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.

## PART I.

The supercargo Mynher Van Koek In his cabin sits adding his figures; He calculates his cargo’s amount, And the probable gain from his niggers.

“My gum and pepper are good: the stock “Is three hundred chests of all sizes; “I’ve gold dust and ivory too in store, “But the black ware by far the best prize is.

“Six hundred niggers I bought dirt-cheap “Where the Senegal river is flowing; “Their flesh is firm, and their sinews tough “As the finest iron going.

“I got them by barter, and gave in exchange “Glass beads, steel goods, and some brandy; “I shall make at least eight hundred per cent. “With but half of them living and handy.

“If only three hundred niggers are left, “When I get to Rio Janeiro, “I shall have a hundred ducats a head “From the house of Gonzales Perreiro.”--

Here all of a sudden Mynher Van Koek Was disturb’d in his meditation, For Doctor Van Smissen enter’d in, The vessel’s surgeon by station.

His figure was just as thin as a lath, And his nose had warts all over; “Well, worthy Doctor,” exclaim’d Van Koek, “Are my niggers still living in clover?”

The Doctor thank’d him, and said in reply: “I’ve come with a tale of disaster; “Throughout the night, I’m sorry to say, “The deaths have grown faster and faster.

“The average daily number is two, “But to-day just seven have died, Sir,-- “Four men and three women; I wrote the loss “At once in the log as my guide, Sir.

“I closely inspected every corpse, “For these rascals have often a notion “To feign themselves dead, in hopes that they “May be thrown away into the ocean.

“I took the irons from off the dead, “And according to usual custom “Next morning early into the sea “I bid the sailors thrust ’em.

“At once the sharks from out of the waves “Shot up in countless legions; “They love full dearly the niggers’ flesh, “My boarders are they in these regions.

“They have follow’d after the track of the ship, “Since we’ve left the land in the distance; “The creatures smell the scent of a corpse “With ravenous snuffling persistence.

“In truth ’tis a capital joke to see “How after the bodies they follow; “One takes the head, another a leg, “While the rest the fragments swallow.

“Then round the ship contented they roll, “When they’ve finished their eating and crunching “And stare in my face, as if they sought “To thank me for their luncheon.”--

Then spake Van Koek, as he sadly sigh’d, When the Doctor his story had finish’d: “How to lessen the evil? In what way best “Can the rate of the deaths be diminish’d?”

The Doctor replied: “Many niggers have died “By their own misconduct stealthy; “Their breath’s so bad, that it poisons the air “In the ship, and makes it unhealthy.

“Through lowness of spirits, too, many have died, “And ennui, in this dreary stillness; “I think that air and music and dance “Would soon remove their illness.”--

Then cried Van Koek: “An excellent plan! “Dear Doctor, I utter no slander, “When I say that like Aristotle you’re wise, “The tutor of Alexander.

“The Tulip-improvement Society’s head “In the town of Delft may be clever, “But he hasn’t one half of your brains, I’m sure,-- “Your equal I’ve met with never.

“Then, music, music! The niggers all “On the deck I’ll see dancing and kicking, “And whosoever won’t join in the fun “Shall receive in reward a good licking.”

## PART II.

On high, from the heaven’s blue canopy, Many thousand stars are gleaming, Like the eyes of fair women, so large and clear, And with locks of yearning beaming.

They’re looking down on the ocean below, Whose waves in the distance are curling, In phosphorescent blue vapour all veil’d, While the billows are joyously whirling.

Not a sail on the slave-ship is fluttering now, As though without tackle she’s lying; But lanthorns are glimmering high on the decks Where the dance with the music is vying.

The cook of the vessel is playing the flute, The steersman’s playing the fiddle, The trumpet is blown by the Doctor himself, And a lad beats the drum in the middle.

A hundred niggers, both women and men, Are yelling and whirling and leaping, As though they were mad; and at every spring Their irons the tune are keeping.

They stamp on the ground in uproarious mirth, And many a swarthy maiden Clasps her naked partner with warmth, while at times The air with their groanings is laden.

The jailer acts as _maître des plaisirs_, And dealing his lashes so fearful, The weary dancers he stimulates, And bids them be merry and cheerful.

So dideldumdei and schnedderedeng! The strange unwonted commotion Aroused from their lazy slumbers below The monsters fierce of the ocean.

All-heavy with sleep, the sharks swam up, In numbers many a hundred; They stupidly stared at the ship on high With amazement, and blindly wondered.

They see that their usual breakfast time Has not come as soon as ’tis wanted, So they gape and ope wide their throats, their jaws With teeth like saws being planted.

And dideldumdei and schnedderedeng! There seems no end to the dances; The sharks grow impatient, and bite themselves In the tail with their teeth like lances.

I presume that for music they’ve got no taste, Like many an ignoramus; Trust not the beast that music loves not, Says Albion’s poet famous.

And schnedderedeng and dideldumdei! Not one of the dancers seems lazy; At the foremast stands Mynher Van Koek, And with folded hands thus prays he:

“For Christ’s dear sake, O spare, good Lord, “The lives of these swarthy sinners; “If they’ve anger’d thee e’er, thou know’st they’re as dull “As the beasts that we eat for our dinners.

“O spare their lives, for Christ’s dear sake, “Who died for our salvation; “For unless I have left me three hundred head, “There’s an end to my occupation.”

7. AFFRONTENBURG.

Time fleeteth, yet that castle old, With all its battlements, its tower, And simple folk that in it dwelt, Appears before me every hour.

I ever see the weathercock That on the roof turn’d round so drily; Each person, ere he spoke a word, Was wont to look up tow’rds it slily.

He that would talk, first learnt the wind, For fear the ancient grumbler Boreas Might turn against him suddenly, Tormenting him with blast uproarious.

In truth, the wisest held their tongues, For in that place an echo sported, Which, when it answer’d back the voice, Each word maliciously distorted.

Amidst the castle garden stood A marble fount, with sphinxes round it, For ever dry, though tears enough Had flow’d inside it, to have drown’d it.

O most accursèd garden! Ah, No single spot was in thy keeping Wherein my heart had not been sad, Wherein my eye had not known weeping.

No single tree did it contain Beneath whose shade affronts injurious Had not against me utter’d been By tongues ironical or furious.

The toad that listen’d in the grass Unto the rat hath all confided, Who told his aunt the viper straight The news in which himself he prided.

She in her turn told cousin frog,-- And in this manner each relation In the whole filthy race soon learnt My dire affronts and sad vexation.

The garden roses were full fair, And sweet the fragrance that they scatter’d; Yet early wither’d they and died, By a mysterious poison shatter’d.

And next the nightingale was sick To death,--that songster loved and cherish’d. That sang to every rose her song; Through her own poison’s taste she perish’d.

O most accursèd garden! Yea, It was as though a curse oppress’d it; Oft was I seized by ghostly fear, While broad clear daylight still possess’d it.

The green-eyed spectre on me grinn’d, Terror with fearful mockery vying, While from the yew-trees straightway rose A sound of groaning, choking, sighing.

At the long alley’s end arose The terrace where the Baltic Ocean At time of flood its billows dash’d Against the rocks in wild commotion.

There sees one far across the main, There stood I oft, in wild dreams roaming; The breakers fill’d my heart as well With ceaseless roaring, raging, foaming.

A foaming, raging, roaring ’twas, As powerless as the billows curling That the hard rock broke mournfully, Proudly as they their shocks were hurling.

With envy saw I ships pass by, Some happier country seeking gladly, While I am in this castle chain’d With bonds accurst, and pining sadly.

8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]

I.

Holy parables discarding, And each guess, however pious, To these awful questions plainly Seek with answers to supply us:--

Wherefore bends the Just One, bleeding ’Neath the cross’s weight laborious, While upon his steed the Wicked Rides all-proudly and victorious?

Wherein lies the fault? It is not That our God is not almighty? Or hath he himself offended?-- Such a thought seems wild and flighty.

Thus are we for ever asking, Till at length our mouths securely With a clod of earth are fasten’d,-- That is not an answer, surely?

II.

My head by the maiden swarthy but fair Was press’d ’gainst her bosom with yearning; But, alas! to grey soon turn’d my hair, Where had fallen her tears so burning.

She kiss’d me ill, and she kiss’d me lame, She kiss’d till my eyes were faded; My spinal marrow dried up became, By her mouth’s wild sucking pervaded.

My body is now a corpse, wherein My spirit is fetter’d closely; ’Tis often angry, and makes a din, And storms and struggles morosely,

O impotent curses! Not even a fly Can be kill’d by mere execrations; Submit to thy fate, and patiently try To bear Heaven’s dispensations.

III.

How slowly time is crawling on, That serpent terrible and creeping! While I, alas! all-motionless, On the same spot am ever weeping.

On my dark cell no ray of hope Hath shone, no sunbeam e’er hath risen; For nothing but the churchyard’s vault Shall I exchange this fatal prison.

Perchance I long ago did die, Perchance the phantasies which nightly Hold in my brain their shifting dance Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly.

They may full well the spectres be Of some old heathen gods or devils; They gladly choose the empty skull Of a dead poet for their revels.

Those orgies sweet but terrible, Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning, The poet’s corpse-hand ofttimes seeks To place on record in the morning.

IV.

Once saw I many a blooming flower Upon my way, but slothfully Stoop’d not to pluck them in that hour, And on my proud steed hasten’d by.

Now when I’m near to death, and languish, Now when beneath me yawns the tomb, Oft in my thought, with bitter anguish, Returns the’ unheeded flowers’ perfume.

But most of all, my brain is burning With a bright yellow violet fair; Wild beauty! How I grieve with yearning, To think that I enjoy’d thee ne’er!

My comfort is: Oblivion’s waters Have not yet lost their olden might The dull hearts of earth’s sons and daughters To steep in Lethe’s blissful night.

V.

I saw them laughing, smiling gladly,-- I saw them ruin’d utterly; I heard them weeping, dying sadly,-- And yet I utter’d not a sigh.

Each corpse I as a mourner follow’d, Yea, to the churchyard follow’d I, And then--with appetite I swallow’d, My noontide meal, I’ll not deny.

I now recall that band long perish’d, With feelings sadden’d and oppress’d: Like sudden glowing love once cherish’d They strangely storm within my breast.

And most ’tis Juliet’s tears so burning That in my memory spring to light; My sadness turns to ceaseless yearning, I call upon her day and night.

In feverish dreams, with soft emotion The faded flower oft comes again; Methinks a posthumous devotion To my love’s glow it offers then.

O gentle phantom, clasp me often With strong and ever stronger power; Unto my lips press thine, and soften The bitterness of this last hour.

VI.

Thou wast a maiden fair, so good and kindly, So neat, so cool--in vain I waited blindly Till came the hour wherein thy gentle heart Would ope, and inspiration play its part.

Yea, inspiration for those lofty things Which prose and reason deem but wanderings, But yet for which the noble, lovely, good Upon this earth rave, suffer, shed their blood.

Upon the Rhine’s fair strand, where vine-hills smile, Once in glad summer days we roam’d the while; Bright laugh’d the sun, sweet incense in that hour Stream’d from the beauteous cup of every flower.

The purple pinks and roses breath’d in turn Red kisses on us, which like fire did burn; Even the smallest daisy’s faint perfume Appear’d a life ideal then to bloom.

But thou didst peacefully beside me go, In a white satin dress, demure and slow, Like some girl’s portrait limn’d by Netscher’s art, A little glacier seem’d to be thy heart.

