Chapter XII: Prologue (3)

At the door of the cathedral
Stand two men, both wearing red coats,
And the first one is the monarch,
And the headsman is the other.

To the headsman spake the monarch:
“By the priest’s song I can gather
“That the wedding is now finish’d--
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”

To the sound of bells and organ
From the church the people issue
In a motley throng, and ’mongst them
Move the gay-dress’d bridal couple.

Pale as death and sad and mournful
Looks the monarch’s lovely daughter;
Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,
And his ruddy lips are smiling.

And with smiling ruddy lips he
Thus the gloomy king addresses:
“Father of my wife, good morning!
“Forfeited to-day my head is.

“I to-day must die,--O suffer,
“Suffer me to live till midnight,
“That I may with feast and torch-dance
“Celebrate my happy wedding!

“Let me live, O let me live, sire,
“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,
“Till the final dance is finish’d--
“Suffer me to live till midnight!”

To the headsman spake the monarch:
“To our son-in-law a respite
“Of his life we grant till midnight--
“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”

II.

Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast,
And every goblet is drained at last;
Upon his shoulder reclines
His wife and pines--
At the door the headsman is standing.

The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes hold
Of his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’d
They dance by the torches’ glow
Their last dance below--
At the door the headsman is standing.

The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad,
The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;
Whoever their dancing then saw
Was filled with awe--
At the door the headsman is standing.

And as they dance in the echoing hall,
To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:
“My love will be ne’er known to thee--
“The grave yawns for me--”
At the door the headsman is standing.

III.

Sir Olave, ’tis the midnight hour,
Thy days of life are number’d;
In a king’s daughter’s arms instead
Thou thoughtest to have slumber’d.

The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead,
The man the red coat wearing
Already before the black block stands,
His polish’d hatchet bearing.

Sir Olave descends to the court below,
Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;
The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,
And he speaks with a countenance beaming:

“I bless the sun, and I bless the moon,
“And the stars in the heavens before me;
“I bless too the little birds that sing
“In the air so merrily o’er me.

“I bless the sea and I bless the land,
“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;
“I bless the violets, which are as soft
“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.

“Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife,
“My life for your sakes I surrender!
“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade
“We plighted our vows of love tender.”

11. THE WATER NYMPHS.

The waves were plashing against the lone strand,
The moon had risen lately,
The knight was lying upon the white sand,
In vision musing greatly.

The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep,
Their veils around them floated;
They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleep
The youth’s repose denoted.

The plume of his helmet the first one felt,
To see if perchance it would harm her;
The second took hold of his shoulder belt,
And handled his heavy chain armour.

The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright,
As the sword from the scabbard drew she;
On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,
And heartfelt pleasure knew she.

The fourth one danced both here and there,
And breath’d from her inmost bosom:
“O would that I thy mistress were,
“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”

The fifth her kisses with passionate strength
On the hand of the knight kept planting;
The sixth one tarried, and kissed at length
His lips and his cheeks enchanting.

The knight was wise, and far too discreet
To open his eyes midst such blisses;
He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweet
Continue their loving kisses.

12. BERTRAND DE BORN.

A noble pride on every feature,
His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,
He could subdue each mortal creature,
Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.

How wondrously his sweet notes caught her,
Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!
Both sons as well as lovely daughter
He sang into his net, I ween.

The father too he fool’d discreetly!
Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scorn
On hearing him discourse so sweetly,
The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.

13. SPRING.

The waters glisten and merrily glide,--
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,
And twines her garlands so tender.

All nature is budding with fragrant perfume,
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom
“Shall I my garlands surrender?”

A horseman is riding beside the clear brook,
A kindly greeting he utters;
The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,
The plume in his hat gaily flutters.

She weeps and into the gliding waves flings
Her flowery garlands so tender;
Of kisses and love the nightingale sings--
How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!

14. ALI BEY.

Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero,
Happy lies in maids’ embraces;
Allah granteth him a foretaste
Here on earth of heavenly rapture.

Odalisques, as fair as houris,
Like gazelles in every motion--
While the first his beard is curling,
See, the second smoothes his forehead.

And the third the lute is playing,
Singing, dancing, and with laughter
Kissing him upon his bosom,
Where the flames of bliss are glowing.

But the trumpets of a sudden
Sound outside, the swords are rattling,
Calls to arms, and shots of muskets--
Lord, the Franks are marching on us!

And the hero mounts his war-steed,
Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;
For he fancies he is lying
As before in maids’ embraces.

Whilst the heads of the invaders
He is cutting off by dozens,
He is smiling like a lover,
Yes, he softly smiles and gently.

15. PSYCHE.

In her hand the little lamp, and
Mighty passion in her breast,
Psyche creepeth to the couch where
Her dear sleeper takes his rest.

How she blushes, how she trembles,
When his beauty she descries!
He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,
Soon awakes and quickly flies.

Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!
And the poor thing nearly died!
Psyche fasts and whips herself still,
For she Amor naked spied.

