shelter only In extravagant profusion Gave the prince these foreign strollers,-- Presents rich and precious also,

Valuable, wrought with cunning, All of massive gold, and jewels, Bear gay witness to the monarch’s Generosity and favour.

This uncivilised, unlearned, Superstitious, blinded heathen Still believed in faith and honour, And the sacredness of guest-right.

He accepted a proposal To be present at a banquet That the Spaniards in their castle Wish’d to give, to do him honour.

And with all his court attendants Came the inoffensive monarch Kindly to the Spanish quarters, Where by trumpets he was greeted.

What they call’d the entertainment Know I not. ’Twas very likely “Spanish Truth!” of which the author’s Name was Don Fernando Cortez.

Cortez gave the signal--straightway They attack’d the peaceful monarch, And they bound him and retain’d him In the castle as a hostage.

But poor Montezuma died there, And the dam was broken down Which the bold adventurers From the people’s wrath protected.

Terribly began the tempest; Like a wild and furious ocean Raved and bluster’d ever nearer The excited human billows.

Valiantly in truth the Spaniards Drove the tempest back. But daily Was the castle fresh blockaded, And the conflict was exhausting.

When the King was dead, the convoys Of provisions ceased entirely; In proportion as the rations Shorter grew, each face grew longer.

With long faces on each other Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness, And they sigh’d, when they bethought them Of their cosy Christian dwellings

In their cherish’d fatherland, Where the pious bells were ringing, And upon the hearth there bubbled Peaceful olla podridas,

Thickly studded with garbanzos, Under which, with waggish fragrance Chuckling famously, were hidden Those dear garlic sausages.

Then the leader held a council, And upon retreat decided; On the following morn at daybreak Was the force to leave the city.

Easy ’twas for clever Cortez Cunningly to gain an entrance, But retreat to terra firma Offer’d fatal obstacles.

Mexico, the island city, In a mighty lake is founded, In the middle, wave-surrounded: E’en a haughty water fortress,

With the continent connected But by ships and rafts and bridges, Which repose on piles gigantic, Little islands forming forts.

’Twas before the sun had risen That their march began the Spaniards Not a single drum was beaten, Not a trumpeter was blowing.

’Twas their object not to waken From their quiet sleep their hosts-- (For a hundred thousand Indians Were encamp’d in Mexico).

Yet without his host the Spaniard Reckon’d, when his plans he settled; For the Mexicans had risen Earlier still to-day than he had.

On the rafts and on the bridges, On the forts they all were waiting, That they to their guests might offer Then and there the parting cup.

On the rafts and forts and bridges Ha! a frantic banquet follow’d; In red torrents stream’d the blood, And the bold carousers struggled,--

Struggled, body press’d to body, And we see on many naked Indian breasts the arabesque Of the Spanish arms imprinted.

’Twas a throttling and a choking And a butchery that slowly, Sadly slowly, roll’d still onward Over rafts and forts and bridges.

Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’d Silently the Spaniards struggled, Step by step with toil and labour For their flight a footing gaining.

Fighting thus in narrow passes Small to-day the’ advantage lying In old Europe’s strategy, Or her cannons, armour, horses.

Many Spaniards in addition With the gold were heavy laden, Lately captured or extorted-- Ah! that yellow load of sin

Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict, And the devilish metal proved Not to the poor spirit only Ruinous, but to the body.

And meanwhile the lake around them With canoes and barks was cover’d; Archers in them sat, all shooting At the rafts and forts and bridges.

True they hit in the confusion Many of their Indian brethren, But they also hit full many Excellent and brave hidalgos.

On the third bridge fell at last Poor young Gaston, who was bearing On that day the flag whereon Was the Holy Virgin’s image.

E’en this image’ self was struck By the missiles of the Indians; Six such missiles were left sticking In its very heart,--bright arrows,

Like those swords of golden colour Which transfix the sorrowing bosom Of the Mater Dolorosa In Good Friday’s sad procession.

Gaston, when he died, made over His proud banner to Gonsalvo, Who soon afterwards was stricken E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez

Seized himself the precious banner, He, the leader, and he bore it On his steed till tow’rd the evening, When the fight at length was over.

On that day a hundred Spaniards Fell, and sixty in addition; Eighty more alive were taken By the Indians’ cruel hands.

Many of them sorely wounded, Who ere long their breath surrender’d And a dozen horses, too, were Partly kill’d and partly captured.

Cortez and his army only Just at evening gain’d the shelter Of the shore, a seacoast planted Niggardly with weeping willows.

2.

When the battle day is over, Comes the frantic night of triumph So in Mexico a hundred Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;

Hundred thousand lamps of joy, with Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires, Throw a light as clear as daylight Over palaces and temples,

And guildhouses,--likewise over Vitzliputzli’s splendid temple, Idol-fortress built of red brick, Strangely like the old Egyptian,

Babylonian, and Assyrian Monster buildings so colossal, As we see them in the pictures Of the English Henry Martin.[77]

Yes, it is the same broad staircase, So exceeding broad, that on it Many thousand Mexicans Up and down are walking freely,

Whilst upon the steps are lying Mighty troops of savage warriors, Banqueting in joyous fashion, Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.

This great staircase leadeth upwards Like a zigzag to the platform, By a balustrade surrounded At the summit of the temple.

There, upon his altar-throne, Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli, Mexico’s bloodthirsty wargod.-- He is but an evil monster,

But so droll is his exterior, Full of carvings, and so childish, That despite our inward horror It must needs excite our laughter.

His appearance altogether Brought to mind a combination Of the “Dance of Death” at Basle, And the Mannekin at Brussels.

On the god’s left side his priests are Station’d, on his right the people; Ornaments of colour’d feathers Are to-day the former wearing.

On the altar-stairs of marble Squats a man a hundred years old; On his chin and skull no hair is, And he wears a scarlet waistcoat.

He’s the priest of sacrifices, And his bloody knife he’s whetting; As he whets, he grins, and ofttimes Leers upon the god above him.

Vitzliputzli seems the glances Of his servant to appreciate, And he twitches every eyelash, And his lips at times he twitches.

On the altar steps squat also The musicians of the temple, Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers-- Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!

Loud the clatter, loud the tooting! And the Mexican Te Deum Rises up in noisy chorus, As if many cats were mewing--

As if many cats were mewing, But of that enlarged description Which are “tiger-cats” entitled, And, instead of mice, eat people!

When the nightwind carries with it These loud noises to the seashore, The poor Spaniards there encamping Feel sensations far from pleasant.

Sadly ’neath the weeping willows Are the Spaniards still remaining, Gazing tow’rd the distant city Which within the dark sea water

Mirrors back, in sheer derision, All the flames of former pleasure-- There they stand, as in the pit Of a vast gigantic playhouse,

Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiant Platform serving as the stage Where they act a tragic myst’ry To commemorate their triumph.

“Human sacrifice” the play is, Old, full old, its plot, its fable; But the piece is not so fearful In the Christian treatment of it.

For into the blood is red wine, And into the actual body Is a thin and harmless wafer Transubstantiated truly.

’Mongst these savages at present Was the joke in downright earnest Taken up; they fed on flesh, And the blood was human blood.

This time ’twas indeed the pure blood Of old Christians, which had never Never mingled with the baser Blood of Jews or of Moriscos.

O be joyful, Vitzliputzli! For to-day ’tis Spanish blood, And thou mayst refresh thy nostrils With its warm scent greedily.

Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’d On this day to do thee honour-- Proud repast to grace the table Of thy priests, who flesh delight in.

For the priest is but a mortal, And poor man, unhappy glutton, Cannot, like the gods, live only On sweet smells and savoury odours.

Hark! the death-drum now is beating, And the evil cowhorn screeches! They proclaim the’ approaching advent Of the victims’ sad procession.

Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked, With their hands securely fasten’d To their backs, are harshly driven Up the temple’s lofty staircase.

And to Vitzliputzli’s image They must bow the knee right humbly, And must dance the wildest dances, Forcibly constrain’d by tortures,

All so terrible and fearful, That their madden’d screams of anguish Overpow’r the whole collective Cannibals’ wild charivari.

Poor spectators by the ocean! Cortez and his warlike comrades But too plainly could distinguish All their friends’ loud cries of torment.

On the stage, too clearly lighted, They could see, alas! too plainly, Every figure, every gesture,-- See the knife and see the blood.

Then from off their heads their helmets Silently they took, and kneeling, Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly, And they sang the De Profundis.

’Mongst the number of the victims Was young Raimond de Mendoza, Offspring of the lovely abbess, Cortez’ first and youthful love.

When he on the stripling’s bosom Saw the well-remember’d locket Which enclosed his mother’s portrait, Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez--

But from off his eyes he wiped them With his buffalo’s hard gauntlet-- Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorus With the others: Miserere!

3.

Now the stars are glimm’ring paler, And the morning mists are rising From the ocean-flood, like spirits Dragging their white shrouds behind them.

Feasts and lights are all extinguish’d In the temple of the idol, Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement, Priest and laity lie snoring.

None are waking, save Red Jacket. By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer, Sickly grinning, grimly jesting, Thus the priest his god addresses:

“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli! “Darling god, my Vitzliputzli! “Thou to-day hast had amusement, “And has smelt a fragrant odour!

“Spanish blood to-day we offer’d, “O how savourily steam’d it! “And thy fine and dainty nostrils “Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!

“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses, “Neighing noble monsters are they, “Offspring of the tempest spirits’ “Amorous toying with the seacow.

“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter “In thine honour my two grandsons, “Pretty children,--sweet their blood is,-- “My old age’s only pleasure.

“But indeed thou must be gracious, “And must grant us further triumphs, “Let us conquer, darling godhead, “Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!

“All our enemies destroy thou, “All these strangers who from distant “And still undiscover’d countries “Hither came across the ocean--

“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings? “Was it crime or hunger drove them? “‘Stop at home and live in quiet’ “Is a sensible old proverb.

“What is their desire? Our money “Stick they in their greedy pockets, “And they wish us to be happy-- “So they tell us,--in the heavens!

“We at first believed them fully “Beings of a higher order, “Children of the Sun, immortal, “Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.

“But they’re only men, as mortal “As ourselves; my knife to-night has “Proved beyond all doubt and question “Their extreme mortality.

“They are mortal, and no fairer “Than ourselves, and many of them “Are as ugly as the monkeys, “And their faces, like the latter,

“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d “Many of them carry hidden “In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for “Those not monkeys need no breeches.