VII.

At reason’s solemn judgment-seat Thy full acquittal hath been spoken; The verdict says: the little one By word or deed no law hath broken.

Yes, dumb and motionless thou stood’st, While madd’ning flames were raging through me; Thou stirredst not, no word thou spak’st, Yet thou’lt be ever guilty to me.

Throughout my visions every night A voice accusing ceaseth never To charge thee with ill will, and say That thou hast ruin’d me for ever.

It brings its proofs and witnesses, Its musty rolls from thought long banish’d And yet at morning, with my dream, Lo, the accuser too hath vanish’d!

Now hath it in my inmost heart, With all its records, refuge taken-- One only haunts my memory still: That I am ruin’d and forsaken.

VIII.

Thy letter was a flash of lightning, Illuming night with sudden glow; It served with dazzling force to show How deep my misery is, how fright’ning.

E’en thou compassion then didst share, Who, ’mid my life’s sad desolation, Stood’st, like the sculptor’s mute creation, As cold as marble, and as fair.

O God, how wretched must I be! For into speech her lips are waking, From out her eyes the tears are breaking, The stone feels for me tenderly.

The sight hath fill’d me with confusion; Have pity, Lord, though thou mayst chasten, Thy peace bestow, and quickly hasten This fearful tragedy’s conclusion.

IX.

The true sphynx’s form’s the same as Woman’s; this I see full clearly; And the paws and lion’s body Are the poet’s fancy merely.

Dark as death is still the riddle Of this true sphynx. E’en the clever Son and husband of Jocasta Such a hard one found out never.

By good luck, though, woman knows not Her own riddle’s explanation; If the answer she discover’d, Earth would fall from its foundation.

X.

Three women sit at the crossway lonely, They’re thinking and spinning, They’re sighing and grinning; Their very aspect is hideous only.

The distaff the first holds, so placid; The threads she setteth, And each one wetteth; So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.

The spindle the second one dances In a circle ’tis whirling, In droll fashion twirling; The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.

The third Fate’s hands, so befitting, Hold the scissors so dreary, She hums Miserere, And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.

O hasten thee quickly, and sever My life’s thread so sadd’ning, Escaping this madd’ning Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!

XI.

I scorn the heavenly plains above me, In the blest land of Paradise; No fairer women there will love me Than those whom here on earth I prize.

No angel blest, his high flight winging, Could there replace my darling wife; To sit on clouds, whilst psalms I’m singing, Would small enjoyment give to life.

O Lord, methinks ’twere best to leave me Upon this lower world to dwell; But first from sufferings reprieve me, Some money granting me as well.

The world, I know, is overflowing With sin and misery; yet I Have learnt full well the art of going Along its pavement quietly.

Life’s bustle cannot now annoy me, For ’tis but seldom that I roam; Beside my wife I’d fain employ me In slippers and loose-coat at home.

Leave me with her! When she is prattling, My soul drinks in the music dear Of that sweet voice, so gaily rattling,-- Her look so faithful is and clear!

For health alone and means of living, Lord, ask I! Let me stay below For many a day its blessings giving, Beside my wife _in statu quo_!

9. THE DRAGONFLY.

The beauteous dragonfly’s dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing; She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair.

Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body’s bright splendour, And also her figure so slender.

Full many a beetle, to his cost, His modicum small of reason lost; Her wooers are humming of love and truth, Brabant and Holland pledging forsooth.

The dragonfly smiled and thus spake she: “Brabant and Holland are nought to me; “But haste, if my charms you admire, “And fetch me a sparklet of fire.

“The cook has just been brought to bed, “And I my supper must cook instead; “The coals on the hearth are burnt away,-- “So fetch me a sparklet of fire, I pray.”

Scarce had the false one spoken the word, When off the beetles flew, like a bird. They seek for fire, and soon they find Their home in the wood’s left far behind.

At length they see a candle’s light In garden-bower burning bright; And then with amorous senseless aim, They headlong rush in the candle’s flame.

The candle’s flame with crackling consumed The beetles and their fond hearts so doom’d: While some with their lives did expiation, Some only lost wings in the conflagration.

O woe to the beetle, whose wings have been Burnt off! In a foreign land, I ween, He must crawl on the ground like vermin fell, With humid insects that nastily smell.

One’s bad companions--he’s heard to say,-- Are the worst of plagues, in exile’s day. We’re forced to converse with every sort Of noxious creatures, of bugs in short,

Who treat us as though their comrades were we, Because in the selfsame mud we be. Of this complain’d old Virgil’s scholar, The poet of exile and hell, with choler.

I think with grief of the happier time, When I in my glory’s well-winged prime In my native ether was playing, On sunny flowers was straying.

From rosy calixes food I drew, Was thought of importance, and wheeling flew With butterflies all of elegance rare, And with the cricket, the artist fair.

But since my poor wings I happen’d to burn, To my fatherland now I ne’er can return; I’m turn’d to a worm, that will soon expire, I’m rotting away in foreign mire.

O would that I had never met The dragonfly, that azure coquette, With figure so fine and slender, The fair but cruel pretender!

10. ASCENSION.

The body lay on the bier of death, While the poor soul, when gone its breath, Escaping from earth’s constant riot, Was on its way to heavenly quiet.

Then knock’d it at the portal high, And spake these words with a heavy sigh: “Saint Peter, give me inside a place, “I am so tired of life’s hard race.

“On silken pillows I fain would rest “In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best “With darling angels at blindman’s-buff, “Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”

A clatter of slippers ere long was heard, A bunch of keys appear’d to be stirr’d, And out of a lattice, the entrance near, Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.

He spake: “The vagabonds come again, “The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train, “The idlers and the Hottentots-- “They come alone and they come in knots, “And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest, “And there be angels, and there be blest. “Halloa, halloa! For gallows’ faces “Like yours, for such contemptible races “Were never created the halls of bliss,-- “Your portion’s with Satan, far off from this. “Away, away, and take your flight “To the black pool of endless night.”--

The old man thus growl’d, but hadn’t the heart To continue to play a blustering part, So added these words, its spirits to cheer: “Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear “To that base troop of rogues to belong-- “Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong, “Because it is my birthday to-day, “And I feel just now in a merciful way. “But meanwhile tell me the country and place “From whence thou comest; and was it the case “That thou wast married? It happens sometimes “A husband’s patience atones for all crimes; “A husband need not in hell to be stew’d, “Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”

The soul replied: “From Prussia I came, “My native town is Berlin by name, “There ripples the Spree, and in its bed “The young cadets jump heels over head; “It overflows kindly, when rains begin-- “A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin! “I was a private teacher when there, “And much philosophy read with care. “I married a chanoinesse--strange to say, “She quarrell’d frightfully every day, “Especially when in the house was no bread-- “’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”

Saint Peter cried: “Alack, alack! “Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack. “In truth it is a puzzle to me “Why people study philosophy. “It is such tedious and profitless stuff, “And is moreover godless enough; “In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell, “Till Satan carries them off to hell. “Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations “Against the thin and washy potations “From whence upon her, with comforting gleam “No eye of fat could ever beam. “But now, poor soul, pray comforted be! “The strictest commands are given to me, “’Tis true, that each who whilst he did live “To philosophy used his attention to give, “Especially to the godless German, “Should be driven away from hence like vermin. “Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I “Have said, so there is a reason why “I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute “The gate of heaven--quick, enter within it “With utmost speed-- “Now all is right! “The whole of the day, from morn’s first light “Till late in the evening, thou canst walk “Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk “Along its jewel-paved streets so fair; “But mind, thou must not meddle when there “With any philosophy, or I shall be “Soon compromised most terribly. “When angels thou hearest singing, assume “A face of rapture, and never of gloom; “But if an archangel sang the song, “Be full of inspiration strong, “And say that Malibran ne’er pretended “To have a soprano so rich and splendid; “And ever applaud each tuneful hymn “Of cherubim and of seraphim. “Compare them all with Signor Rubini, “With Mario and Tamburini, “Give them the title of Excellencies, “And be not sparing of reverencies. “The singers in heaven, as well as on earth, “Have all loved flattery since their birth. “The world’s great Chapel-master on high, “E’en He is pleased when they glorify “His works, and delighteth to hear ador’d “The wonders of God, the mighty Lord, “And when a psalm to His glory and praise “In thickest incense clouds they raise.

“Forget me not. Whenever to thee “The glory of heaven causes ennui, “Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play. “All games alike are in my way, “From doubledummy to faro I’ll go,-- “We’ll also drink. But, _apropos_, “If thou should’st meet, when going from hence, “The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence “Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said, “But say, from Vienna or Munich instead.”

11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.

Thou weep’st, and on me look’st, believing That thou art for my anguish grieving-- Thou know’st not, wife, that ’tis for thee The tear escapes thee, not for me.

O tell me if it be not true That o’er thy spirit sometimes grew The blest foreboding, showing thee That we were join’d by fate’s decree? United, bliss was ours below, But sever’d, nought is ours but woe.

In the great book ’tis written clearly That we should love each other dearly. Thy place should be upon my breast, Here first awoke self-knowledge blest; From out the realm of plants, with power ’Twas mine to free, to kiss thee, flower!-- Raise thee to me, to highest life, ’Twas mine to give thee soul, my wife.

Now, when reveal’d the riddles stand, When in the hour-glass is the sand Run out, weep not, ’tis order’d so-- Alone thou’lt wither, when I go; Thou’lt wither, ere thou yet hast bloom’d, Ere thou hast glow’d, be quench’d and doom’d; Thou’lt die and be the prey of death Ere thou hast learnt to draw thy breath.

I know it now. By heaven, ’tis thou Whom I have loved. How bitter now, The moment we are join’d for ever, To find the hour when we must sever. The welcome meanwhile must give way To sad farewell. We part to-day For evermore, for ’tis not given To us to meet again in heaven. Beauty to dust will fall at last, Thou’lt pass away, and crumble fast. The poets’ fate will happier be, Death cannot kill them utterly. Annihilation strikes us ne’er, We live in poesy’s land so fair, In Avalon, where fairies dwell-- Dear corpse, for ever fare thee well!

12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.

There once was a brother and sister, The sister was poor, the brother was rich. The poor one said to the rich one: “Give me a piece of bread.”

The rich one said to the poor one: “Leave me to-day in peace, “While I give my yearly banquet “To the lords of the Council all.

“The first doth turtlesoup relish, “The second doth pineapples eat, “The third is fond of pheasant “And Perigord truffles too.

“The fourth eats nought but seafish, “The fifth in salmon delights, “The sixth of each dish eateth, “And drinketh even more.”

The poor rejected sister Went hungry back to her house; She threw herself on her straw-bed, And deeply sighed and died.

We all alike must perish! The scythe of death at last Mowed down the wealthy brother, As it the sister had mown.

And when the wealthy brother His end approaching saw, He sent for his notary quickly, And straightway made his will.

With legacies large and lib’ral The clergy he endow’d, The schools, and the great museum Of zoological things.

And noble sums moreover The great testator bequeath’d To the deaf and dumb asylum And Jewish Conversion fund.

A handsome bell bestow’d he On the new Saint Stephen’s tower; It weighs five hundred centners, Of first-rate metal too.

It is a bell enormous, And sounds both early and late; It sounds to the praise and glory Of that most excellent man.

It tells, with its tongue of iron, Of all the good he has done To the town and his fellow-townsmen, Whatever might be their faith.