“Morally they’re also ugly “And of piety know nothing, “And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d “Their own deities to swallow!

“O destroy this vile abandon’d “Wicked brood, these god-devourers-- “Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli, “Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”--

Thus the priest address’d the god, And the god’s reply resounded Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind Toying with the ocean sedges:

“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer! “Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,-- “Plunge thy sacrificial knife now “In thine own old worn-out body!

“From thy body, thus slit open, “Will thy spirit make its exit, “Over roots and over pebbles “Tripping to the green frog’s pond.

“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen, “Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee: “‘So good morning, naked spirit! “‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?

“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely “‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey? “‘Does good fortune from his forehead “‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?

“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him, “‘Hated goddess of all evil, “‘With her black paws made of iron, “‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’

“Naked spirit, give this answer: “‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting, “‘And a pestilence he wishes “‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!

“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict, “‘And thy counsel was destruction; “‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil “‘Old and mournful prophecy

“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation “‘By the men so fiercely bearded, “‘Who on wooden birds all flying “‘From the Eastern land come hither.

“‘There’s an ancient proverb also-- “‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise-- “‘And the God’s will is redoubled “‘When the woman is his mother.

“‘She it is that wakes my anger, “‘She, the haughty queen of heaven, “‘She, a pure and spotless virgin, “‘Working charms and versed in magic.

“‘She protects the Spanish people, “‘And we all at length must perish, “‘I, the poorest of the godheads, “‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’--

“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message, Red-coat, let thy naked spirit In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly Out of sight of all my misery.

“This proud temple will be shatter’d, “I myself shall in its ruins “Disappear,--mere dust and rubbish,-- “No one e’er again will see me.

“Yet I shall not die; we godheads “Grow as old as do the parrots, “And we cast our skins, and like them “Only change at times our feathers.

“To my foemen’s native country “Which they give the name of Europe “I shall fly away, beginning “There a really new career.

“I’ll turn devil, and the god “Then shall be a God-be-with-us; “As my foemen’s evil spirit “I can work as best may suit me.

“There my enemies I’ll trouble, “And alarm them all with phantoms; “As a foretaste of hell’s torments, “Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.

“Both their wise men and their doltards “I’ll allure with my seductions; “And their virtue will I tickle “Till it laughs like any strumpet.

“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil, “And salute as my dear comrades “Satanas and Belial with him, “Astaroth and Beelzebub.

“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis, “Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent “Teach me all thy dreadful secrets, “And the charming art of lying!

“My belovèd Mexico, “I no longer can preserve thee, “But I’ll fearfully avenge thee, “My belovèd Mexico!”

_BOOK II.--LAMENTATIONS._

Good fortune quite a fickle miss is, And in one place will never stay; The hair from off thy face with kisses She strokes, and then she flies away.

Misfortune to her heart, however, To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits; She says she’s in a hurry never, Sits down beside thy bed and knits.

WOOD SOLITUDE.

In former days, in my life’s young morning, I wore a garland my brow adorning; How wondrously glisten’d then every flower! The garland was fill’d with a magical power.

While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure, Its wearer they hated beyond all measure; I fled from the envy of mortals rude, I fled to the wood’s green solitude.

To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoyment With spirits and beasts was my sole employment. The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall, Without any fear approach’d me all.

They all approach’d me without any terror, 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.

None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation, But how the remaining gentry of station That lived in the forest treated me well, I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.

How round me hover’d the elfin rabble, That airy race, with their charming gabble! ’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet, The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.

With May dance and May games amused they me highly And tales of the court narrated they slily, For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’en Of lovely Titania, the faery queen.

If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springing Rose out of the flood, their tresses wringing, With long silver veils and fluttering hair, The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!

They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly, And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly; The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d, Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.

And yet at times was much less alarming The noise that they made; these elfins charming Before my feet lay quietly, Their heads reclining on my knee.

Some foreign romances they trill’d,--for example 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.

They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter, Many critical matters inquiring after, For instance: “On what particular plan “Did God determine on fashioning man?

“Is each individual’s soul altogether “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?”

The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present, 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.

While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes, 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.

They all wear a long and swelling red doublet, 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.

They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it; 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.

Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling, We all have something that needs concealing; No Christians, we fancy, have ever descried Where we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.

Salamanders for me had never attractions, I learnt very little respecting their actions From other wood spirits. They pass’d me by night Like fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.

They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby, With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be, Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold; Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.

A golden crown, with rubies all over, The head of each of their number doth cover; The whole of these vain conceited elves Quite absolute monarchs consider themselves.

That they are not burnt in the fire is truly A great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly; And yet the uninflammable wight Is far from being a true fire-sprite.

The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however; 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.

When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble, 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.

In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions, How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions, And also to pluck on Midsummer night The root that makes one invisible quite.

They taught me the stars and strange signs--how astraddle To ride on the winds without any saddle, And Runic sentences, able to call The dead from out of their silent graves all.

They also taught me the whistle mysterious That serves to deceive the woodpecker serious, And makes him give us the spurge, to show Where secret treasures are hidden below.

The words that ’tis needful for people to mutter 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.

For money in fact I then cared not a tittle, 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.

O charming time, when the heaven’s high arches With fiddles were hung, when elfin marches And nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad play My story-drunk heart enchanted all day!

O charming time, when into auspicious 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.

That charming time has utterly vanish’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.

The garland is gone that my locks shaded over, 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.

The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring, Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring, A churchyard blue, its deities gone; I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.

From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their graces 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.

And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are biding 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.

O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden, 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.

The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s; 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.

I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,-- 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.

’Twas on Hubert’s day--the year was Thirteen hundred, three and eighty-- That the king a banquet gave us In the castle at Segovia.

These state banquets just the same are Everywhere, and at the tables Of all princes sov’reign tedium Yawns with uncontested vigour.

Everywhere the same silk rabble, Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding, Like a bed of gorgeous tulips; Different only are the sauces.

Whispers all the time and buzzing Lull the senses like the poppy, Till the sound of trumpets wakes us From our state of chewing deafness.

Near me, by good luck, was sitting Don Diego Albuquerque, From whose lips the conversation Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.

He with wondrous skill related Bloody stories of the palace, Of the times of old Don Pedro, Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.

When I ask’d him why Don Pedro Caused his brother Don Fredrego To be secretly beheaded, With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:

Ah, Señor! the tales believe not Jingled on their vile guitars by Balladsingers and muledrivers In posadas, beershops, taverns.

And believe not what they chatter Of the love of Don Fredrego And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous, Donna Blanca of Bourbon.

’Twas not to the husband’s jealous Feelings, but to his low envy That as victim fell Fredrego, Chief of Calatrava’s order.

For the crime Don Pedro never Would forgive him, was his glory,-- Glory such as Donna Fama Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald--

Never could Don Pedro pardon His magnanimous high spirit, Or the beauty of his person, Which was but his spirit’s image.

Still within my memory blossoms That slim graceful hero-flower; Ne’er shall I forget those lovely Dream-like, soft and youthful features.

They were just of that description That the fairies take delight in, And a fable-seeming secret Spoke from all those features plainly.

Blue his eyes were, their enamel Being dazzling as a jewel, But a jewel’s staring hardness Seem’d reflected in them likewise.

Black his hair was in its colour, Bluish black, and strangely glistening, And in fair luxuriant tresses Falling down upon his shoulders.

In the charming town of Coimbra Which he from the Moors had taken, For the last time I beheld him, In this world,--unhappy prince!

He was coming from Alcanzor, Through the narrow streets fast riding Many a fair young Moorish maiden Eyed him from her latticed window.

O’er his head his helm-plume floated Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s Rigid Calatrava cross Scared away all loving fancies.

By his side, and gaily wagging With his tail, his favourite Allan Sprang,--a beast of proud descent, And whose home was the Sierra.

He, despite his size gigantic, Was as nimble as a reindeer; Noble was his head to look at, Though the fox’s it resembled.

Snow-white and like silk in softness, Down his back his long hair floated, And with rubies bright incrusted Was his broad and golden collar.

It was said this collar hid the Talisman fidelity; Never did the faithful creature Leave the side of his dear master.

O that fierce fidelity! It excites my startled feelings, When I think how ’twas made public Here, before our frighten’d presence.

O that day so full of horror! Here, within this hall, it happen’d, And as I to-day am sitting, At the monarch’s table sat I.

At the high end of the table, Where to-day young Don Henrico Gaily tipples with the flower Of Castilian chivalry,

On that day there sat Don Pedro Darkly silent, and beside him, Proudly radiant as a goddess, Sat Maria de Padilla.

At the table’s lower end, where Here to-day we see the lady With the linen frill capacious, Like a white plate in appearance.

Whilst her yellow face is gilded With a smile of sour complexion, Like the citron that is lying On the plate already mention’d,--

At the table’s lower end here Was a place remaining empty; Some great guest of lofty station Seem’d the golden seat to wait for.

Don Fredrego was the guest, for Whom the golden seat was destined; Yet he came not,--ah! now know we But too well why thus he tarried.

Ah! that selfsame hour the wicked Deed of blood was consummated, And the innocent young hero Suddenly attack’d and basely

By Don Pedro’s myrmidons, Tightly bound, and quickly hurried To a dreary castle dungeon Lighted only by some torches.

Executioners stood ready, And their bloody chief was with them, Who, upon his axe while leaning, Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:

“Now, Grand Master of San Jago, “Now must thou for death prepare thee; “Just one quarter of an hour “Still is left for thee to pray in.”

Don Fredrego then knelt humbly, And he pray’d with pious calmness, And then said: “I now have finish’d,” And received the stroke of death.

In the very selfsame moment That the head roll’d on the pavement, Faithful Allan, who had follow’d All unseen, sprang quickly to it.

With his teeth the head straight seized he By the long luxuriant tresses, And with this much valued booty Shot away with speed of magic.

Agonizing shouts resounded Everywhere as on he hasten’d, Through the passages and chambers, Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.

Since the banquet of Belshazzar Never company at table Was so utterly confounded As was ours that fill’d this hall then,

When the monstrous creature leapt in, With the head of Don Fredrego, Which he with his teeth was dragging By the dripping bloody tresses.

On the seat which, being destined For his master, still was empty, Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff Held the head before our faces.

Ah! it was the well-remember’d Hero’s features, but still paler And more solemn now when dead, And all-fearfully encircled

By the locks in black luxuriance, Which stood up as did the savage Serpent-headdress of Medusa, Turning into stone through terror.

Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then, Wildly stared we on each other, And each tongue was mute and palsied Both by etiquette and horror.

But Maria de Padilla Broke the universal silence; Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly, She forebodingly lamented:

“Now it will be said ’twas I that “Brought about this cruel murder; “Rancour will assail my children, “My poor innocent young children!--”

Don Diego interrupted At this place his tale, observing That the company had risen, And the court the hall was leaving.

Kind and courteous in his manners, Then the knight became my escort, And we rambled on together Through the ancient Gothic castle.

In the crossway which conducted To the kennels of the monarch, Which proclaimed themselves already By far growling sounds and yelpings,

There I noticed, built up strongly In the wall, and on the outside Firmly fasten’d by strong iron, Like a cage, a narrow cell.

And inside it sat two human Figures, two young boys appearing; By the legs securely fetter’d, On the dirty straw they squatted.

Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d, Scarcely older seem’d the other; Fair and noble were their faces, But through sickness thin and sallow.

They were clothed in rags, half naked, And their wither’d bodies offer’d Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment; Both with fever shook and trembled.

From the depth of their deep mis’ry They upon me turn’d their glances; White and spirit-like their eyes were, And I felt all terror-stricken.

“Who, then, are these wretched objects?” I exclaim’d, with hasty action Don Diego’s hand tight grasping, Which was trembling as I touch’d it.

Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d, Look’d if any one was listening, Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:

These are children of a monarch, Early orphan’d, and their father Was Don Pedro, and their mother Was Maria de Padilla.

After the great fight at Narvas, Where Henrico Transtamara Freed his brother, this Don Pedro, From his crown’s oppressive burden,

And from that still greater burden Which by men is Life entitled, Don Henrico’s victor-kindness Also reach’d his brother’s children.

Under his own care he took them, As becomes a kindly uncle, And in his own castle gave them Free of charge, both board and lodging.

Narrow is indeed the chamber That he there allotted to them; Yet in summer it is coolish, And not over cold in winter.

For their food, they live on ryebread, As delicious in its flavour As if Ceres’ self had baked it For her dear child Proserpina.

Oftentimes he also sends them Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos, And the youngsters in this manner Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.

Yet not always is it Sunday, And garbanzos come not always, And the upper huntsman treats them To a banquet with his whip.

For this worthy upper huntsman, Who is with the care entrusted Of the pack of hounds, together With the cage that holds the nephews,

Is the most unhappy husband Of that acid Citronella With the frill so white and plate-like, Whom we saw to-day at table;

And she scolds so loud, that often On the whip her husband seizes, Hither hastens, and chastises First the dogs, and then the children.

But the king is very angry With his conduct, and commanded That his nephews should in future Never like the dogs be treated.

He will not entrust to any Mercenary fist the duty Of correcting them, but do it With his own right hand henceforward.--

Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego, For the castle Seneschal Now approach’d us, and politely Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?--

THE EX-LIVING ONE.

Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be, The watchman, the crier nightly, Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee Used to ramble in converse sprightly?

Ye often were wont to gaze up on high, Where the darksome clouds were scudding; A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by, That in your bosoms were budding.

Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be? No longer he thinks of destroying; By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he As a reader to tyrants employing.

But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou, “Shortsighted as every poet; “To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow, “But his object’s to kill him,--I know it.

“So Matzerath’s[78] poems he reads him each day “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.

From the Neckar he departed, With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d, And as play-director started In fair Munich’s city next.

All that country’s very pretty, And they in perfection here, In this fancy-stirring city, Brew the very best of beer.

But ’tis said the poor Director Rambles, like a Dante, glum, Melancholy as a spectre, Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.

Comedies no longer heeds he, Nor the very worst of rhyme; Wretched tragedies oft reads he, Not once smiling all the time.

Oft herself some fair one flatters She will cheer his sorrowing heart; But his coat of mail soon shatters Every love-directed dart.

All in vain his friends endeavour To enliven him and sing: “In thy life rejoice thee ever, “While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”

Is there nought can raise thy spirits In this fair and charming town, Which, among its many merits, Boasts such men of great renown?

It is true, that it has lately Lost full many a man of worth Whom we miss and valued greatly, Chorus-leaders and so forth.

Would that Massmann left us never! He would surely have some day By his antics strange but clever Driven all thy cares away.

Schelling’s[79] loss is very serious, And can never be replaced, A philosopher mysterious, And a mimic highly graced.

That the founder of Walhalla Went away, and left behind All his manuscripts,--by Allah! That was really too unkind!

With Cornelius[80] also perish’d All his pupils whatsoe’er; They shaved off their tresses cherish’d, And their strength was in their hair

For their prudent Master planted In their hair some magic springs, And it seem’d, as if enchanted, To be full of living things.

Apropos! The arch-notorious Priest, as Dollingerius known,-- That’s, I think, his name inglorious,-- Has he from the Isar flown?

In Good Friday’s sad procession I beheld him in his place; ’Mongst the men of his profession He had far the gloomiest face.

On Monácho Monachorum Now-a-days the cap doth fit Of virorum obscurorum, Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]

At his name thy dull eye flashes; Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be! There the cowls are, here the lash is,-- Strike away as formerly!

Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly, As at sight of every cowl Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly, And they fearfully did howl.

Old Erasmus could not master His loud laughter at the joke; And this fortunate disaster His tormenting ulcer broke.

Old and young laugh,--all the city In the general shout concur, And they sing the well-known ditty: “Gaudeamur igitur!”

When those dirty monks we’re catching, We are overwhelm’d with fleas; Hutten thus was always scratching, And was never at his ease.

“Alea jacta est!” however Was the brave knight’s battle shout, Smiting down, with deathstroke clever, Both the priests and rabble rout.

Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser! Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow? Wake to action on the Isar, And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.

Call thy long legs transcendental Into full and active play; Vulgar be the monks or gentle, If they’re monks, then strike away!

He however sigh’d, and wringing Both his hands he thus replied: My long legs, so apt at springing, Are with Europe stupified.

And my corns are twitching sadly, Tight the German shoes I’ve on; Where the shoe is pinching badly Know I now,--so pray begone!

MYTHOLOGY.

Yes! Europa must knock under,-- Who could stand against a bull? Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder Golden rain made her a fool!

Sem’le was a victim real, For she innocently thought That a heavenly cloud ideal Could not injure her in aught.

But poor Leda’s tale notorious Really stirs up all our spleen; Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,

What a goose must she have been!

IN MATILDA’S ALBUM.

On these mill’d rags--a change mysterious!-- I with a goose-quill must rehearse Partly in jest, and partly serious, Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.

I, who am wont my thoughts to utter Upon thy rosy lips so fair With kisses that like bright flames splutter Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!

O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet, 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.

Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion Of golden apples that lie in thy way! The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing, But they cannot long the hero delay.

A daring beginning is halfway to winning, An Alexander once conquer’d the earth! Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.

Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon 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.

Thou wilt repose within mine arms! With rapturous emotion My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills At this delicious notion.

Thou wilt repose within mine arms, Whilst with thy fair gold tresses I sport, and thy dear darling head My shoulder gently presses!

Thou wilt repose within mine arms! To truth will turn my vision, And here on earth shall I enjoy The highest bliss elysian.

St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe The fact, my doubts will linger Until upon my rapture’s wounds I lay my eager finger.

WHITHER NOW?

Whither now? my stupid foot Fain to Germany would guide me; But my reason shakes its head Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:

“Ended is the war indeed, “But they still keep up courts-martial, “And to writing things esteem’d “Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”

That’s quite true, and being shot Has for me no great attractions; I’m no hero, and unskill’d In pathetic words and actions.

Fain to England would I go, View’d I not with such displeasure Englishmen and coals--their smell Makes me sick beyond all measure.

To America methinks I would sail the broad seas over; To that place of freedom where All alike may live in clover,

Did I not detest a land Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals, Where they never use spittoons, And so strangely play at skittles.

Russia, that vast empire fair, Might be tolerably pleasant, But I should not like the knout That’s their usual winter present.

Sadly gaze I up on high, Where the countless stars are gleaming, But I nowhere can discern Where my own bright star is beaming.

Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth It has got benighted lately, As I on this bustling earth Have myself been wandering greatly.

AN OLD SONG.

Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not, 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.

’Twas in a dreary midsummer night, I bore thee myself to the grave outright; The nightingales sang their soft lamentations, And after us follow’d the bright constellations.

As through the forest the train moved along, 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.

And as o’er the willowy lake we flew 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.

And when we had reach’d the grave, full soon 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.

Love, before she granted favours, One day told the god Apollo She on guarantees insisted, For the times were false and hollow.

Laughingly the god made answer: “Yes, the times are alter’d truly, “And thou speakest like a usurer “Who on pawn lends money duly.

“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,-- “’Tis of gold, a good and rare one; “Prythee say how many kisses “Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”

THE OLD ROSE.

She for whom my heart once beat Was a rosebud fair and tender; Yet it ever grew more sweet, Bursting into full-blown splendour.

’Twas the loveliest that could be, And to pluck it I bethought me; But it stung me piquantly With its thorns, and prudence taught me.

Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d, By the wind and tempests shatter’d, “Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d, And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.

Henry here and Henry there Calleth she with ceaseless din now; If a thorn is anywhere, ’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.

O how hard the bristles grow On the chin’s warts of my beauty! Either to a convent go, Or to shave will be thy duty.

AUTO-DA-FÉ.

See these violets, dusty tresses, And this faded ribbon blue, Long forgotten cherish’d trifles, And these half-torn billets-doux,--

All, with angry look and gesture In the blazing fire I throw; Sadly crackle up these relics Of my happiness and woe.

Vows of love, and fond deceiving Broken oaths all upwards fly In the chimney, while in secret Cupid laughs maliciously.

Dreamily beside the fireplace 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.

He who has already much, Finds his wealth increasing faster; Who but little, is of all Soon bereft by some disaster.

But if thou hast nothing, friend, Go and hang thyself this minute; Only they who’ve aught on earth Have a claim for living in it.

2. RETROSPECT.

I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birth 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, 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.

The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skies As though it summon’d to battle; From out of their graves the dead arise, Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.

Each thing that has legs prepares for the race, The spectres white are all driven To Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place, Where judgment is now to be given.

There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord, By all his apostles surrounded; Assessors are they,--each judgment, each word On love and wisdom is founded.

No face is disguised in all that array For every mask is seen falling In the radiant light of the judgment day, At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.

At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at last The whole of the troop is united, And since the defendants’ number’s so vast, I’ve the summary only recited:

The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,-- 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.

Flying after bliss and light, Thou return’st in piteous plight; German truth and German shirt Strangers draggle through the dirt.

Pale as death hast thou become, But take comfort, thou’rt at home; Warm as by the household hearth Lie we under German earth.

Many others, who fell lame, Home again, alas! ne’er came, Though they yearningly implored,-- O have pity, gracious Lord!

5. RASCALITY.

Rich people only can be won By open, barefaced flattery; Money is flat, my worthy son, And needs must flatly flatter’d be.

The box of incense swing with zeal Before all worshipp’d golden calves: In dust and mire with meekness kneel, And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.

The price of bread this year is high, Fine words we lavish all in vain; Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try, And earn a bellyful again.

6. RETROSPECT.

The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,-- O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]

The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the current Beneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours, They buried him under a grave of May flowers, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

O prudent wert thou, thus early in striving To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over; Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d, With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

7. IMPERFECTION.

Nothing is perfect in this world of ours, 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.

The tulip has no scent. The saying is: 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.

The haughty peacock has but ugly feet; A woman may be witty and discreet, And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary, Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.

The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween, 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).

In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes, As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times; Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis, And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.

The fairest star that in the heavens has birth, 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.

And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thou 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.

When thou dost quit this mortal abode, Immortal spirit, beware thee Lest dangers seek to ensnare thee; Through death and night conducteth the road.

The soldiers of God at the golden door Of the city of light are collected; Here actions and deeds are respected, Mere name and station avail no more.

The pilgrim leaves at the portal behind 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.

When we are dead, we long must lie Within the tomb; distress’d am I, Yes, sad am I that resurrection Delays so long to give perfection.

Once more, before the light of life Is quench’d, before this weary strife Is o’er, fain would I, ere I perish, Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.

Some fair one I would now invite With eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light; No more I relish the advances Of wild brunettes with burning glances.

Young men, exulting in their youth, Prefer tumultuous love in truth. With them excitement’s all the fashion, And soul-enthralling mutual passion.

No longer young, bereft of power, As I, alas! am at this hour, I fain once more would love in quiet, And happy be,--without a riot.

10. SOLOMON.

The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber; By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping, Full-girded angels the watch are keeping, On either side six thousand in number.

The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming, And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly, From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightly Twelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.

But presently back in their sheaths are falling The angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeper Grows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper, And soon his lips are gently calling:

“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish! “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.

Similar in disposition, Like a brother link’d to brother, We unconsciously were ever Growing fonder of each other.

Each one knew the other’s meaning, Just as if we were omniscient; Words, in fact, we found superfluous, And a look was quite sufficient.

How I long’d to have thee near me, Revelling in peace and plenty, As my staunch and valiant comrade In a dolce far niente!

Always to remain beside thee Was the aim of each endeavour; Everything that gave thee pleasure, To accomplish sought I ever.

I enjoy’d what thou didst relish, Neither would I touch the dishes Thou didst hate, and even smoking I commenced, to meet thy wishes.

Many a funny Polish story That thy merriment excited, In a strange and Jewish accent To repeat I then delighted.

Yes, then long’d I to approach thee, Leave my foreign habitation, And beside thy fortune’s fireplace Take for evermore my station.

Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles! Like my life they all have vanish’d; On the ground I now am lying, Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.

Fare ye well, ye golden wishes 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 mass will e’er be chanted, Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d, When the day I died returneth,-- Nothing will be sung or utter’d.

Yet upon that day, it may be, If the weather has not chill’d her, On a visit to Montmartre With Pauline will go Matilda.

With a wreath of immortelles she’ll Deck my grave in foreign fashion, Sighing say “_pauvre homme!_” and sadly Drop a tear of fond compassion.

I shall then too high be dwelling, And, alas! no chair have ready For my darling’s use to offer, As she walks with foot unsteady.

Sweet, stout little one, return not Home on foot, I must implore thee; At the barrier gate is standing A fiacre all ready for thee.

13. MEETING AGAIN.

One summer eve, in the woodbine bower We sat once more at the window lonely; The moon arose with life-giving power, But we appear’d two spectres only.

Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasion When we on this spot had sat together; Each tender glow, each loving persuasion Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.

I silently sat. The woman, however, Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.

And she recounted how she had contended With evil thoughts, the story disclosing How hardly she once her virtue defended,-- I stupidly listened to all her prosing.

When homeward I rode, the trees beside me 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.

When fortune on me shed her ray, 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.

Fortune has fled, and void is my purse, 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.

Beside my bed in the winter night Old Care as my nurse sits bolt upright; 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.

I often dream that the happy time 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.

This is dread Thanatos indeed! 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.

She was at once my child, my wife, 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.

Ye angels in yon heavens so fair 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!

By all the tears e’er shed by you 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.

The weather now is calm and mild, And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is, And Germany, that o’ergrown child, Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.

Domestic joys we now pursue, All things beyond are false and hollow, And to the house’s gable too, Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.

Forest and stream rest peacefully, 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.

Perchance with weapons in his hand, Some madcap they have overtaken; (All do not flight well understand Like Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).

Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume, Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour? Or Sontag rising from the tomb Greeted, by rockets showering down upon her?

And Francis Liszt appears again! He lives, he lies not dead and gory On some Hungarian battle-plain, Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.

Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown, And Hungary to death is bleeding-- Francis, our Knight, escaped alone, His sword a quiet life at home is leading.

Francis still lives; when old and gray Of the Hungarian war devoutly He’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay, “And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”

Hearing the name of Hungary, My German waistcoat grows too narrow; Beneath it foams a raging sea, The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.

Once more across my memory throng The hero-legend’s strains enthralling, The wild and iron martial song, The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.

’Tis still the same heroic lot, ’Tis still the same old noble stories; The names are changed, the natures not,-- ’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.

And the same issue ’tis once more; However proudly flaunts the banner, The hero, as in days of yore, Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.

This time the oxen and the bear In firm alliance are united; Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair, Still more have all _our_ German hopes been blighted.

While very decent beasts are they Who have in fight become thy masters, We have, alas! become the prey Of wolves, swine, dogs,--so great are our disasters.

They howl, grunt, bark,--the victor’s smell 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.

In vision once more young and happy, paced I 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.

How graceful was her figure! She enchanted 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 voice’s tone, how true and how confiding! 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.

It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me, 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.

When I a lily from the stem had broken, 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.”

The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never, 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.

The curtain falls, as ends the play, 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.

But hark to that dull heavy clang 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.

Now that life is nearly spent, Here’s my will and testament, Giving every foe a present, As a Christian finds it pleasant:

Let these gentry full of merit Have my sickness as their guerdon, All that makes my life a burden,-- All my wretched pangs inherit.

I bequeath you all the colic Which my belly tweaks in frolic,-- Strangury and these perfidious Prussian piles so sharp and hideous.

Unto you my cramps be given, Pains in joints, and salivation, Pains in back, and inflammation,-- Every one the gift of heaven.

Let this codicil then follow:-- Lord! that wretched herd demolish, And their very name abolish, As they in their vileness wallow.

20. ENFANT PERDU.

Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought I Stoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain; Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought I Safe and uninjured home to see again.

I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle, 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.)

In those long nights ennui would oft assail me, 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.

Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,-- 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.

But by-and-by, if I may so express it, 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.

A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping-- 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_

O let the days of thy life pass not Without tasting life’s blisses; And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot, Let it fly, for it misses.

If fortune should ever be passing thy way, To grasp her, forth sally; Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray, But down in the valley.

PRINCESS SABBATH.

In Arabia’s books of stories Read we of enchanted princes, Who from time to time recover’d Their once handsome pristine features;

Or the whilome hairy monster To a king’s son is converted, Dress’d in gay and glittering garments, And the flute divinely playing.

Yet the magic time expires, And once more and of a sudden We behold his royal highness Changed into a shaggy monster.

Of a prince of such-like fortune Sings my song. His name is Israel, And a witch’s art has changed him To the figure of a dog.

As a dog, with doggish notions, All the week his time he muddles Through life’s filthiness and sweepings, To the scavengers’ derision.

But upon each Friday evening, Just at twilight, the enchantment Ceases suddenly,--the dog Once more is a human being.

As a man, with human feelings, With his head and breast raised proudly Dress’d in festival attire, His paternal halls he enters.

“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd “Of my gracious regal father! “Tents of Jacob, your all-holy “Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”

Through the house mysteriously Goes a whispering and buzzing, And the unseen master of it Shudd’ring breathes amid the silence,--

Silence, save the seneschal (Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant) Here and there with vigour springing, As the lamps he seeks to kindle.

Golden lights so comfort-giving, How they glitter, how they glimmer! Proudly also flare the tapers On the rails of the Almemor.

At the shrine wherein the Thora Is preserved, and which is cover’d With the costly silken cov’ring That with precious jewels sparkles,--

There beside his post, already Stands prepared the parish minstrel, Dandy little man, who shoulders His black cloak coquettishly.

His white hand to show the better, At his neck he works, his finger Pressing strangely to his temple, And his thumb against his throat.

To himself then softly trills he, Till at length his voice he raises Joyfully, and loudly sings he “Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!

“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle-- “Loved one, come! the bride already “Waiteth for thee, to uncover “To thy face her blushing features!”

This most charming marriage ditty Was composed by the illustrious Far and wide known Minnesinger Don Jehuda ben Halevy.

In the song was celebrated The espousals of Prince Israel With the lovely Princess Sabbath, Whom they call the silent princess.

Pearl and flower of perfect beauty Is the Princess. Fairer never Was the famous queen of Sheba, Solomon’s old bosom-friend,

Ethiopian vain blue-stocking, Who with her _esprit_ would dazzle, And with all her clever riddles Was, I fear, extremely tedious.

But our Princess Sabbath, who was Peace itself personified, Held in utter detestation All debates and wit-encounters.

Equally abhorr’d she noisy And declamatory passion,-- All that pathos which with flowing And dishevell’d hair storms wildly.

Modestly the silent princess In her hood conceals her tresses; Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are, Slender as an Addas blooms she.

She allows her lover all things Save this one,--tobacco-smoking: “Loved one! smoking is forbidden, “For to-day the Sabbath is.

“But at noon, in compensation, “Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of, “Which is perfectly delicious-- “Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”

“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal, “Daughter of Elysium!”[83] Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it, Had he ever tasted Schalet.