Thou great benefactor of mortals In death as well as in life The great bell’s ever proclaiming Each benefaction of thine!

The funeral next with all honour And pomp was solemnized, The people crowded to see it And reverently gazed.

Upon a coal-black carriage, Like a vast canopy Adorn’d with black ostrich feathers, The splendid coffin lay.

Trick’d out with plates of silver, And silver embroidery fine, Upon the black ground the silver The grandest effect produced.

The carriage was drawn by six horses, In coal-black trappings disguised, That fell, like funeral mantles, Down even to their hoofs.

Behind the coffin were crowded The servants in liveries black, Their snow-white handkerchiefs holding Before their sorrowing face.

The people of rank in the city, In long procession form’d Of black and showy coaches, Totter’d along behind.

In this grand fun’ral procession, Remember, were also found The noble lords of the Council, And yet they were not complete.

The one was missing, whose fancy Was pheasant and truffles to eat; An attack of indigestion Had lately carried him off.

13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.

(A true story, repeated after old documents and reproduced in excellent rhyme.)

Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly, He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.

O fly of my soul, ’tis thou alone Art the wife I have chosen to be my own.

O marry me, and be not cold, For I have a belly of glistening gold.

My back is a mass of glory and show, There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow--

O would that I were a fool just now! I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.

I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold, I know that no happiness riches enfold.

’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high, For I am in truth a haughty fly.--

The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break, The fly went away, a bath to take.

O what has become of my maid, the bee, That she when I’m washing may wait on me,

That she may stroke my soft hair outside, For I am now a beetle’s bride.

In truth, a splendid party I’ll give, For handsomer beetle never did live.

His back is a mass of glory and show, There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.

His belly is golden, and noble each feature; With envy will burst full many a creature.

Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair, And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.

With otto of roses rub me o’er, And lavender oil on my feet then pour,

That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell, When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.

Already are flitting the dragonflies blue, As maids of honour to wait on me too.

Into my bridal garland they’ll twine The blossoms white of the orange so fine.

Full many musicians are asked to the place, And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.

The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come, To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.

They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast-- The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,

Are coming in families dapper and brisk, The commoner insects amongst them frisk.

The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousins Are coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.

The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state, Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.

The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong-- But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?

Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day, The bridegroom however has flown far away.

The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong-- But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?

The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seat On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.

Seven years there sits he, until his forgotten Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.

14. MIMI.

“I’m no modest city creature “By the hearth demurely spinning, “But a free cat on the roof, “In the air, with manners winning.

“When in summer nights I’m musing “On the roof, in grateful coolness, “Music in me purrs, I sing “From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”

Thus she speaks, and from her bosom Wild and wedding-songs stream thickly, And the melody allures All the cats unmarried quickly.

Purring, mewing, thither hasten All the young cats, plain or brindled, And with Mimi join in chorus, Full of love, with passion kindled.

They are no mere virtuosos Who profane, for sordid wages, Music, but of harmony Are apostles true, and sages.

They no instruments use ever, Each is his own flute and viol; All their noses trumpets are, Bellies, drums, and no denial.

They in chorus raise their voices, In one general intermezzo, Playing fugues, as if by Bach, Or by Guido of Arezzo.

Wild the symphonies they’re singing Like capriccios of Beethoven, Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’d By their strains so interwoven.

Wonderful their music’s might is! Magic notes without an equal! E’en the heavens they shake, the stars All turn pallid in the sequel.

When the magic notes she heareth, And the wondrous tones delightful, Then Selene hides her face With a veil of clouds so frightful.

But the nightingale with envy-- Scandalous old prima donna-- Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scorns Mimi’s voice, to her dishonour.

Never mind! She’ll go on singing Spite the envy of Signora, Till on the horizon’s seen, Smiling rosily, Aurora.

15. GOOD ADVICE.

Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow, Boldly woo, and, not aside, Civil they will be to-morrow, And thou thus wilt win thy bride.

’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,-- Give, then, the musicians gold; Though thou wish them at the devil, Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.

Give a prince his meed of laurel, Of a woman speak not ill; With thy sausages don’t quarrel When thou hast a sow to kill.

If the church to thee is hateful, All the more attend its shrine; To the parson be thou grateful, Send him, too, a flask of wine.

If an itching chance to teaze thee, Like a man of honour, scratch; If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee, Slippers get with all despatch.

If thy soup has too much seasoning, Be not in an angry mood; Smiling say, instead of reasoning: “Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”

If thy wife a wish expresses For a shawl, straight buy her two; Buy her golden brooches, dresses, Lace and jewels not a few.

If thou’lt give this plan a trial, Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain Heaven to bless thy self-denial, And on earth to peace attain.

16. REMINISCENCES OF HAMMONIA.[88]

Orphan children two and two, Wandering gladly on we view, All of them blue coats are wearing, All of them red cheeks are bearing-- O the pretty orphan children!

All are moved when thus they prattle, And the money boxes rattle; Liberal alms upon them flow, That their secret sires bestow,-- O the pretty orphan children!

Women of a feeling heart Many a poor child kiss apart, Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant), Give him sweetmeats as a present-- O the pretty orphan children!

One, with timid face but willing, Throws into the box a shilling,-- For he has a heart,--then gaily Follows he his business daily-- O the pretty orphan children!

One a golden louis-d’or Next bestows, but not before Heavenward looking, hoping blindly That the Lord will view him kindly-- O the pretty orphan children!

Porters, coopers, working men, Servants, make to-day again Holiday, and drain their glasses, Drinking to these lads and lasses-- O the pretty orphan children!

Tutelar Hammonia Follows them incognita; As she moves, her form gigantic Sways about, in manner frantic-- O the pretty orphan children!

In the green field where they went Music fills the lofty tent, Cover’d o’er with flag and banner; There are fed in sumptuous manner All these pretty orphan children.

There in lengthy rows they sit, Eating many a nice tit-bit, Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching, While like little mice they’re munching,-- All these pretty orphan children.

Now my thoughts to dwell begin On an orphan-house wherein There no feasting is or gladness, Where lament in ceaseless sadness, Millions of poor orphan children.

There no uniforms are seen, Many want their dinner e’en; No two walk together yonder, Lonely, sorrowfully wander Many million orphan children.

17. THE ROBBERS.

While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling, Embraced me on the couch, the fox Her worthy husband from my box My banknotes quietly was stealing.

My pockets now have got no cash in! Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie? Ah! what is truth? In days gone by Thus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.

This evil world, decay’d and rotten, I soon shall ne’er again behold; I see that he who has no gold Will very soon be quite forgotten.

For you, pure souls, whose habitation In yonder realms of light I see, My bosom yearns. No wants have ye, So stealing is not your vocation.

18. THE YOUNG CATS’ CLUB FOR POETRY-MUSIC

The philharmonic young cats’ club Upon the roof was collected To-night, but not for sensual joys, No wrong could there be detected.

No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt, No song of love did they utter In the winter season, in frost and snow, For frozen was every gutter.

A newborn spirit hath recently Come over the whole cat-nation, But chiefly the young, and the young cat feels More earnest with inspiration.

The frivolous generation of old Is extinct, and a newborn yearning, A pussy-springtime of poetry In art and in life they’re learning.

The philharmonic young cats’ club Is now returning to artless And primitive music, and naïveté, From modern fashions all heartless.

It seeks in music for poetry, Roulades with the quavers omitted It seeks for poetry, music-void, For voice and instrument fitted.

It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway, Which often bungles truly, Yet oft in art unconsciously Attains the highest stage duly.

It honours the genius which prefers Dame Nature to keep at a distance, And will not show off its learning,--in fact Its learning not having existence.

This is the programme of our cat club, And with these intentions elated, It holds its first winter concert to-night On the roof, as before I have stated.

Yet sad was the execution, alas! Of this great idea so splendid; I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz, That by thee it wasn’t attended.

It was a charivari, as though With brandy elated greatly, Three dozen pipers struck up the tune That the poor cow died of lately.

It was an utter medley, as though In Noah’s ark were beginning The whole of the beasts in unison The Deluge to tell of in singing,

O what a croaking, snarling, and noise! O what a mewing and yelling! And even the chimneys all join’d in, The wonderful chorus swelling.

And loudest of all was heard a voice Which sounded languid and shrieking As Sontag’s voice became at the last, When utterly broken and squeaking.

The whimsical concert! Methinks that they A grand Te Deum were chanting, To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’d By commonest frenzy and canting.

Perchance moreover the young cats’ club The opera grand were essaying That the greatest pianist of Hungary[89] Composed for Charenton’s playing.

It was not till the break of day That an end was put to the party; A cook was in consequence brought to bed Who before had seem’d well and hearty.

The lying-in woman lost her wits, Her memory, too, was affected, And who was the father of her child No longer she recollected.

Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul? Say who is the father, Eliza! “O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said, And simper’d and look’d the wiser.

19. HANS LACK-LAND.

Farewell, my wife, said Lack-Land Hans, A lofty object elates me; Far different goats I now must shoot, Far different game awaits me.

I’ll leave thee behind my hunting horn, Thou canst in my absence daily,. Play merrily on it, for thou hast learnt To blow on the post-horn gaily.

I’ll also leave thee behind my hound, To be the castle’s defender; My German folk, like faithful dogs, Will guard me and never surrender.

They offer me the imperial throne, Their affection is almost provoking My image is graven on every heart, And every pipe they are smoking.

Ye Germans are a wonderful race, So simple and yet so clever; One forgets that gunpowder, but for you, Had been discover’d never.

Your emperor,--no, your father I’ll be, Your welfare shall be my sole glory-- O blissful thought! it makes me as proud As the Gracchi’s mother in story.

I’ll govern my people by feeling alone, And not by the light of mere reason; I never could bear diplomacy, And politics hate like treason.

A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child, Who had in the forest my training, With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,-- A foe to all nonsense and feigning.

By proclamations I never enticed, No printed pamphlet invented; I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone, “With cod for to-day be contented.

“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take “The first donkey that comes about you; “I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack, “I’ve plenty to eat without you.”

Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell, I must end my long discourses; My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside, Awaiting me with the horses.

Quick, hand me over my travelling cap, With the ribbon all black-red-golden; Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem, In the dress imperial and olden.

Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too, The purple robe so glorious, The gift of the Saracen Sultan erst To Otto, the Cæsar victorious.

Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress, Whereon, in each species of jewel, A train of lions and camels is work’d, And fabulous monsters and cruel.

Upon my breast the stole I shall wear, Significantly blended With eagles black on a yellow ground,-- The garment is really splendid.

Farewell! Posterity shall say I reign’d with honest intention.-- Who knows? Posterity perchance My name will never mention.

20. RECOLLECTIONS FROM KRÄHWINKEL’S DAYS OF TERROR.

We, mayor and senate of the town, The following orders now lay down To all who love their city truly, Enjoining them to keep them duly.

’Tis foreigners and strangers most Who their rebellious spirit boast; Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly) The children of the soil are rarely.

The Atheists likewise are concern’d; For he by whom his God is spurn’d Is sure at last to hold detested All those on earth with power invested.

Christian and Jew, at close of day, Must shut their shops without delay; “Obey your rulers” should be ever Both Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.

No person shall be seen at night In any street without a light; Where three or more in groups are standing, Let them at once begin disbanding.

Each one must bring his weapons all, And lay them down in the guildhall; And every kind of ammunition Is subject to the same condition.

He who in any public spot Ventures to reason, shall be shot; He who by gestures dares to reason Shall pay the penalty of treason.