Schalet is the food of heaven, Which the Lord Himself taught Moses How to cook, when on that visit To the summit of Mount Sinai,

Where the Lord Almighty also Every good religious doctrine And the holy ten commandments Publish’d in a storm of lightning.

Schalet is the pure ambrosia That the food of heaven composes-- Is the bread of Paradise; And compared with food so glorious,

The ambrosia of the spurious Heathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’d And were naught but muffled devils, Was but wretched devil’s dung.

When the prince this food hath tasted, Gleams his eye as if transfigured, And his waistcoat he unbuttons, And he speaks with smiles of rapture:

“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring? “Is it not the gushing fountains “In the palmy vale of Beth-El, “Where the camels have their station?

“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing? “Is it not the well-fed wethers “Whom the herdsman drives at evening “Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”

Yet the beauteous day fades quickly; As with long and shadowy legs Hastens on the fell enchantment’s Evil hour, the prince sighs sadly,

Feeling as though with his bosom Icy witches’ fingers grappled; He’s pervaded by the fear of Canine metamorphosis.

To the prince then hands the princess Her own golden box of spikenard; Long he smells, once more desiring To find comfort in sweet odours.

Next the parting drink the princess Gives the prince--He hastily Drinks, and in the goblet only Some few drops are left untasted.

With them sprinkles he the table, 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.

“If, Jerusalem, I ever “Should forget thee, let my tongue “To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also “My right hand forget her cunning--”

Words and melody are whirling In my head to-day unceasing, And methinks I hear sweet voices Singing psalms, sweet human voices.

Often to the light come also Beards of shadowy-long proportions; Say, ye phantoms, which amongst you Is Jehuda ben Halevy?

But they quickly hustle by me; Spirits ever shun with terror Exhortations of the living-- But I recognized him well.

Well I knew him by his pallid, Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead, By his eyes so sweetly staring, Viewing me with piercing sorrow.

But I recognized him mostly By the enigmatic smile which O’er his fair rhymed lips was playing, Such as none but poets boast of.

Years come on and years pass swiftly Since Jehuda ben Halevy Had his birth, have seven hundred Years and fifty fleeted o’er us.

At Toledo in Castile he For the first time saw the light, And the golden Tagus lull’d him In his cradle with its music.

His strict father the unfolding Of his intellect full early Cared for, and began his lessons With the book of God, the Thora.

With his son he read this volume In the’ original, whose beauteous Picturesque and hieroglyphic Old Chaldean quarto pages

Spring from out the childish ages Of our world, and for that reason Smile so trustingly and sweetly On each childlike disposition.

And this genuine ancient text By the boy was likewise chanted In the ancient and establish’d Sing-song fashion, known as Tropp.

And melodiously he gurgled Those fat oily gutturals; Like a very bird he warbled That fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.

And the Targum Onkelos, Which is written in the idiom, The low-Hebrew sounding idiom That we call the Aramæan,

And that to the prophet’s language Has about the same relation As the Swabian to the German,-- In this bastard Hebrew likewise

Was the youth betimes instructed And the knowledge thus acquired Proved extremely useful to him In the study of the Talmud.

Yes, full early did his father Lead him onward to the Talmud And he then unfolded to him The Halacha, that illustrious

Fighting school, where the expertest Dialectic athletes both of Babylon and Pumpeditha Carry on their mental combats.

Here the boy could gain instruction In the arts, too, of polemics; Later, in the book Cosari Was his mastership establish’d.

Yet the heavens pour down upon us Lights of two distinct descriptions: Glaring daylight of the sun, And the moonlight’s softer lustre.

Thus two different lights the Talmud Also sheds, and is divided In Halacha and Hagada.-- Now the first’s a fighting school,

But the latter, the Hagada, I should rather call a garden, Yes, a garden, most fantastic, Comparable to that other,

Which in days of yore was planted In the town of Babylon,-- Great Semiramis’s garden, That eighth wonder of the world.

’Tis said queen Semiramis, Who had, when a child, been brought up By the birds, and had contracted Many a bird’s peculiar custom,

On the mere flat ground would never Promenade, as human creatures Mostly do, and so she planted In the air a hanging garden.

High upon colossal pillars Palms and cypresses were standing, Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds, Marble statues, gushing fountains,--

Firmly, skilfully united By unnumber’d hanging bridges Which appear’d like climbing plants, And whereon the birds were rocking,--

Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d, All deep thinkers, never singing, While around them finches flutter’d, Keeping up a merry twitter,--

All things here were blest, and teeming With a pure balsamic fragrance, Which was free from all offensive Earthly smells and hateful odours.

The Hagada is a garden That this airy whim resembles, And the youthful Talmud scholar, When his heart was overpower’d

And was deafen’d by the squabbles Of the’ Halacha, by disputes All about the fatal egg Laid one feast day by a pullet,--

Or about some other question Of the same importance, straightway Fled the boy to find refreshment In the blossoming Hagada

Where the charming olden stories, Tales of angels, famous legends, Silent histories of martyrs, Festal songs, and words of wisdom,

Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be, But impress’d with deep conviction, Full of glowing faith,--all glitter’d, Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.

And the stripling’s noble bosom Was pervaded by the savage But adventure-breathing sweetness, By the wondrous blissful anguish

And the fabulous wild terrors Of that blissful secret world, Of that mighty revelation, Known to us as Poesy.

And the art of Poesy, Radiant knowledge, understanding, Which we call the art poetic, Open’d on the boy’s mind also.

And Jehuda ben Halevy Was not merely skill’d in reading, But in poetry a master, And himself a first-rate poet.

Yes, he was a first-rate poet, Star and torch of his own age, Light and beacon of his people, Yes, a very wondrous mighty

Fiery pillar of all song, That preceded Israel’s mournful Caravan as it was marching Through the desert of sad exile.

Pure and true alike, and spotless Was his song, as was his spirit; When this spirit was created By its Maker, self-contented,

He embraced the lovely spirit, And that kiss’s beauteous echo Thrills through all the poet’s numbers, Which are hallow’d by this grace.

As in life, in numbers also Grace is greatest good of all; He who has it, ne’er transgresses In his prose or in his verses.

Genius call we such a poet Of the mighty grace of God; He is undisputed monarch Of the boundless realms of fancy.

He to God alone accounteth, Not to man, and, as in lifetime, So in art the mob have power To destroy, but not to judge us.

2.

“By the streams of Babylon “Sat we down and wept, we hangèd “Our sad harps upon the willows--” Know’st thou not the olden song?

Know’st thou not the olden tune, Which begins with elegiac Crying, humming like a kettle That upon the hearth is boiling?

Long has it been boiling in me, Thousand years. A gloomy anguish And my wounds are lick’d by time, As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.

Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,-- Though it can but cool and soften-- Death alone can ever heal me, But, alas, I am immortal!

Years come round and years then vanish-- Busily the spool is humming As it in the loom is moving,-- What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.

Years come round and years then vanish, Human tears are dripping, running On the earth, and then the earth Sucks them in with eager silence.

Seething mad! The cover leaps up-- “Happy he whose daring hand “Taketh up thy little ones, “Dashing them against the stones.”

God be praised! the seething slowly In the pot evaporates, Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d, My west-eastern darksome spleen.

And my Pegasus is neighing Once more gaily, and the nightmare Seems to shake with vigour off him, And his wise eyes thus are asking:

Are we riding back to Spain, To the little Talmudist there, Who was such a first-rate poet,-- To Jehuda ben Halevy?

Yes, he was a first-rate poet, In the realm of dreams sole ruler With the spirit-monarch’s crown, By the grace of God a poet,

Who in all his sacred metres, In his madrigals, terzinas, Canzonets, and strange ghaselas Pour’d out all the’ abundant fire

Of his noble god-kiss’d spirit! Of a truth this troubadour Was upon a par with all the Best lute-players of Provence,

Of Poitou and of Guienne, Roussillon and every other Charming orange-growing region Of gallant old Christendom.

Charming orange-growing regions Of gallant old Christendom! How they glitter, smell, and tingle In the twilight of remembrance!

Beauteous world of nightingales! Where we only in the place of The true God, the false God worshipp’d Of the Muses and of love.

Clergy, bearing wreaths of roses On their bald pates, sang the psalms In the charming langue d’oc; Laity, all gallant knights,

On their high steeds proudly trotting, Verse and rhyme were ever making To the honour of the ladies Whom their hearts to serve delighted.

There’s no love without a lady. Therefore to a Minnesinger Was a lady just as needful As to bread-and-butter, butter.

And the hero, whom we sing of, Our Jehuda ben Halevy, Also had his heart’s fair lady; But she was of special kind.

She no Laura was, whose eyes, Mortal constellations, kindled On Good Friday the notorious Fire within the famed Cathedral;

She was not a chatelaine Who, attired in youthful graces, Took the chair at tournaments, And the laurel wreath presented.

Casuist in the laws of kisses She was not, no doctrinaire, Who within the learned college Of a court of love gave lectures.

She the Rabbi was in love with Was a poor and mournful loved one, Woeful image of destruction, And her name--Jerusalem!

In his early days of childhood She his one sole love was always; E’en the word Jerusalem Made his youthful spirit quiver.

Purple flames were ever standing On the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’d When a pilgrim to Toledo Came from out the far east country,

And recounted how deserted And uncleanly was the city Where upon the ground the traces Of the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;

Where the air is still perfumed By the’ undying breath of God-- “O the mournful sight!” a pilgrim Once exclaim’d, whose beard was floating

White as silver, notwithstanding That the hair which form’d its end Once again grew black, appearing As if getting young again.

And a very wondrous pilgrim Might he be, his eyes were peering As through centuries of sorrow, And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!

“She, the crowded holy city, “Is converted to a desert, “Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals “Their accursèd home have made.

“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling “In its weather-beaten ruins; “From the window’s airy bow “Peeps the fox with much contentment.

“Here and there a ragged fellow “Comes sometimes from out the desert, “And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth “In the long grass growing round it.

“On the noble heights of Zion, “Where stood up the golden fortress “Whose great majesty bore witness “To the mighty monarch’s glory,--

“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d, “Nought now lies but gray old ruins, “Gazing with such looks of sorrow “One must fancy they are weeping.

“And ’tis said they wept in earnest, “Once in each year, on the ninth day “Of the month’s that known as Ab-- “With my own eyes, full of weeping,

“I the clammy drops have witness’d “Down the large stones slowly trickling, “And have heard the broken columns “Of the temple sadly moaning.”

Such-like pious pilgrim-sayings Waken’d in the youthful bosom Of Jehuda ben Halevy Yearnings for Jerusalem.

Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding, Visionary, sad, as those In the Château Blay experienced Whilome by the noble Vidam,

Messer Geoffroy Rudello, When the knights, returning homeward From the Eastern land, asserted Loudly, as they clash’d their goblets,

That the paragon of graces, And the flower and pearl of women, Was the beauteous Melisanda, Margravine of Tripoli.

Each one knows that for this lady Raved the troubadour thenceforward; Her alone he sang, and shortly Château Blay no more could hold him;

And he hasten’d thence. At Cette Took he ship, but on the ocean He fell ill, and sick and dying He arriv’d at Tripoli.

Here at length, on Melisanda He, too, gazed with eyes all-loving, Which that self-same hour were cover’d By the darksome shades of death.

Singing his last song of love, He expired before the feet Of his lady Melisanda, Margravine of Tripoli.[84]

Wonderful was the resemblance In the fate of these two poets! Save that in old age the former His great pilgrimage commenced.

And Jehuda ben Halevy At his mistress’ feet expired, And his dying head, it rested On Jerusalem’s dear knees.

3.

When the fight at Arabella Had been won, great Alexander Placed Darius’ land and people, Court and harem, horses, women,

Elephants, and daric coins, Crown and sceptre, golden lumber-- Placed them all inside his spacious Macedonian pantaloons.

In the tent of great Darius, Who himself had fled, because he Fear’d he also might be placed there, The young hero found a casket.

’Twas a little golden box, Richly ornamented over With incrusted stones and cameos, And with miniature devices.

Now this casket, in itself Of inestimable value, Served to hold the priceless treasures Of the monarch’s body-jewels.

All the latter Alexander On his brave commanders lavish’d, Smiling at the thought of men Childlike loving colour’d pebbles.

One fair valuable gem he To his mother dear presented; ’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus, Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.

To his famous old preceptor Aristotle he presented A fine onyx for his splendid Cabinet of natural history.

In the casket were some pearls too, Forming quite a wondrous string, Which were once to Queen Atossa Given by the false knave Smerdis;

But the pearls were all quite real, And the merry victor gave them To a pretty dancer whom he Brought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.

In her hair the latter wore them, In bacchantic fashion streaming, On that night when she was dancing At Persepolis, and wildly

In the regal castle hurl’d her Impious torch, till, loudly crackling, Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery, And the fortress laid in ruins.

On the death of beauteous Thais Who of some bad Babylonian Illness died at Babylon, All her pearls were sold by auction

At the public auction-rooms there; Purchased by a priest from Memphis, He to Egypt took them with him, Where they on the toilet table

Of fair Cleopatra glisten’d; She the finest pearl amongst them Crush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d, Her friend Antony to banter.

With the final Ommiad monarch Came the string of pearls to Spain, And they twined around the turban Worn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.

Abderam the Third he wore them As his breast-knot at the tourney Where he pierced through thirty golden Rings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.

When the Moorish race was vanquish’d, Then the Christians gain’d possession Of the pearls, which rank’d thenceforward As crown-jewels of Castile.

Their most Cath’lic Majesties, Queens of Spain, were wont to wear them On all court and state occasions, At all bullfights, grand processions,

And at each auto da fé, When they took their pleasure, sitting At the balcony, in sniffing Up the smell of burnt old Jews.

Later still, old Mendizabel, Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels, Vainly hoping thus to meet the Deficit in the finances.

At the Tuileries the jewels Finally appear’d again, Glittering on the neck of Madame Salomon, the Baroness.

With the fair pearls thus it happened.-- Less adventurous the fortune Of the casket, Alexander Keeping it for his own use.

He the songs enclosed within it Of ambrosia-scented Homer, His great fav’rite, and the casket All night long was wont to stand

At his bed’s head; when the monarch Slept, the heroes’ airy figures Came from out it, o’er his visions Creeping in fantastic fashion.

Other times and other birds too-- I myself have erst delighted In the stories of the actions Of Pelides, of Odysseus.

All then seem’d so sunny-golden And so purple to my spirit, Vine-leaves twined around my forehead, And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.

Hush, no more! All broken lieth Now my haughty victor-chariot, And the panthers, who once drew it, Now are dead, as are the women

Who, to sound of drum and cymbal, Danced around, and I myself Writhe upon the ground in anguish. Weak and crippled--hush, no more!

Hush, no more! we now are speaking Of the casket of Darius, And within myself thus thought I: Should I e’er possess the casket,

And not be obliged to change it Into cash, for want of money, I would then enclose within it All the poems of our Rabbi,--

All Jehuda ben Halevy’s Festal songs and lamentations, And Ghaselas, the description Of his pilgrimage--the whole I

Would have written on the cleanest Parchment by the best of scribes, And the manuscript deposit In the little golden casket.

This should stand upon the table Near my bed, and then, whenever Friends appear’d and were astonish’d At the beauty of the trinket,--

At the wondrous bas-reliefs, Small in size, and yet so perfect Notwithstanding,--at the jewels Of such size incrusted on it,--

I should smilingly address them: That is but the vulgar covering That contains a nobler treasure-- In this casket there are lying

Diamonds, whose light doth mirror And reflect the light of heaven, Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood, Turquoises of spotless beauty,

And fair emeralds of promise, Likewise pearls of greater value Than the pearls to Queen Atossa Given by the false knave Smerdis,

And that afterwards were worn by All the notabilities Who this mundane earth have dwelt in, Thais first, then Cleopatra,

Priests of Isis, Moorish princes, And the queens of old Hispania, And at last the worthy Madame Salomon, the Baroness.--

For those pearls of world-wide glory After all are but the mucus Of a poor unhappy oyster Lying sickly in the ocean;

But the pearls within this casket Are the offspring of a beauteous Human spirit, far far deeper Than the ocean’s deepest depths,--

For they are the pearly tears Of Jehuda ben Halevy, That he over the destruction Of Jerusalem let fall.

Pearly tears, which, join’d together By the golden threads of rhythm, As a song from poesy’s Golden smithy have proceeded.

And this song of pearly tears Is the famous lamentation That is sung in all the scatter’d And far-distant tents of Jacob

On the ninth day of the month Ab, That sad anniversary Of Jerusalem’s destruction By the Emperor Vespasian.

Yes, it is the song of Zion That Jehuda ben Halevy Sang when dying on the holy Ruins of Jerusalem.

Barefoot and in lowly garments Sat he there upon the fragment Of a pillar that had fallen, Till upon his breast there fell

Like a gray old wood his hair, Shading over in strange fashion His afflicted pallid features, With his eyes so like a spectre’s.

In this manner sat he, singing, In appearance like a minstrel From the times of old, like ancient Jeremiah, grave-arisen.

Soon the birds around the ruins By his numbers’ mournful cadence All were tamed, and e’en the vulture Drew near list’ning, almost pitying,--

But an impious Saracen Came one day in that direction, On his charger in his stirrups Balancing, his bright lance wielding.

And the breast of our poor singer With this deadly spear transfix’d he, And then gallop’d off instanter Wing’d as though a shadowy figure.

Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood, Calmly to its termination Sang he his sweet song,--his dying Sigh was still--Jerusalem!

It is said in olden legend That the Saracen was really Not a wicked cruel mortal, But an angel in disguise,

Sent from the bright realms of heaven To remove God’s favourite From the earth, and to advance him Painlessly to those blest regions.

There, ’tis said, there waited for him A reception highly flatt’ring In its nature to the poet, Quite a heavenly surprise.

Solemnly with strains of music Came the’ angelic choir to meet him, And instead of hymns, he heard them Singing his own lovely verses,

Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen, Hymeneal Sabbath numbers, With their well-known and exulting Melodies--what notes enthralling!

While some angels play’d the hautboy, Others play’d upon the fiddle; Others handled the bass-viol, Others beat the drum and cymbal.

Sweetly all the music sounded. Sweetly through the far-extending Vaults of heaven these strains re-echoed Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!

4.

My good wife is not contented With the chapter just concluded, And especially the portion Speaking of Darius’ casket.

Almost bitterly observes she, That a husband with pretensions To religion, into money Straightway would convert the casket,

That he with it might be able For his poor and lawful spouse That nice Cashmere shawl to purchase That she stands so much in need of.

That Jehuda ben Halevy Would, she fancies, with sufficient Honour be preserved, if guarded In a pretty box of pasteboard,

Deck’d with Chinese elegant Arabesques, like those enchanting Sweetmeat-boxes of Marquis In the Passage Panorama.

“Very strange it is,”--she added,-- “That I never heard the name of “This remarkable old poet, “This Jehuda ben Halevy.”

Darling little wife, I answer’d, Your delightful ignorance But too well the gaps discloses In the education given

In the boarding schools of Paris, Where the girls, the future mothers Of a proud and freeborn nation, Learn the elements of knowledge.

All about the dry old mummies, And embalm’d Egyptian Pharaohs Merovingian shadowy monarchs, With perukes devoid of powder,

And the pig-tail’d kings of China, Lords of porcelain and pagodas,-- This they know by heart and fully, Clever girls,--but, O, good heavens

If you ask for any great names From the glorious golden ages Of Arabian-ancient-Spanish Jewish schools of poetry,--

If you ask for those three worthies, For Jehuda ben Halevy, For great Solomon Gabirol, Or for Moses Iben Esra,

If you ask for these or suchlike, Then the children stare upon us With a look of stupid wonder, And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.

Let me then advise you, dearest, These neglected points to study, And to take to learning Hebrew Leaving theatres and concerts.

When a few years to these studies Have been given, you’ll be able In the’ original to read them, Iben Esra and Gabirol,

And Halevy in addition, That triumvirate poetic, Who evoked the sweetest music From the instrument of David.

Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager, Is to you unknown, although he A Voltairian was, six hundred Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:

“In his thoughts excels Gabirol, “And the thinker most he pleases; “Iben Esra shines in art, and “Is the fav’rite of the artist.

“But Jehuda ben Halevy “Is in both a perfect master, “And at once a famous poet “And a universal fav’rite.”

Iben Esra was a friend, And I rather think, a cousin Of Jehuda ben Halevy, Who in his famed book of travels

Bitterly complains how vainly He had sought through all Granada For his friend, and only found there His friend’s brother, the physician,

Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise, And the father of the beauty Who in Iben Esra’s bosom Kindled such a hopeless passion.

That he might forget his niece, he Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff, Like so many of his colleagues, Living restlessly and homeless.

Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d, When some Tartars fell upon him, Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back, And to their wild deserts took him.

Duties there devolved upon him Quite unworthy of a Rabbi, Still less fitted for a poet-- He was made to milk the cows.

Once, as he beneath the belly Of a cow was sitting squatting, Fing’ring hastily her udder, While the milk the tub was filling,--

A position quite unworthy Of a Rabbi, of a poet,-- Melancholy came across him, And to sing a song began he.

And he sang so well and sweetly, That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain, Who was passing by, was melted, And he gave the slave his freedom.

And he likewise gave him presents, Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy Saracenic mandoline, And some money for his journey.

Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis, Which the offspring of Apollo Worried unto death, and even Did not spare their noble father,

When he, after Daphne lurking, In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s Stead, embraced the laurel only,-- He, the great divine Schlemihl!

Yes, the glorious Delphic god is A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel That so proudly crowns his forehead Is a sign of his Schlemihldom.

What the word Schlemihl betokens Well we know. Long since Chamisso Rights of German citizenship Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).

But its origin has ever, Like the holy Nile’s far sources, Been unknown. Upon this subject Many a night have I been poring.

Many a year ago I travell’d To Berlin, to see Chamisso On this point, and from the dean sought Information of Schlemihl.

But he could not satisfy me, And referr’d me on to Hitzig, Who had made the first suggestion Of the family name of Peter

Shadowless. I straightway hired The first cab, and quickly hasten’d To the magistrate Herr Hitzig, Who was formerly call’d Itzig.

When he still was known as Itzig, In a vision saw he written His own name high in the heavens, And in front the letter H.

“What’s the meaning of this H?” Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig “Or the Holy Itzig? Holy “Is a pretty title. Not, though,

“Suited for Berlin.” At length he, Tired of thinking, took the name of Hitzig, and his best friends only Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy.

“Holy Hitzig!” said I therefore When I saw him, “have the goodness “To explain the derivation “Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”

Many circumbendibuses Took the holy one--he could not Recollect,--and made excuses In succession like a Christian,

Till at length I burst the buttons In the breeches of my patience, And began to swear so fiercely, In such very impious fashion,

That the worthy pietist, Pale as death, with trembling knees, Forthwith gratified my wishes, And the following story told me:

“In the Bible it is written “How, while wandering in the desert, “Israel oft committed whoredom “With the daughters fair of Canaan.

“Then it came to pass that Phinehas “Chanced to see the noble Zimri “Thus engaged in an intrigue “With a Canaanitish woman.

“Straightway in his fury seized he “On his spear, and put to death “Zimri on the very spot.--Thus “In the Bible ’tis recounted.

“But, according to an oral “Old tradition ’mongst the people, “’Twas not Zimri that was really “Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;

“But the latter, blind with fury, “In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck “Chanced to kill a guiltless person, “Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”--

He, then, this Schlemihl the First, Was the ancestor of all the Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.

Certainly no wondrous actions Are preserved of his; we only Know his name, and in addition Know that he was a Schlemihl.

But a pedigree is valued Not according to its fruits, but Its antiquity alone-- Ours three thousand years can reckon.

Years come round, and years then vanish-- Full three thousand years have fleeted Since the death of our forefather This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.

Phinehas, too, has long been dead, But his spear is in existence, And incessantly we hear it Whizzing through the air above us.

And the noblest hearts it pierces-- Both Jehuda ben Halevy, Also Moses Iben Esra, And it likewise struck Gabirol,

Yes, Gabirol, that truehearted God-devoted Minnesinger, That sweet nightingale, who sang to God instead of to a rose,--

That sweet nightingale who caroll’d Tenderly his loving numbers In the darkness of the Gothic Mediæval night of earth!

Undismay’d and caring nothing For grimaces or for spirits, Or the chaos of delirium And of death those ages haunting,

Our sweet nightingale thought only Of the Godlike One he loved so, Unto Whom he sobb’d his love, Whom his hymns were glorifying.

Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama Trumpeted abroad the glory Of his name through every country.

Now at Cordova, his home, he Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour, Who wrote verses, like the other, And the poet’s glory envied.

When he heard the poet singing, Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over, And the sweetness of the songs was Bitter wormwood to this base one.

He enticed his hated rival To his house one night, and slew him There, and then the body buried In the garden in its rear.

But behold! from out the spot Where the body had been hidden, Presently there grew a fig-tree Of the most enchanting beauty.

All its fruit was long in figure, And of strange and spicy sweetness; He who tasted it, sank into Quite a dreamy state of rapture.

’Mongst the people on the subject Much was said aloud or whisper’d, Till at length the rumour came to The illustrious Caliph’s ears.

He with his own tongue first tasted This strange fig-phenomenon, And then form’d a strict commission Of inquiry on the matter.

Summarily they proceeded; On the owner of the tree’s soles Sixty strokes of the bamboo they Gave, and then his crime confess’d he.

Thereupon they tore the tree up By its roots from out the ground, And the body of the murder’d Man Gabirol was discover’d.

He was buried with due honour, And lamented by his brethren; And the selfsame day they also Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.

DISPUTATION.

In the Aula at Toledo Loudly are the trumpets blowing To the spiritual tourney, Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going.

This is no mere worldly combat, Not one arm of steel here glances; Sharply pointed and scholastic Words are here the only lances.

Gallant Paladins here fight not, Ladies’ honest fame defending; Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis Are the knights who’re here contending.

In the place of helmets are they Scull caps and capouches wearing; Scapular and _Arbecanfess_ Are the armour they are bearing.

Which God is the one true God? He, the Hebrew stern and glorious Unity, whom Rabbi Juda Of Navarre would see victorious?

Or the triune God, whom Christians Hold in love and veneration, As whose champion Friar Jose, The Franciscan, takes his station?

By the might of weighty reasons, And the logic taught at college, And quotations from the authors Whose repute one must acknowledge,

Either champion _ad absurdum_ His opponent would bring duly, And the pure divinity Of his own God point out truly.

’Tis laid down that he whose foeman Manages his cause to smother, Should be bound to take upon him The religion of the other,

And the Jew be duly christen’d,-- This was the express provision,-- On the other hand the Christian Bear the rite of circumcision.

Each one of the doughty champions Has eleven comrades by him, All to share his fate determined, And for weal or woe keep nigh him.

While the monks who back the friar With assurance full and steady Hold the holy-water vessels For the rite of christening ready,

Swinging sprinkling-brooms and censers, Whence the incense smoke is rising,-- All their adversaries briskly Whet their knives for circumcising.

By the lists within the hall stand, Ready for the fray, both forces, And the crowd await the signal, Eager for the knights’ discourses.

’Neath a golden canopy, While their courtiers duly flatter, Both the king and queen are sitting; Quite a child appears the latter.

With a small French nose, her features Are in roguishness not wanting, And the ever laughing rubies Of her mouth are quite enchanting.

Fragile fair inconstant flower,-- May the grace of God be with her!-- From the merry town of Paris She has been transplanted hither,

To the country where the Spanish Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her; Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon, Donna Blanca now they call her.

And the monarch’s name is Pedro, With the nickname of The Cruel; But to-day, in gentle mood, he Looks as if he ne’er could do ill.

With the nobles of his court he Enters into conversation, And both Jew and Moor addresses With a courteous salutation.

For these sons of circumcision Are the monarch’s favourite creatures; They command his troops, and also In finances are his teachers.

Suddenly the drums ’gin beating, And the trumpets’ bray announces That the conflict is beginning, Where each knight the other trounces.

The Franciscan monk commences, Bursting into furious passion, And his voice, now harsh, now growling, Blusters in a curious fashion.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit In one sentence he comprises, And the seed accurst of Jacob In the Rabbi exorcises.

For in suchlike controversies Little devils oft are hidden In the Jews, and give them sharpness, Wit, and arguments when bidden.

Having thus expell’d the devil By his mighty exorcism, Comes the monk, dogmatically, Quoting from the catechism.

He recounts how in the Godhead Persons three are comprehended, Who, whenever they so will it, Into one are straightway blended.

’Tis a mystery unfolded But to those who, in due season, Have escaped from out the prison And the chains of human reason.

He recounts how God was born at Bethlehem, of a tenderhearted Virgin, whose divine unsullied Innocency ne’er departed.

How they laid the Lord Almighty In a lowly stable manger, Where the calf and heifer meekly Stood around the newborn stranger.

He recounts, too, how the Lord From King Herod’s minions flying, Went to Egypt, how still later Death’s sharp pangs he suffer’d, dying.

In the time of Pontius Pilate, Who subscribed his condemnation, Urged on by the Jews and cruel Pharisees’ confederation.

He recounts, too, how the Lord, Bursting from the tomb’s dark prison On the third day, into heaven Had in glorious triumph risen;

How, when ’tis the proper time, he Would return to earth in splendour, At Jehoshaphat, to judge there Every quick and dead offender.

“Tremble, Jews!” exclaim’d the friar, “At the God whom ye tormented “Cruelly with thorns and scourges, “To whose death ye all consented.

“Jews, ye were his murderers! nation “Of vindictive fierce behaviour! “Him who comes to free you, still ye “Slay,--ye murder him, the Saviour.

“Jews, the carrion where the demons “Coming from the lower regions “Dwell, your bodies are the barracks “Of the devil’s wicked legions.

“Thomas of Aquinas says so, “He is famed in Christian story, “Call’d the mighty ox of learning, “Orthodoxy’s light and glory.

“Villain race of Jews! you’re nought but “Wolves, hyenas, jackals hateful, “Church-yard prowlers, who deem only “Flesh of corpses to be grateful.

“Jews, O Jews! you’re hogs and monkeys, “Monsters cruel and perfidious, “Whom they call rhinoceroses, “Crocodiles and vampires hideous.

“Ye are ravens, owls, and screechowls, “Rats and miserable lapwings, “Gallows’-birds and cockatrices, “Very scum of all that flap wings!

“Ye are vipers, ye are blindworms, “Rattlesnakes, disgusting adders, “Poisonous toads--Christ soon will surely “Tread you out like empty bladders!

“Or, accursèd people, would ye “Save your souls so wretched rather? “Flee the synagogues of evil, “Seek the bosom of your Father.

“Flee to love’s bright radiant churches, “Where the well of mercy bubbles “For your sakes in hallow’d basins,-- “Hide your heads there from your troubles.

“Wash away the ancient Adam, “And the vices that deface it; “From your hearts the stains of rancour “Wash, and grace shall then replace it.