Confide in the authorities, So gracious, but withal so wise, Who rule the fortunes of the city, And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.

21. THE AUDIENCE.

(An old Fable.)

“I’ll let not my children, like Pharaoh, be drown’d “In the Nile’s deep turbulent water; “Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old, “No patron of children’s slaughter.

“I will, as my gracious Saviour did, “Find the sight of the children pleasant; “So suffer the children to come, and first “The big one, the Swabian peasant.”

Thus spake the monarch; the chamberlain ran, And return’d, introducing slowly The stalwart child from Swabia’s land, Who made a reverence lowly.

Thus spake the king: “A Swabian art thou? “There’s no disgrace in that surely.”-- “Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,” Replied the Swabian demurely.

“Art thou from the seven Swabians sprung?” Ask’d the other.--“In truth I’m descended “From one of them only,” the Swabian replied, “And not from the whole of them blended.”

The king then ask’d: “Are dumplings this year “In Swabia as usual eaten?”-- “I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d, “They are not easily beaten.”

“And do ye still boast big men?” next said The monarch.--“Why, just at present “The big ones are scarce, but in their place “We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.

“Has Menzel,” added the king, “received “On his ear many boxes lately?” “I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said, “The former ones punish’d him greatly.”

The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool, “My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.” “That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he, “By the cobolds, who different made me.”

The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont “To love their fatherland dearly; “So why hast thou left thy native home? “Explain the reason clearly.”

The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought “But turnips and sour-crout ever; “And had my mother but cook’d me meat, “I had left my fatherland never.”

“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said-- Then the Swabian in deep supplication Knelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant “Their freedom once more to the nation.

“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant “That he as a slave should perish; “O, Sire, restore to the German folk “The rights that they manfully cherish!”

The monarch in deep amazement stood, The scene was really enthralling; With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eye The tear that was wellnigh falling.

At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream! “Farewell, and pray learn more discretion; “And as a somnambulist plainly thou art, “Of thy person I’ll give the possession

“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be “To see thee safe over the border-- “Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade, “The drums are beating to order.”

And so this affecting audience came To a most affecting conclusion. But from that moment the monarch allow’d No more of his children’s intrusion.[90]

22. KOBES I.

In eighteen hundred and forty-eight, When passions men’s minds were heating, The German nation’s parliament At Frankfort held its meeting.

Just at this time, in the Senate-house Appear’d the white lady ghostly, The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,-- They call her the Housekeeper mostly.

By night they say in the Senate-house She is wont to make her appearance, Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks play With extra perseverance.

I saw her myself at the selfsame time As she roam’d in the hours of slumber Through the silent chambers, wherein were piled The middle ages’ old lumber.

She held the lamp and a bunch of keys In her hands so pale and sickly; She open’d the presses against the walls, And the chests strew’d around her thickly.

There lie the imperial insignia all, There lies the bull all-golden, The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown, And more of such fancies olden.

There lie the ancient imperial robes, The purple frippery faded, The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact, Now rusted and rot-pervaded.

The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her head At the sight, then with deep displeasure She suddenly cries at the top of her voice: “The whole of them stink beyond measure!

“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung “And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine; “And all the gaudy trumpery work “Is swarming with noxious vermin.

“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress, “Once used at the coronation, “The cats of the Senate-house district are wont “To lie, as their lying-in station.

“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate “Of the Emperor next elected; “By the fleas in his coronation robe “His health will be surely affected.

“And know ye, that all the people must scratch, “Whenever the Emperor itches-- “O Germans, I dread the princely fleas “Who swallow up much of your riches.

“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas? “For rusty are now and all rotten “The olden costumes--By modern days “Are the ancient dresses forgotten.

“The German poet at Kyffhauser said “To Barbarossa quite truly: “‘I find that we want no Emperor now, “When I weigh the matter duly.’

“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have, “With an Emperor reigning o’er ye, “My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves “To be snared by genius or glory.

“Choose one of the people your monarch to be, “All sons of the nobles reject ye; “Select not the lion, select not the fox, “The dullest of sheep elect ye.

“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son, “The crown to dull Kobes awarding; “The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he, “His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.

“A log is ever the best of kings, “As Esop has shown in the fable; “He cannot devour us poor frogs up, “As the stork with his long bill is able.

“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be, “No Holofernes or Nero; “He boasts no terrible antique heart, “A soft modern heart has our hero.

“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart “Yet in the arms of the helot “Of work the unfortunate threw himself, “Becoming a regular zealot.

“The men of the journeymen’s _Burschenschaft_ “As president Kobes elected; “He shared with them their last piece of bread, “They held him vastly respected.

“They boasted that he in all his life “Had never been at college, “And out of his head composed his books “By the light of intuitive knowledge.

“Yes, his consummate ignorance “Was the fruit of his own endeavour; “With foreign wisdom and training he “Had injured his intellect never.

“From abstract philosophy’s influence he “Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit “Entirely free.--Himself he remain’d! “Yes, Kobes has really his merit!

“The tear of the usual stereotype form “In his beautiful eye is gleaming, “And from his lips incessantly “The grossest stupidity’s streaming.

“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates, “His words with long ears are provided; “A pregnant woman who heard him speak “Gave birth to a donkey decided.

“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont “His idle hours to flavour; “The stockings that he with his own hands knit “Have met with particular favour.

“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d “By Apollo and all the Muses; “They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand “A goose-quill laboriously uses.

“His knitting recals the olden time “Of the Funken,[91]--who all stood knitting “While mounting guard,--these men of Cologne “No means of amusement omitting.

“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal “To life these Funken deserving; “The valiant band will surround his throne, “As the guard imperial serving.

“He well might be glad to go at their head, “And march over France’s borders, “And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair “Bring under Germany’s orders.

“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain, “Intent on a scheme long suspended, “A lofty idea, the completion, in fact, “Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.

“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete, “Then Kobes will get in a passion, “And sword in hand, will bring the French “To account in a regular fashion.

“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away “(By France from the empire estreated); “To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go, “When once the Cathedral’s completed.

“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite, “If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him; “The Carnival King of Cologne let it be, “As Kobes the First now proclaim him!

“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne, “With caps and bells ringing and mocking, “Shall be his ministers of state, “His scutcheon a knitted stocking.

“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself “Count Drickes of Drickeshausen, “And Marizebill the Mistress of State, “With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]

“Within his good sacred town of Cologne “Will be Kobes’s habitation; “And when the Cologners hear the glad news, “They’ll have an illumination.

“The bells, the iron dogs of the air, “Into joyous barks will be breaking, “And the three holy kings from the land of the East “In their chapel will soon be awaking.

“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones, “All dancing with rapture and springing; “I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains “And Kyrie Eleison singing.”--

Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghost With loud uproarious laughter; Through all the resounding halls of the place The echo rang wildly long after.

13. EPILOGUE.

Graves they say are warm’d by glory; Foolish words and empty story! Better far the warmth we prove From a cow-girl deep in love, With her arms around us flung, Reeking with the smell of dung. And that warmth is better too That man’s entrails pierces through When he drinks hot punch and wine, Or his fill of grog divine, In the vilest, meanest den ’Mongst the thieves and scum of men, Who escape the gallows daily, But who breathe and live all-gaily, With as enviable fate As e’en Thetis’ son so great.-- Rightly did Pelides say: Living in the meanest way In the upper world’s worth more, Than beside the Stygian shore King of shades to be; a hero Such as Homer sang is zero.

_ADDENDA TO THE POEMS._[93]

THE SONG OF SONGS.

Fair woman’s body is a song Inscribed by our great Maker In Nature’s mighty album erst, When moved to life to wake her.

Ah yes! propitious was the hour When thus he show’d compassion! The coy rebellious stuff he work’d In true artistic fashion.

Yes, woman’s body is, ’mongst songs, The song most sweet and tender, And wondrous strophes are her limbs, So snowy-white and slender.

And then her neck, her glistening neck,-- O what a godlike notion!-- Where the main thought, her little head, Rocks with a graceful motion.

Like polish’d epigrams one loves Her bosom’s rosebuds dearly; Enchanting the cæsura is That parts her breasts severely.

The song has flesh, ribs, hands, and feet, No abstract poem this is! With lips that rhyme deliciously It smiles and sweetly kisses.

True poetry is breathing here, Grace shines in each direction; The song upon its forehead bears The stamp of all perfection.

I’ll praise thee, Lord, and in the dust Will humbly kneel to show it; Bunglers are we, compared with thee, Thou glorious heavenly Poet.

Before the splendour of thy song I’ll bow in adoration, And to its study day and night Pay closest application.

Yes, day and night I’ll study it, No loss of time admitting; So shall I soon with overwork Be thinner than befitting.

THE SUTTLER’S SONG.

(From the Thirty Years’ War.)

The brave hussars I dearly love, I love each gallant fellow; Without distinction I love them all, The blue as well as the yellow.

The musketeers I dearly love, I love the musketeers, too; The officers, privates, and recruits, And those of older years too.

The infantry and cavalry-- I love the brave fellows sincerely; And then the artillery,--one and all, I love them truly and dearly.

I love the Germans, I love the French, I love the Italians and Dutchmen; I love the Bohemians, Spaniards, and Swedes, I love both many and much men.

Whatever may be his native land, Whatever his faith or persuasion, Provided a man is sound in health, I love him on ev’ry occasion.

Religion and country are nothing more Than his outside clothing,--God bless him. Away with his cov’ring, that I to my heart May fondly and warmly press him!

A mortal am I, and only too glad With any mortal to dally; And as for the man who can’t pay on the spot, For him I keep a tally.

The garland green in front of my tent In the light of the sun smiles gaily, And I am now drinking malmsey wine From a fresh-open’d barrel daily.

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

HORSE AND ASS.

A train was rushing along one day, With carriages, engine, and tender; The chimney vomited forth its smoke, Like a dashing old offender.

The train pass’d a farmyard, and over the hedge A grey horse, at the sound of the whistle, Stretch’d out his head; an ass stood by, Demurely chewing a thistle.

With wondering gaze the horse long stared At the train; then strangely quivering In every limb, he sigh’d, and said: “The sight has set me a-shivering!

“I’m sure that if I by nature had been “A chesnut, or black, or bay horse, “My skin with the fright its colour would change, “And make me (as now) a grey horse.

“The equestrian race is doom’d, beyond doubt, “To be swept away in fate’s eddy; “Although I’m a grey horse, I cannot but see “A black future before me already.

“The competition of these machines “Will certainly kill us poor horses; “For riding and driving will man prefer “Iron steeds, if so great their force is.

“And if man can get on without our help, “Alike for riding and driving, “Good-bye to our oats, good-bye to our hay “What chance have we of surviving?

“The heart of man is hard as a stone, “He gives away nothing gratis; “They’ll drive us out of our stables, and we “Shall starve--what a cruel fate ’tis!

“We cannot borrow and cannot steal “Like mortals whose natures are blacker; “We cannot fawn like men and dogs, “But shall fall a prey to the knacker.”

Thus grumbled the horse, and deeply sigh’d,-- Meanwhile the ass hard by him Had quietly chew’d two thistle-tops, As if nothing could terrify him.

He presently answer’d in dainty tones, With his tongue first licking his muzzle: “With what the future may have in store, “My brains I shall not puzzle.

“You horses proud are threaten’d, no doubt, “By a future that’s far from pleasant; “But we modest asses are not afraid “Of dangers future or present.

“That grey horses, and chesnut, and piebald, and black, “May be done without, true, alas! is; “But Mister Steam, with his chimney long, “Can never replace us asses.

“However clever may be the machines “Made by man with his senses besotted, “The ass as his portion will always have “Sure means of existence allotted.

“Its asses will Heaven, I’m sure, ne’er desert, “Who, moved by a calm sense of duty, “Turn the mill every day, as their fathers have done,-- “A sight not deficient in beauty.

“The mill-wheel clatters, the miller works hard, “The meal in the sack well shaking, “And people eat their bread and their rolls, “As soon as they’ve finished the baking.

“In Nature’s old-fashion’d and jogtrot way “The world will keep spinning for ever; “And as changeless even as Nature herself, “The ass will alter never.”

* * * * *

MORAL.

Gone are the days of chivalry, And the proud steed must hungry be; But L----, the ass, I boldly say, Will never want his oats and hay.

THE ASS-ELECTION.

Being tired of freedom for some time past The beasts’ republic decided To be with a single ruler at last As its absolute head provided.

Each kind of beast prepared for the strife, Electoral billets were written; Intrigues on every side were rife, With party zeal all were bitten.

By long-ear’d gentry at its head The asses’ committee was aided; Cockades, whose colours were black, gold, and red,[94] They boastfully paraded.

A small party there was of friends of the horse, Who yet were afraid of voting, So greatly they dreaded the outcry coarse The long-ear’d party denoting.

But when one of them ventured the horse to name As a candidate, greater and greater Wax’d the noise, and an old long-ear, to his shame, Shouted out “Thou art only a traitor.

“A traitor art thou, in thy veins doth not flow “One drop of asses’ blood proper; “No ass art thou, and I almost know “That a foreign mare was thy dropper!

“From the zebra perchance thou art sprung; thy striped hide “Quite answers the zebra’s description; “The nasal twang of thy voice is allied “To the Hebrew as well as Egyptian.

“And if not a stranger, thou art, thou must own, “A dull ass, of an intellect paltry; “The depths of ass-nature to thee are unknown “Thou hear’st not its mystical psalt’ry.

“But with sweet stupefaction my soul drinks in “That sound which all others surpasses; “An ass am I, and each hair in the skin “Of my tail the hair of an ass is.

“I am not a Papist, I am not a slave, “A German ass am I solely; “The same as my fathers, who all were so brave, “So thoughtful, demure, and so holy.

“They were not addicted to doing ill, “Or practising gallantry gaily; “But trotted off with the sack to the mill “In frolicsome fashion daily.

“Our fathers still live. In the tomb only lie “Their skins, their mortal covering; “Their happy spirits, high up in the sky, “Complacently o’er us are hovering.

“Ye glorified asses, ye need not doubt “That we fain would resemble you ever, “And from the path that duty points out “We’ll swerve a finger’s breadth never.

“O what a delight an ass to be, “From such long-ear’d worthies descended! “From every house-top I’d fain shout with glee: “‘An ass I was born--how splendid!’

“The noble jackass who gave me birth “Was of genuine German extraction; “From my mother, a German ass of worth, “My milk suck’d I with great satisfaction.

“An ass am I, and fully intend, “Like my fathers who now are departed, “To stand by the asses, yes, stand to the end “By the asses so dear and true-hearted.

“And since I’m an ass, I advise you all round “To choose your king from the asses; “A mighty ass-kingdom we thus will found, “They being the governing classes.

“We all are asses. Hee-ha! Hee-ha! “As ostlers we will not demean us; “Away with the horses! Long live, hurrah, “The king of the asinine genus!”

Thus spake the patriot. Through the hall The asses cheer’d him proudly; They all, in fact, were national, And with their hoofs stamp’d loudly.

An oaken wreath on the orator’s head They put as a decoration; He wagg’d his tail (though nothing he said) With evident gratification.

BERTHA.

She seem’d so gentle, she seem’d so good, An angel I thought my lover; She wrote the dearest letters to me, With kindness teeming all over.

The wedding was very soon to take place, Her relations heard this by dozens; My Bertha was a silly thing, For she listen’d to aunts and cousins.

She kept not her word, she broke her oath, And yet I have been forgiving; Had I married her first, I ne’er should have known Either pleasure or love while living.

When I of a faithless woman think, I think of Bertha the faithless; The only wish I have left, is that she May pass through her confinement scatheless.

IN THE CATHEDRAL.

Before me the sexton’s daughter fair Through the sacred edifice skippèd; Her size was small, and light her hair, From her neck her kerchief had slippèd.

In the old cathedral for sixpence I got A sight of its marvellous creatures, Its tombs, lights, crosses; I turn’d quite hot When I gazed on Elspeth’s features.

And once again I stared about At the sacred relics entrancing; In their under-petticoats all trick’d out, On the window the women were dancing.

The sexton’s little daughter fair Stood by me, while thus I inspected. She had a very pretty pair Of eyes, wherein all was reflected.

Before me the sexton’s daughter fair From the sacred edifice skippèd; Her mouth was small, her neck was bare, From her bosom her kerchief had slippèd.

THE DRAGONFLY.

The dragonfly blue’s all the fashion In beetle-land, in the present day; The butterflies their addresses pay To the beauty with amorous passion.

Her hips are excessively slender, She wears a gauze dress of delicate hue, With very symmetrical movements too She flutters about in splendour.

Her colour’d admirers hover In her train, and many a young gallant Thus swears: “I’ll Holland give, and Brabant “If thou wilt be my lover.”

She answers (but how insincerely!): “Brabant and Holland are nothing to me, “I want but a spark of light, to see “In my little chamber clearly.”

When she imposes this duty, Her lovers hasten to join in the race, And eagerly seek, from place to place, A spark of light for the beauty.

As soon as one sees a taper, He blindly rushes on to his doom, And the cruel flames the victim consume, And his loving heart, like paper.

* * * * *

It comes from Japan, this fable, Yet even in Germany, my dear child, Are plenty of dragonflies, devilish wild, Perfidious, and unstable.

OLD SCENTS.

The nosegay Matilda twined for me, And smilingly offer’d entreatingly, I push’d away, o’erpower’d completely By the sight of the flowers that blossom’d so sweetly.

At the scent of the flowers, my tears fast flow,-- I feel that in all this fair world below, Its beauty, sunlight, joy, love are bereft me, And nought but its bitter tears are left me.

They tell me that I no longer share A part in life and its circle fair, That I belong to death’s kingdom dreary, Yes, I, a corpse unburied and weary.

How happy was I when erst I saw The dance of rats at the Opera! But now I hear the odious scuffling Of churchyard rats and grave-moles shuffling.

The scent of the flowers recalls again A perfect ballet, a joyous train Of recollections perfumed and glowing, From the hidden depths of the past o’erflowing,

To sound of cornet and castanet, In spangled dresses (full short, I regret),-- Yet all their toying, each laugh, each titter, Can only render my thoughts more bitter.

Away with the flowers! O, how I abhor The scent that maliciously tells once more Of days long vanish’d and hours of gladness-- I weep at the thought with speechless sadness.

MISERERE.

The sons of Fortune I envy not For their lives, in pleasure vying, I envy them only their happy death, Their easy and painless dying.

In gala dresses, with garlanded heads, Their lips in laughter extended, They joyously sit at the banquet of life,-- The sickle falls,--all is ended!

In festal attire, with roses adorn’d, Still blooming with life, these glad mortals, These fav’rites of fortune reach at last The shadowy realm’s dark portals.

They ne’er were disfigured by fever’s attack, They die with a joyous demeanour, And gladly are welcomed at her sad court By Proserpine, hell’s Czarina.

O how I envy a fate like theirs! Seven years I daily languish For death, as on the ground I writhe In bitter and speechless anguish.

O God! my agony shorten, that I May be buried,--my sole ambition. Thou knowest that I no talent possess For filling a martyr’s position.

I feel astonished, gracious Lord, At a course so unconsequential; Thou madest a joyous poet, without That joy that is so essential.

My torments blunt each feeling of mirth, And melancholy make me; Unless I get better ere long, to the faith Of a Catholic I must betake me.

Like other good Christians, I then shall howl In thine ears my wailings dreary-- The best of humorists then will be lost For ever--O Miserere.

TO MATILDA.

I was, dear lamb, ordain’d to be A shepherd here, to watch o’er thee; I nourish’d thee with mine own bread, With water from the fountain head.

And when the winter storm roar’d loudly, Against my breast I warm’d thee proudly; There held I thee encircled well Whilst rain in torrents round us fell; When, through its rocky dark bed pouring The torrent, with the wolf, was roaring, Thou feared’st not, no muscle quiver’d, E’en when the highest pine was shiver’d By the fork’d flash--within mine arm Thou slept’st in peace without alarm.

My arm grows weak, and fast draws near Pale death! My shepherd’s task so dear, And pastoral care approach their end. Into Thy hands, God, I commend My staff once more. O do Thou guard My lamb, when I beneath the sward Am laid in peace, and suffer ne’er A thorn to prick her anywhere.

From thorny hedges guard her fleece, May quagmires ne’er disturb her peace, May there spring up beneath her feet An ample crop of pasture sweet, And let her sleep without alarm, As erst she slept within mine arm!

FOR THE “MOUCHE.”[95]

I had a dream. It was a summer’s night, And in the moonlight, pale and weatherbeaten, Lay buildings, relics of past ages bright,-- The style, renaissant, of these wrecks time-eaten.

And here and there, with stately Doric head, Rose single columns from the mass there lying, And on the firmament high o’er them spread Gazed they, as if its thunderbolts defying.

In broken fragments lay there on the ground, Mingled with many a portal, many a gable, Sculptures where man, beast, centaur, sphinx were found, Chimera, satyr,--creatures of old fable.

The contrasts there presented were grotesque, The emblems of Judæa’s God combining With Grecian grace, in fashion arabesque The ivy round them both, its tendrils twining.

A fair sarcophagus of marble white Amid the ruins stood, unmutilated; And in the coffin lay a corpse in sight, Of features mild, with sadness penetrated.

The power supporting it appear’d supplied By Caryatides, with necks extended; And many a bas-relief on either side Was seen, of chisell’d figures strangely blended.

The glories of Olympus there saw I, With all its heathen deities misguided; Adam and Eve were there, decorously With figleaf aprons round their loins provided.

Troy’s taking and Troy’s burning here were seen, Hector and Helen, Paris (that wild gay man); Moses and Aaron also stood between, With Esther, Judith, Holofernes, Haman.

God Amor also had his place hard by, Phœbus, Apollo, Vulcan, Madam Venus, Pluto, Proserpina, and Mercury, God Bacchus, and Priapus, and Silenus.

Likewise was Balaam’s ass omitted not,-- (The ass for speaking seem’d, in fact, created), And Abraham’s temptation too, and Lot, Who by his daughters was intoxicated.

Herodias’ daughter’s dance was shown as well, The Baptist’s head was in the charger given; The monster Satan too was there, and hell, And Peter, with the heavy keys of heaven.

And next in order saw I sculptured there The loves of Jove, with his vile actions blending; How as a swan he ravish’d Leda fair, And Danaë, in golden shower descending.

The wild hunt of Diana was display’d, With her fleet dogs, and nymphs attired so trimly; And Hercules, in woman’s clothes array’d, Distaff on arm, the spindle whirling nimbly.

And next was Sinai’s mountain to be view’d, And Israel near it, with his oxen lowing; The Lord a child within the temple stood, Disputing with the doctors proud and knowing.