“Hear ye not the Saviour speaking? “O how well your new names suit you! “Cleanse yourselves upon Christ’s bosom “From the vermin that pollute you.

“Yes, our God is very love, is “Like a lamb that’s dearly cherish’d, “And our vices to atone for, “On the cross with meekness perish’d.

“Yes, our God is very love, his “Name is Jesus Christ the blessèd; “Of his patience and submission “We aspire to be possessèd.

“Therefore are we meek and gentle, “Courteous, never in a passion, “Fond of peace and charitable, “In the Lamb the Saviour’s fashion.

“We in heaven shall be hereafter “Into angels blest converted, “Wandering there in bliss with lily “Blossoms in our hands inserted.

“In the place of cowls, the purest “Robes shall we when there be wearing, “Made of silk, brocades, and muslin, “Golden lace and ribbons flaring.

“No more bald pates! Round our heads there “Will be floating golden tresses; “While our hair some charming virgin “Into pretty topknots dresses.

“Winecups will be there presented “Of circumference so spacious, “That, compared with them, the goblets “Made on earth are not capacious.

“On the other hand, much smaller “Than the mouths of earthly ladies “Will the mouth be of each woman “Who in heaven our solace made is.

“Drinking, kissing, laughing will we “Pass through endless ages proudly, “Singing joyous Hallelujahs, “Kyrie Eleyson loudly.”

Thus the Christian ended, and the Monks believed illumination Pierced each heart, and so prepared for The baptismal operation.

But the water-hating Hebrews Shook themselves with scornful grinning, Rabbi Juda of Navarre thus His reply meanwhile beginning:

“That thou for thy seed mightst dung “My poor soul’s bare field devoutly, “With whole dung-carts of abuse thou “Hast in truth befoul’d me stoutly.

“Every one the method follows “To his taste best calculated, “And instead of being angry, “Thank you, I’m propitiated.

“Your fine trinitarian doctrine “We poor Jews can never swallow, “Though from earliest days of childhood “Wont the rule of three to follow.

“That three persons in your Godhead, “And no more, are comprehended, “Moderate appears; the ancients “On six thousand gods depended.

“Quite unknown to me the God is “Whom you call the Christ, good brother; “Nor have I e’er had the honour “To have met his virgin mother.

“I regret that some twelve hundred “Years back, as your speech confesses, “At Jerusalem he suffer’d “Certain disagreablenesses.

“That the Jews in truth destroy’d him “Rests upon your showing solely, “Seeing the delicti corpus “On the third day vanish’d wholly.

“It is equally uncertain “Whether he was a connection “Of our God, who had no children-- “In, at least, our recollection.

“Our great God, like some poor lambkin, “For humanity would never “Perish; for such philanthropic “Actions he is far too clever.

“Our great God of love knows nothing, “Never to affection yields he, “For he is a God of vengeance, “And as God his thunders wields he.

“Nothing can his wrathful lightnings “From the sinner turn or soften, “And the latest generations “For the fathers’ sins pay often.

“Our great God, he lives for ever “In his heavenly halls in glory, “And, compared with him, eternal “Ages are but transitory.

“Our great God, he is a hearty “God, not like the myths that fright us, “Pale and lean as any wafer, “Or the shadows by Cocytus.

“Our great God is strong. He graspeth “Sun and moon and constellation: “Thrones are crush’d, and people vanish “When he frowns in indignation.

“And he is a mighty God. “David sings: We cannot measure “All his greatness, earth’s his footstool, “And is subject to his pleasure.

“Our great God loves music dearly, “Lute and song to him are grateful; “But, like grunts of sucking pigs, he “Finds the sounds of churchbells hateful.

“Great Leviathan the fish is “Who beneath the ocean strayeth, “And with him the Lord Almighty “For an hour each morning playeth.

“With the’ exception of the ninth day “Of the month Ab, that sad morrow, “When they burnt his holy temple; “On that day too great’s his sorrow.

“Just one hundred miles in length is “The Leviathan; each fin is “Big as Og the King of Basan, “And his tail no cedar thin is.

“Yet his flesh resembles turtle, “And its flavour is perfection, “And the Lord will ask to dinner “On the day of resurrection

“All his own elect, the righteous, “Those whose faith was firm and stable, “And this fish, the Lord’s own favourite, “Will be set upon the table,

“Partly dress’d with garlic white sauce, “Partly stew’d in wine and toasted, “Dress’d with raisins and with spices, “Much resembling matelotes roasted.

“Little slices of horseradish “Will the white sauce much embellish, “So make ready, Friar Jose, “To devour the fish with relish.

“And the raisin sauce I spoke of “Makes a most delicious jelly, “And will be full well adapted, “Friar Jose, to thy belly.

“What God cooks, is quite perfection-- “Monk, my honest counsel follow, “And be circumcised, your portion “Of Leviathan to swallow.”--

Thus the Rabbi to allure him Spoke with inward mirth insulting, And the Jews, with pleasure grunting, Brandish’d all their knives exulting.

To cut off the forfeit foreskins, Victors after all the fighting, Genuine spolia opima In this conflict so exciting.

But the monks to their religion Stuck, despite the Jews’ derision, And were equally reluctant To submit to circumcision.

Next the Catholic converter Answer’d, when the Jew had finish’d, His abuse again repeating, Full of fury undiminish’d.

Then the Rabbi with a cautious Ardour, with his answer follow’d; Though his heart was boiling over, All his rising gall he swallow’d.

He appeals unto the Mischna, Treatises and commentaries, And with extracts from the Tausves- Jontof his quotations varies.

But what blasphemy now speaks the Friar, arguments in want of! He exclaim’d: “I wish the devil “Had your stupid Tausves-Jontof!”

“This surpasses all, good heavens!” Fearfully the Rabbi screeches, And his patience lasts no longer, Like a maniac’s soon his speech is.

“If the Tausves-Jontof’s nothing, “What is left? O vile detractor! Lord, avenge this foul transgression! “Punish, Lord, this malefactor!

“For the Tausves-Jontof, God, “Is thyself! And on the daring “Tausves-Jontof’s base denier “Thou must vent thy wrath unsparing.

“Let the earth consume him, like the “Wicked band of Cora, quickly, “Who their plots and machinations “Sow’d against thee, Lord, so thickly.

“Punish, O my God, his baseness! “Thunder forth thy loudest thunder; “Thou with pitch and brimstone Sodom “And Gomorrha didst bring under.

“Strike these Capuchins with vigour, “As of yore thou struckest Pharaoh “Who pursued us, as well-laden “Flying from his land we were, Oh!

“Knights a hundred thousand follow’d “This proud monarch of Mizrayim, “In steel armour, with bright weapons “In their terrible Jadayim.

“Lord, thy right hand then extending, “Pharaoh and his host were smitten “In the Red Sea, and were drown’d there “As we drown a common kitten.

“Strike these Capuchins with vigour, “Show the wicked wretches clearly “That the lightnings of thine anger “Are not smoke and bluster merely.

“Then thy triumph’s praise and glory “I will sing and tell of proudly, “And moreover will, like Miriam, “Dance and play the timbrel loudly.”

Then the monk with equal passion Answer’d thus the furious Rabbi: “Villain, may the Lord destroy thee, “Damnable, accurst, and shabby!

“I can well defy your devils “Whom the Evil One created, “Lucifer and Beelzebub, “Astaroth and Belial hated.

“I can well defy your spirits, “And your hellish tricks unhallow’d, “For in me is Jesus Christ, since “I his body blest have swallow’d.

“Christ my only favourite food is, “Than Leviathan more savoury, “With its boasted garlic white sauce “Cook’d by Satan, full of knavery.

“Ah! instead of thus disputing, “I would sooner roast and bake you “With your comrades on the warmest “Funeral pile, the devil take you!”

Thus for God and faith the tourney Goes on in confusion utter; But in vain the doughty champions Screech and rail and storm and splutter.

For twelve hours the fight has lasted, Neither side gives signs of tiring, But the public fast grow weary, And the ladies are perspiring.

And the Court, too, grows impatient, Ladies make with yawns suggestions; To the lovely queen the monarch Turns and asks the following questions:

“Tell me, what is your opinion? “Which is right, and which the liar? “Will you give your verdict rather “For the Rabbi or the friar?”

Donna Blanca gazes on him, Thoughtfully her hands she presses With closed fingers on her forehead, And the monarch thus addresses:

“Which is right, I cannot tell you, “But I have a shrewd suspicion “That the Rabbi and the monk are “Both in stinking bad condition.”

LATEST POEMS.

(1853-4.)

1. PEACE-YEARNING.

O let thy wounds bleed on, and let Thy tears for ever flow unbidden-- In sorrow revels secret joy, And a sweet balm in tears is hidden.

If strangers’ hand did wound thee not, Thou by thyself must needs be wounded; Thank God with all thy heart, if tears To wet thy cheek have e’er abounded.

The noise of day is hush’d, and night In long dark mantle comes from heaven; While in her arms, nor fool nor dolt Can break the rest to soothe thee given.

Here thou art safe from music’s noise, And from the piano’s hammer-hammer, From the grand opera’s pompous notes, And the bravura’s fearful clamour.

Here thou art not pursued, nor plagued By endless crowds of idle smatt’rers; Nor by the genius Giacomo,[85] And all the clique of world-known chatt’rers.

O grave, thou art the Paradise Of ears that shun the rabble’s chorus; Death’s good indeed, yet better ’twere Our loving mothers never bore us.

2. IN MAY.

The friends whom I kiss’d and caress’d of yore 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.

Spring blooms around. In the greenwood is heard The echoing song of each happy bird, And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile-- O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;

Yes, Orcus’ self I wellnigh praise; No contrasts vain torment there our days; For suffering hearts ’tis better below, There where the Stygian night-waters flow.

That sad and melancholy stream, And the Stymphalides’ dull scream, The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill, With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,--

These match full well with sorrow and pain. In Proserpine’s accursèd domain, In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs, All with our tears doth harmonize.

But here above, like hateful things, 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.

Poor soul doth to the body say: 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.

The body to poor soul replied: 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.

Farewell! take comfort, cease complaining; 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.

A wicked cat, grown old and gray, 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.”

“My good young lady,” the cat replied, “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”--

Thus the wily cat did falsely entreat, 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.

Ye little white mice, take care where you go, 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.

I’m summon’d by death. I’d fain, my love, 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.

I’m summon’d by death. ’Twere better far 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.

With scornful buzzing around my bed 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.