But, strange to tell, when I had dreamily These forms a while observed, in thought suspended, I suddenly conceived myself to be The corpse, in that fair marble tomb extended.

And at the head of this my grave there stood A flower full fair, of strange configuration; Its leaves were yellow-tinged and violet-hued, The flower possess’d a wondrous fascination.

’Tis by the name of passion-flower well known, On Golgotha, they say, ’twas first created The day they crucified God’s only Son, And the Redeemer’s body lacerated.

Bloodwitness doth this flower now bear, they say; Each instrument of torture then invented And used at His sad martyrdom that day, Is in its calyx duly represented.

Yes! every passion-attribute adorns The flower, each emblem of their cruel malice,-- For instance, scourge and rope and crown of thorns, The hammer and the nails, the cross, the chalice.

Such was the flower which at my grave did stand, And o’er my body bending with compassion, As with a woman’s sorrow, kiss’d my hand, My eyes, and forehead, in sad silent fashion.

But O, my dream’s strange magic! Wondrously The passion-flower, the yellow-hued and rare one, Changed to a woman’s likeness,--ah! and she, She was my loved one, she was mine own fair one!

Thou wert the flower, yes, thou, my darling child! At once I knew thee by thy kisses yearning; No lips of flowers so tender are and mild, No tears of flowers so fiery are and burning.

Although mine eyes were closed, my spirit gazed With steadiness upon thy face entrancing; Thou look’dst at me with raptured look amazed, Strangely illumined in the moonlight glancing.

No words we spake, and yet my heart could see The thoughts that in thy mind in silence hover’d; A word when spoken has no modesty, By silence is love’s modest blossoms cover’d.

Voiceless our converse! Wondrous doth it seem How in our silent, tender conversation The time pass’d in that summer night’s fair dream, When joy commingled was with consternation.

That which we spoke of then, ne’er seek to learn, The glow-worm ask, why in the grass it gloweth, The torrent, why it roareth in the burn, The west wind, why it waileth as it bloweth.

Ask the carbuncle why it gleams so bright, The rose and violet, why so sweetly scented; But ask not what, beneath the moon’s soft light, The martyr-flower talk’d with her love lamented!

I cannot tell how long it was that I Enjoy’d, as in the marble tomb I slumber’d, That beauteous, happy dream. It fleeted by, Too soon the moments of my rest were number’d.

Death with thy gravelike silence! Thou alone Canst give us pleasure in a lasting fashion; Vain barbarous life, for joy is ever known To give us restless bliss, convulsive passion.

Alas, alas! my happiness soon fled, For suddenly arose a noise exciting, It was a savage conflict, fierce and dread-- Ah, my poor flower was scared by all this fighting!

Yes! there arose outside, with hideous yell, A quarrelling, a yelping, and a scolding; Methought that many a voice I knew full well,-- It was the bas-reliefs my tomb enfolding!

Is the stone haunted by those visions wan? And are those marble phantoms all disputing? The fearful clamour of the wood-god Pan, Moses’s fierce anathemas confuting.

Alas! this contest ne’er will ended be, The True and Beautiful will wrangle ever! Greeks and Barbarians in wild rivalry The ranks of man are always doom’d to sever.

They cursed and raved. No end would there have been To this long squabble, and their passion towering, Had Balaam’s ass not come upon the scene, The voices of the gods and saints o’erpowering.

The stupid beast, with his disgusting brag, That sobbing sound of sheer abomination, Made me cry out in terrible dismay, And I awoke at last in desperation.

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED;

DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.

* * * * *

AN ALPHABETICAL LIST OF BOOKS CONTAINED IN BOHN’S LIBRARIES.

_Detailed Catalogue, arranged according to the various Libraries, will be sent on application._

=ADDISON’S Works.= With the Notes of Bishop Hurd, Portrait, and 8 Plates of Medals and Coins. Edited by H. G. Bohn. 6 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=ÆSCHYLUS, The Dramas of.= Translated into English Verse by Anna Swanwick. 4th Edition, revised. 5_s._

=---- The Tragedies of.= Translated into Prose by T. A. Buckley, B.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=ALLEN’S (Joseph, R. N.) Battles of the British Navy.= Revised Edition, with 57 Steel Engravings. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=AMMIANUS MARCELLINUS. History of Rome= during the Reigns of Constantius, Julian, Jovianus, Valentinian, and Valens. Translated by Prof. C. D. Yonge, M.A. 7_s._ 6_d._

=ANDERSEN’S Danish Legends and Fairy Tales.= Translated by Caroline Peachey. With 120 Wood Engravings. 5_s._

=ANTONINUS (M. Aurelius), The Thoughts of.= Trans. literally, with Notes and Introduction by George Long, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=APOLLONIUS RHODIUS. ‘The Argonautica.’= Translated by E. P. Coleridge, B.A. 5_s._

=APPIAN’S Roman History.= Translated by Horace White, M.A., LL.D. With Maps and Illustrations. 2 vols. 6_s._ each.

=APULEIUS, The Works of= Comprising the Golden Ass, God of Socrates, Florida, and Discourse of Magic. 5_s._

=ARIOSTO’S Orlando Furioso.= Translated into English Verse by W. S. Rose. With Portrait, and 21 Steel Engravings. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=ARISTOPHANES’ Comedies.= Translated by W. J. Hickie. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=ARISTOTLE’S Nicomachean Ethics.= Translated, with Introduction and Notes, by the Venerable Archdeacon Browne. 5_s._

=---- Politics and Economics.= Translated by E. Walford, M.A., with Introduction by Dr. Gillies. 5_s._

=ARISTOTLE’S Metaphysics.= Translated by the Rev. John H. M’Mahon, M.A. 5_s._

=---- History of Animals.= Trans. by Richard Cresswell, M.A. 5_s._

=---- Organon=; or, Logical Treatises, and the Introduction of Porphyry. Translated by the Rev. O. F. Owen, M.A. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=---- Rhetoric and Poetics.= Trans. by T. Buckley, B.A. 5_s._

=ARRIAN’S Anabasis of Alexander=, together with the Indica. Translated by E. J. Chinnock, M.A., LL.D. With Maps and Plans. 5_s._

=ATHENÆUS. The Deipnosophists=; or, the Banquet of the Learned. Trans. by Prof. C. D. Yonge, M.A. 3 vols. 5_s._ each.

=BACON’S Moral and Historical Works=, including the Essays, Apophthegms, Wisdom of the Ancients, New Atlantis, Henry VII., Henry VIII., Elizabeth, Henry Prince of Wales, History of Great Britain, Julius Cæsar, and Augustus Cæsar. Edited by J. Devey, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Novum Organum and Advancement of Learning.= Edited by J. Devey, M.A. 5_s._

=BASS’S Lexicon to the Greek Testament.= 2_s._

=BAX’S Manual of the History of Philosophy=, for the use of Students. By E. Belfort Bax. 5_s._

=BEAUMONT and FLETCHER=, their finest Scenes, Lyrics, and other Beauties, selected from the whole of their works, and edited by Leigh Hunt. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BECHSTEIN’S Cage and Chamber Birds=, their Natural History, Habits, Food, Diseases, and Modes of Capture. Translated, with considerable additions on Structure, Migration, and Economy, by H. G. Adams. Together with SWEET BRITISH WARBLERS. With 43 coloured Plates and Woodcut Illustrations. 5_s._

=BEDE’S (Venerable) Ecclesiastical History of England.= Together with the ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE. Edited by J. A. Giles, D.C.L. With Map. 5_s._

=BELL (Sir Charles). The Anatomy and Philosophy of Expression, as connected with the Fine Arts.= By Sir Charles Bell, K.H. 7th edition, revised. 5_s._

=BERKELEY (George), Bishop of Cloyne, The Works of.= Edited by George Sampson. With Biographical Introduction by the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P. 3 vols. 5_s._ each.

=BION.= _See_ THEOCRITUS.

=BJÖRNSON’S Arne and the Fisher Lassie.= Translated by W. H. Low, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BLAIR’S Chronological Tables.= Revised and Enlarged. Comprehending the Chronology and History of the World, from the Earliest Times to the Russian Treaty of Peace, April 1856. By J. Willoughby Rosse. Double vol. 10_s._

=---- Index of Dates.= Comprehending the principal Facts in the Chronology and History of the World, alphabetically arranged; being a complete Index to Blair’s Chronological Tables. By J. W. Rosse. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=BLEEK, Introduction to the Old Testament.= By Friedrich Bleek. Edited by Johann Bleek and Adolf Kamphausen. Translated by G. H. Venables, under the supervision of the Rev. Canon Venables. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=BOETHIUS’S Consolation of Philosophy=. King Alfred’s Anglo-Saxon Version of. With a literal English Translation on opposite pages, Notes, Introduction, and Glossary, by Rev. S. Fox, M.A. 5_s._

=BOHN’S Dictionary of Poetical Quotations.= 4th edition. 6_s._

=BOHN’S Handbooks of Games.= New edition. In 2 vols., with numerous Illustrations 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

Vol. I.--TABLE GAMES:--Billiards, Chess, Draughts, Backgammon, Dominoes, Solitaire, Reversi, Go-Bang, Rouge et Noir, Roulette, E.O., Hazard, Faro.

Vol. II.--CARD GAMES:--Whist, Solo Whist, Poker, Piquet, Ecarté, Euchre, Bézique, Cribbage, Loo, Vingt-et-un, Napoleon, Newmarket, Pope Joan, Speculation, &c., &c.

=BOND’S A Handy Book of Rules and Tables= for verifying Dates with the Christian Era, &c. Giving an account of the Chief Eras and Systems used by various Nations; with the easy Methods for determining the Corresponding Dates. By J. J. Bond. 5_s._

=BONOMI’S Nineveh and its Palaces.= 7 Plates and 294 Woodcut Illustrations. 5_s._

=BOSWELL’S Life of Johnson=, with the TOUR IN THE HEBRIDES and JOHNSONIANA. Edited by the Rev. A. Napier, M.A. With Frontispiece to each vol. 6 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=BRAND’S Popular Antiquities of England, Scotland, and Ireland.= Arranged, revised, and greatly enlarged, by Sir Henry Ellis, K.H., F.R.S., &c., &c. 3 vols. 5_s._ each.

=BREMER’S (Frederika) Works.= Translated by Mary Howitt. 4 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=BRIDGWATER TREATISES.=

=Bell (Sir Charles) on the Hand.= With numerous Woodcuts. 5_s._

=Kirby on the History, Habits, and Instincts of Animals.= Edited by T. Rymer Jones. With upwards of 100 Woodcuts. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=Kidd on the Adaptation of External Nature to the Physical Condition of Man.= 3_s._ 6_d._

=Chalmers on the Adaptation of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual Constitution of Man.= 5_s._

=BRINK (B. ten) Early English Literature.= By Bernhard ten Brink. Vol. I. To Wyclif. Translated by Horace M. Kennedy 3_s._ 6_d._

Vol. II. Wyclif, Chaucer, Earliest Drama Renaissance. Translated by W. Clarke Robinson, Ph.D. 3_s._ 6_d._

Vol. III. From the Fourteenth Century to the Death of Surrey. Edited by Dr. Alois Brandl. Trans. by L. Dora Schmitz. 3_s._ 6_d._

=----Five Lectures on Shakespeare.= Trans. by Julia Franklin. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BROWNE’S (Sir Thomas) Works.= Edited by Simon Wilkin. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=BURKE’S Works. 8 vols.= 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

I.--Vindication of Natural Society--Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, and various Political Miscellanies.

II.--Reflections on the French Revolution--Letters relating to the Bristol Election--Speech on Fox’s East India Bill, &c.

III.--Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs--On the Nabob of Arcot’s Debts--The Catholic Claims, &c.

IV.--Report on the Affairs of India, and Articles of Charge against Warren Hastings.

V.--Conclusion of the Articles of Charge against Warren Hastings--Political Letters on the American War, on a Regicide Peace, to the Empress of Russia.

VI.--Miscellaneous Speeches--Letters and Fragments--Abridgments of English History, &c. With a General Index.

VII. & VIII.--Speeches on the Impeachment of Warren Hastings; and Letters. With Index. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=---- Life.= By Sir J. Prior. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BURNEY’S Evelina. By Frances Burney= (Mme. D’Arblay). With an Introduction and Notes by A. R. Ellis. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Cecilia.= With an Introduction and Notes by A. R. Ellis. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=BURN (R.) Ancient Rome and its Neighbourhood.= An Illustrated Handbook to the Ruins in the City and the Campagna, for the use of Travellers. By Robert Burn, M.A. With numerous Illustrations, Maps, and Plans. 7_s._ 6_d._

=BURNS (Robert), Life of.= By J. G. Lockhart, D.C.L. A new and enlarged Edition. Revised by William Scott Douglas. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BURTON’S (Robert) Anatomy of Melancholy.= Edited by the Rev. A. R. Shilleto, M.A. With Introduction by A. H. Bullen, and full Index. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=BURTON (Sir R. F.) Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah.= By Captain Sir Richard F. Burton, K.C.M.G. With an Introduction by Stanley Lane-Poole, and all the original Illustrations. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

This is the copyright edition, containing the author’s latest notes.

=BUTLER’S (Bishop) Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed=, to the Constitution and Course of Nature; together with two Dissertations on Personal Identity and on the Nature of Virtue, and Fifteen Sermons. 3_s._ 6_d._

=BUTLER’S (Samuel) Hudibras.= With Variorum Notes, a Biography, Portrait, and 28 Illustrations. 5_s._

---- or, further Illustrated with 60 Outline Portraits. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=CÆSAR. Commentaries on the Gallic and Civil Wars.= Translated by W. A. McDevitte, B.A. 5_s._

=CAMOENS’ Lusiad; or, the Discovery of India.= An Epic Poem. Translated by W. J. Mickle. 5th Edition, revised by E. R. Hodges, M.C.P. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CARAFAS (The) of Maddaloni.= Naples under Spanish Dominion. Translated from the German of Alfred de Reumont. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CARLYLE’S French Revolution.= Edited by J. Holland Rose, Litt.D. Illus. 3 vols. 5_s._ each.

=---- Sartor Resartus.= With 75 Illustrations by Edmund J. Sullivan. 5_s._

=CARPENTER’S (Dr. W. B.) Zoology.= Revised Edition, by W. S. Dallas, F.L.S. With very numerous Woodcirts. Vol. I. 6_s._

[_Vol. II. out of print._

=CARPENTER’S Mechanical Philosophy, Astronomy, and Horology.= 181 Woodcuts. 5_s._

=---- Vegetable Physiology and Systematic Botany.= Revised Edition, by E. Lankester, M.D., &c. With very numerous Woodcuts. 6_s._

=---- Animal Physiology.= Revised Edition. With upwards of 300 Woodcuts. 6_s._

=CASTLE (E.) Schools and Masters of Fence=, from the Middle Ages to the End of the Eighteenth Century. By Egerton Castle, M.A., F.S.A. With a Complete Bibliography. Illustrated with 140 Reproductions of Old Engravings and 6 Plates of Swords, showing 114 Examples. 6_s._

=CATTERMOLE’S Evenings at Haddon Hall.= With 24 Engravings on Steel from designs by Cattermole, the Letterpress by the Baroness de Carabella. 5_s._

=CATULLUS, Tibullus, and the Vigil of Venus.= A Literal Prose Translation. 5_s._

=CELLINI (Benvenuto). Memoirs of=, written by Himself. Translated by Thomas Roscoe. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CERVANTES’ Don Quixote de la Mancha.= Motteaux’s Translation revised. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=---- Galatea. A Pastoral Romance.= Translated by G. W. J. Gyll. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Exemplary Novels.= Translated by Walter K. Kelly. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CHAUCER’S Poetical Works.= Edited by Robert Bell. Revised Edition, with a Preliminary Essay by Prof. W. W. Skeat, M.A. 4 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=CHESS CONGRESS of 1862.= A Collection of the Games played. Edited by J. Löwenthal. 5_s._

=CHEVREUL on Colour.= Translated from the French by Charles Martel. Third Edition, with Plates, 5s.; or with an additional series of 16 Plates in Colours, 7_s._ 6_d._

=CHILLINGWORTH’S Religion of Protestants.= A Safe Way to Salvation. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CHINA, Pictorial, Descriptive, and Historical.= With Map and nearly 100 Illustrations. 5_s._

=CHRONICLES OF THE CRUSADES.= Contemporary Narratives of the Crusade of Richard Cœur de Lion, by Richard of Devizes and Geoffrey de Vinsauf; and of the Crusade at St. Louis, by Lord John de Joinville. 5_s._

=CICERO’S Orations.= Translated by Prof. C. D. Yonge, M.A. 4 vols. 5_s._ each.

=CICERO’S Letters.= Translated by Evelyn S. Shuckburgh. 4 vols. 5_s._ each.

=---- On Oratory and Orators.= With Letters to Quintus and Brutus. Translated by the Rev. J. S. Watson, M.A. 5_s._

=---- On the Nature of the Gods=, Divination, Fate, Laws, a Republic, Consulship. Translated by Prof. C. D. Yonge, M.A., and Francis Barham. 5_s._

=---- Academics=, De Finibus, and Tusculan Questions. By Prof. C. D. Yonge, M.A. 5_s._

=---- Offices=; or, Moral Duties. Cato Major, an Essay on Old Age; Lælius, an Essay on Friendship; Scipio’s Dream; Paradoxes; Letter to Quintus on Magistrates. Translated by C. R. Edmonds. 3_s._ 6_d._

=CORNELIUS NEPOS.=--_See_ JUSTIN.

=CLARK’S (Hugh) Introduction to Heraldry.= 18th Edition, Revised and Enlarged by J. R. Planché, Rouge Croix. With nearly 1000 Illustrations. 5_s._ Or with the Illustrations Coloured, 15_s._

=CLASSIC TALES=, containing Rasselas, Vicar of Wakefield, Gulliver’s Travels, and The Sentimental Journey. 3_s._ 6_d._

=COLERIDGE’S (S. T.) Friend.= A Series of Essays on Morals, Politics, and Religion. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Aids to Reflection=, and the CONFESSIONS OF AN INQUIRING SPIRIT, to which are added the ESSAYS ON FAITH and the BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Lectures and Notes on Shakespeare and other English Poets.= Edited by T. Ashe. 3_s._ 6_d._

=COLERIDGE’S Biographia Literaria=; together with Two Lay Sermons. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Table-Talk and Omniana.= Edited by T. Ashe, B.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Miscellanies, Æsthetic and Literary=; to which is added, THE THEORY OF LIFE. Collected and arranged by T. Ashe, B.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=COMTE’S Positive Philosophy.= Translated and condensed by Harriet Martineau. With Introduction by Frederic Harrison. 3 vols. 5_s._ each.

=COMTE’S Philosophy of the Sciences=, being an Exposition of the Principles of the _Cours de Philosophie Positive_. By G. H. Lewes. 5_s._

=CONDÉ’S History of the Dominion of the Arabs in Spain.= Translated by Mrs. Foster. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=COOPER’S Biographical Dictionary.= Containing Concise Notices (upwards of 15,000) of Eminent Persons of all Ages and Countries. By Thompson Cooper, F.S.A. With a Supplement, bringing the work down to 1883. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

=COXE’S Memoirs of the Duke of Marlborough.= With his original Correspondence. By W. Coxe, M.A., F.R.S. Revised edition by John Wade. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

⁂ An Atlas of the plans of Marlborough’s campaigns, 4to. 10_s._ 6_d._

=---- History of the House of Austria (1218-1792).= With a Continuation from the Accession of Francis I. to the Revolution of 1848. 4 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=CRAIK’S (G. L.) Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties.= Illustrated by Anecdotes and Memoirs. Revised edition, with numerous Woodcut Portraits and Plates. 5_s._

=CRUIKSHANK’S Punch and Judy.= The Dialogue of the Puppet Show; an Account of its Origin, &c. With 24 Illustrations, and Coloured Plates, designed and engraved by G. Cruikshank. 5_s._

=CUNNINGHAM’S Lives of the Most Eminent British Painters.= A New Edition, with Notes and Sixteen fresh Lives. By Mrs. Heaton. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=DANTE. Divine Comedy.= Translated by the Rev. H. F. Cary, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

---- Translated into English Verse by I. C. Wright, M.A. 3rd Edition, revised. With Portrait, and 34 Illustrations on Steel, after Flaxman.

=DANTE. The Inferno.= A Literal Prose Translation, with the Text of the Original printed on the same page. By John A. Carlyle, M.D. 5_s._

=---- The Purgatorio.= A Literal Prose Translation, with the Text printed on the same page. By W. S. Dugdale. 5_s._

=DE COMMINES (Philip), Memoirs of.= Containing the Histories of Louis XI. and Charles VIII., Kings of France, and Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. Together with the Scandalous Chronicle, or Secret History of Louis XI., by Jean de Troyes. Translated by Andrew R. Scoble. With Portraits. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=DEFOE’S Novels and Miscellaneous Works.= With Prefaces and Notes, including those attributed to Sir W. Scott. 7 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

I.--Captain Singleton, and Colonel Jack.

II.--Memoirs of a Cavalier, Captain Carleton, Dickory Cronke, &c.

III.--Moll Flanders, and the History of the Devil.

IV.--Roxana, and Life of Mrs. Christian Davies.

V.--History of the Great Plague of London, 1665; The Storm (1703); and the True-born Englishman.

VI.--Duncan Campbell, New Voyage round the World, and Political Tracts.

VII.--Robinson Crusoe.

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=MOTLEY (J. L.). The Rise of the Dutch Republic.= A History. By John Lothrop Motley. New Edition, with Biographical Introduction by Moncure D. Conway. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

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=NEANDER (Dr. A.). History of the Christian Religion and Church.= Trans. from the German by J. Torrey. 10 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

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=NEW TESTAMENT (The) in Greek.= Griesbach’s Text, with various Readings at the foot of the page, and Parallel References in the margin; also a Critical Introduction and Chronological Tables. By an eminent Scholar, with a Greek and English Lexicon. 3rd Edition, revised and corrected. Two Facsimiles of Greek Manuscripts. 900 pages. 5_s._

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=ORDERICUS VITALIS’ Ecclesiastical History of England and Normandy.= Translated by T. Forester, M.A. To which is added the CHRONICLE OF ST. EVROULT. 4 vols. 5_s._ each.

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=PROVERBS, A Polyglot of Foreign.= Comprising French, Italian, German, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, and Danish. With English Translations & a General Index by H. G. Bohn. 5_s._

=POTTERY AND PORCELAIN=, and other Objects of Vertu. Comprising an Illustrated Catalogue of the Bernal Collection of Works of Art, with the prices at which they were sold by auction, and names of the possessors. To which are added, an Introductory Lecture on Pottery and Porcelain, and an Engraved List of all the known Marks and Monograms. By Henry G. Bohn. With numerous Wood Engravings, 5_s._; or with Coloured Illustrations, 10_s._ 6_d._

=PROUT’S (Father) Reliques.= Collected and arranged by Rev. F. Mahony. New issue, with 21 Etchings by D. Maclise, R.A. Nearly 600 pages. 5_s._

=QUINTILIAN’S Institutes of Oratory=, or Education of an Orator. Translated by the Rev. J. S. Watson, M.A. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

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=RANKE’S History of the Popes=, during the Last Four Centuries. Translated by E. Foster. Mrs. Foster’s translation revised, with considerable additions, by G. R. Dennis, B.A. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=---- History of Servia and the Servian Revolution.= With an Account of the Insurrection in Bosnia. Translated by Mrs. Kerr. 3_s._ 6_d._

=RECREATIONS in SHOOTING.= By ‘Craven.’ With 62 Engravings on Wood after Harvey, and 9 Engravings on Steel, chiefly after A. Cooper, R.A. 5_s._

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=REYNOLD’S (Sir J.) Literary Works.= Edited by H. W. Beechy. 2 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

=RICARDO on the Principles of Political Economy and Taxation.= Edited by E. C. K. Gonner, M.A. 5_s._

=RICHTER (Jean Paul Friedrich).= =Levana=, a Treatise on Education: together with the Autobiography (a Fragment), and a short Prefatory Memoir. 3_s._ 6_d._

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=ROGER DE HOVEDEN’S Annals of English History=, comprising the History of England and of other Countries of Europe from A.D. 732 to A.D. 1201. Translated by H. T. Riley, M.A. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

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[_Vol. II. out of print._

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---- _See_ BURN.

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The Dramas in this volume are translated into Prose.

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=SCHLEGEL’S (F.) Lectures on the Philosophy of Life and the Philosophy of Language.= Translated by the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Lectures on the History of Literature=, Ancient and Modern. Translated from the German. 3_s._ 6_d._

=---- Lectures on the Philosophy of History.= Translated by J. B. Robertson. 3_s._ 6_d._

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=---- Æsthetic and Miscellaneous Works.= Translated by E. J. Millington. 3_s._ 6_d._

=SCHLEGEL (A. W.) Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature.= Translated by J. Black. Revised Edition, by the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison, M.A. 3_s._ 6_d._

=SCHOPENHAUER on the Four-fold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason, and On the Will in Nature.= Translated by Madame Hillebrand. 5_s._

=---- Essays.= Selected and Translated. With a Biographical Introduction and Sketch of his Philosophy, by E. Belfort Bax. 5_s._

=SCHOUW’S Earth, Plants, and Man.= Translated by A. Henfrey. With coloured Map of the Geography of Plants. 5_s._

=SCHUMANN (Robert).= His Life and Works, by August Reissmann. Translated by A. L. Alger. 3_s._ 6_d._

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=---- Minor Essays and On Clemency.= Translated by A. Stewart, M.A. 5_s._

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=SHAKESPEARE (William).= A Literary Biography by Karl Elze, Ph.D., LL.D. Translated by L. Dora Schmitz. 5_s._

=SHARPE (S.) The History of Egypt,= from the Earliest Times till the Conquest by the Arabs, A.D. 640. By Samuel Sharpe. 2 Maps and upwards of 400 Illustrative Woodcuts. 2 vols. 5_s._ each.

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] I believe that a translation of one of Heine’s works--his “Book of Songs”--was published in this country a few years ago, but I have not met with it. An American version of the “Pictures of Travel” also appeared in 1855.

[2] One of the finest in the collection, “The Grenadiers,” which is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of Béranger, was written as early as 1815, when Heine was not sixteen years old, and before Béranger had written his analogous poems “Le Vieux Drapeau,” “Le Vieux Sergent,” &c.

[3] The Arminius of Tacitus.

[4] A suburb of Frankfort, on the further side of the Main.

[5] German _litterateurs_ of more or less note.

[6] In the original, _Hell_ and _Kind_, well-known writers. It is necessary to translate the names for the sake of the pun.

[7] The word “Gimpel” in the original has the double meaning of “bullfinch” and “blockhead,” and the point of this verse is therefore lost in a translation.

[8] See Heine’s Tragedy of that name.

[9] The Hindoo god corresponding to Cupid.

[10] Spring.

[11] The eminent Professor and Editor of Hegel’s works. He died in 1839.

[12] It is with real hesitation that I publish this lame and impotent conclusion to a legend the first two parts of which are in Heine’s best style.

[13] The three following verses are extracted by Heine _verbatim_ from Schiller’s well-known “Lament of Ceres.” The version of them here given is taken from the translation of Schiller’s Poems published by me in 1851.

[14] Names for the three royal houses of Prussia, Austria, and Bavaria.

[15] See the account of the old Drum-Major Le Grand contained in the prose section of Heine’s “Pictures of Travel,” entitled “Book Le Grand.”

[16] A well-known republican poet and writer, born at Stuttgardt; at one time caressed, and afterwards banished, by the King of Prussia. He took an active part in the political troubles of 1848.

[17] See Schiller’s Play of “Don Carlos.”

[18] Evidently a satire on the King of Prussia.

[19] A famous theological writer, who died in 1850, at the age of ninety. He was formerly Counsellor of the Consistory (_Kirchenrath_) at Würzburg, and for many years Professor of Church History, &c. at Heidelberg.

[20] A polite allusion to the late King of Bavaria and his Walhalla.

[21] This refers to a poem of Freiligrath’s, entitled “The Dead to the Living,” for which he was prosecuted, but acquitted, in 1848.

[22] A hill close to Berlin.

[23] I have here attempted to imitate a wretched pun in the original.

[24] A “blind passenger” means in German a person who travels without paying his fare.

[25] Berlin.

[26] It will be remembered that the sun is feminine in German.

[27] Edward Gans, a distinguished German professor, and pupil of Hegel, whose works he edited. He died in 1839.

[28] One section of the famous Bremen Cellar is called the Rose, and is said to contain hock of between two and three centuries old. Another part is called the Apostles’ Cellar, and has in it twelve vats, known as the Twelve Apostles, also full of very old wine.

[29] See Freiligrath’s Poems.

[30] Well-known German writers.

[31] A race not unlike the _Crétins_.

[32] Shakespear.

[33] Alluding to the large number of petty states into which Germany is divided.

[34] A well-known poet and physician, born in 1786, and founder of the so-called Modern Swabian School of Poetry.

[35] A voluminous writer, born at Stuttgardt in 1807. He attacked Heine’s School of Poetry, and was repaid by Heine in the same coin.

[36] See Lessing’s “Emilia Galotti.”

[37] See the concluding words of the last scene but one of the above play.

[38] See the end of Schiller’s “Gods of Greece.”

[39] This refers to the time of Heine’s residence in Berlin, when he was intimate with these and other well-known personages. See Sketch of his Life, _ante_.

[40] The slightly irregular metre of this fine poem is a close copy of the original.

[41] A popular German poet, born in 1798, who was deprived of his professorship in the University of Breslau, in 1842, for publishing a volume entitled “Unpolitical Songs.”

[42] The last four verses were erased by the censors from the original edition.

[43] A famous theologian, poet, and orator, and one of Luther’s chief followers. He died in 1523.

[44] A Dominican friar, who was one of Luther’s first antagonists.

[45] The first edition ended with this verse, which was struck out by the censors, and replaced by the five following verses.

[46] The remains of John of Leyden and his two chief accomplices were exposed in these cages, which still remain in their old position.

[47] A youthful poet, who excited great enthusiasm in Germany by a poem, written in 1840 (when a war with France on the Eastern question seemed not unlikely), beginning,--

“They shall not have the German Rhine.”

[48] The well-known French poet, who replied to the above poem of Becker’s, by another commencing,--

“We have had your German Rhine.”

[49] A noted theologian, born in 1802, and one of the leaders of the orthodox party in Prussia.

[50] Called Arminius by the Romans.

[51] The famous historian and professor of theology at Berlin. He died in 1850.

[52] A well-known actress and voluminous dramatic author, born in 1800.

[53] The historian.

[54] A professor of gymnastics.

[55] A linguist and professor of languages and gymnastics jointly. In the latter science he was a pupil of Jahn.

[56] A monument has been recently erected in Dettmoldt to commemorate the victory of Arminius over Varus.

[57] A poetess of some reputation, who died in 1791. Her granddaughter, Helmine Chezy, born in 1783, was also well known as a poetess and romance writer.

[58] The great composer Mendelssohn was grandson to the famous philosopher of that name.

[59] The rest of this chapter was erased by the censors from the original edition.

[60] The great fire at Hamburg took place in May, 1842, or shortly before this poem was written.

[61] A nickname of a relation of Heine’s.

[62] A leading publisher at Hamburg, employed by Heine to publish many of his works.

[63] A noted critic, poet, and historian, born in 1798. He had literary quarrels with both Heine and Börne.

[64] For the full particulars of this story see Herodotus, Book II. c. 121.

[65] The French author.

[66] Carnival masks.

[67] Or Valkyriors; a race of martial virgins, described in northern mythology as riding in the air and fighting under Odin.

[68] This poem was formerly suppressed by the censors.

[69] This poem was originally suppressed by the censors.

[70] Meaning the founder of the Teutonic race.

[71] A noted brigand, executed in 1803.

[72] A Polish term of endearment.

[73] This poem was originally suppressed by the censors.

[74] A poet and writer, born in 1816, and persecuted by the police for his liberal writings.

[75] An ancient Hebrew word for _Almighty_.

[76] A Hebrew word for _Lord_.

[77] Doubtless John Martin is here meant.

[78] A recent poet of no great reputation. He was the joint editor of the “Rhine Annual” with Freiligrath and Simrock.

[79] The famous philosopher, who at one time resided in Munich.

[80] The eminent painter, who decorated the Glyptothek and Pinacothek at Munich. He was afterwards Director of the Berlin Academy.

[81] One of Hutten’s well-known works was entitled “Epistolae Obscurorum Vivorum.”

[82] This poem recounts the untimely fate of a playmate, who was drowned when trying to save a kitten. See Heine’s _Reisebilder_,

## chapter vi.

[83] A parody on the beginning of Schiller’s “Hymn to Joy.”

[84] See also this story in Book I. of the “Romancero,” p. 411.

[85] Meyerbeer.

[86] The famous composer, whose real name was Beer.

[87] See Book II. of “Romancero.”

[88] The tutelar goddess of Hamburg. See Heine’s “Germany.”

[89] Liszt.

[90] The hero of this story is the well-known Swabian poet George Herwegh.

[91] Funken (or Sparks) was the name given to the soldiers of Cologne before the Revolution, who used to knit when on guard.

[92] Drickes and Marizebill are popular masks at the Carnival at Cologne.

[93] These two poems were first published in the _Musenaumanach_ for 1854.

[94] The national colours of Germany.

[95] This was the nickname of a young lady whose acquaintance Heine made towards the end of his life, who attended him in his last illness, and for whom he felt a strong affection. The present poem was the last composition of Heine, and was written only two or three weeks before his death. It is undoubtedly one of the finest of his works.

End of Project Gutenberg's The poems of Heine; Complete, by Heinrich Heine