16. THE UNKNOWN ONE.

Every day I have a meeting
With my golden-tressèd beauty
In the Tuileries’ fair garden
Underneath the chesnuts’ shadow.

Every day she goes to walk there
With two old and ugly women--
Are they aunts? or else two soldiers
Muffled up in women’s garments?

Overawed by the mustachios
Of her masculine attendants,
And still farther overawed too
By the feelings in my bosom,

I ne’er ventured e’en one sighing
Word to whisper as I pass’d her,
And with looks I scarcely ventured
Ever to proclaim my passion.

For the first time I to-day have
Learnt her name. Her name is Laura,
Like the Provençal fair maiden
Whom the famous poet loved so.

Laura is her name! I’ve gone now
Just as far as Master Petrarch,
Who the fair one celebrated
In canzonas and in sonnets.

Laura is her name! like Petrarch
I can now platonically
Revel in this name euphonious--
He himself no further ventured.

17. THE CHANGE.

With brunettes I now have finish’d,
And this year am once more fond
Of the eyes whose colour blue is,
Of the hair whose colour’s blond.

Mild the blond one, whom I love now,
And in meekness quite a gem!
She would be some blest saint’s image,
Held her hand a lily stem.

Slender limbs of wondrous beauty,
Little flesh, much sympathy;
All her soul is glowing but for
Faith and hope and charity.

She maintains she understands not
German,--but it can’t be so;
Hast ne’er read the heavenly poem
Klopstock wrote some time ago?

18. FORTUNE.

Madam Fortune, thou in vain
Act’st the coy one! I can gain
By my own exertions merely
All thy favours prized so dearly.

Thou art overcome by me,
To the yoke I fasten thee;
Thou art mine beyond escaping--
But my bleeding wounds are gaping.

All my red blood gushes out,
My life’s courage to the rout
Soon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,
And in victory’s hour am dying.

19. LAMENTATION OF AN OLD-GERMAN YOUTH.

The man on whom virtue smiles is blest,
He is lost who neglects her instructions;
Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’d
By evil companions’ seductions.

For cards and dice soon dispossess’d
My pockets of all their money;
At first the maidens consoled me
With smiles as luscious as honey.

But when they had fuddled with wine their guest,
And torn my garments, straightway
(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,
And bundled me out at the gateway.

On waking after a bad night’s rest,--
Sad end to all my ambition!--
Poor youth that I am, I was filling
At Cassel a sentry’s position.

20. AWAY!

The day’s enamour’d of the night,
The springtime loves the winter,
And life’s in love with death,--
And thou, thou lovest me!

Thou lov’st me--thou’rt already seized
By fear-inspiring shadows,
And all thy blossoms fade,
To death thy soul is bleeding.

Away from me, and only love
The butterflies, gay triflers,
Who in the sunlight sport--
Away from me and sorrow!

21. MADAM METTE.

(From the Danish.)

Says Bender to Peter over their wine:
“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)
“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,
“My wife ’twill conquer never.”

Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse
“To your dog, or the devil is in it,
“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house
“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”

And when the hour of midnight drew near,
Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;
Right over the forest, right over the flood
His charming notes were ringing.

The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,
The flood stood still and listen’d,
The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,
The wise stars joyously glisten’d.

Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:
“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”
She put on her dress, and left the house--
Alas, it proved her destruction!

Right through the forest, right through the flood,
She speeded onward straightway;
While Peter, with the might of his song,
Allured her inside his own gateway.

And when she at morning return’d back home,
At the door her husband caught her:
“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!
“Your garments are dripping with water.”

“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,
“And heard the Future told by them;
“The mocking fairies wetted me through
“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”

“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,
“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;
“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,
“Your cheeks are also bloody.”

“I spent the night in the elfin wood,
“To see the elfin dances;
“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns
“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”

“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May
“On flowery plains, but the chilly
“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,
“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”

“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,
“He sang so mightily to me,
“That through the forest, and through the flood
“He irresistibly drew me.

“His song is mighty as death itself,
“To-night and perdition alluring;
“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,
“ A speedy death insuring.”

The door of the church is hung with black,
The funeral bells are ringing,
Poor Madam Mette’s terrible death
To public notice bringing.

Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,--
’Twas sad to hear him call so!--
“I now have lost my beautiful wife,
“And lost my true dog also.”

22. THE MEETING.

The music under the linden-tree sounds,
The boys and the maidens dance lightly;
Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,
Of figures noble and sightly.

They float about here, they float about there,
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The maiden the youth thus addresses:

“My handsome youth, upon thy hat
There nods a lily splendid,
That only grows in the depths of the sea,--
From Adam thou art not descended.

“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maids
Would’st allure with thy arts of seduction;
I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”

They float about here, they float about there,
In a way that strange habits expresses;
They smile at each other, they shake their heads,
The youth the maid thus addresses:

“My handsome maiden, tell me why
“Thy hand so icy cold is?
“And tell me why thy snow-white dress
“So moist in every fold is?

“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,
“By thy bantering salutation;
“Thou art no mortal child of man,
“But the water-nymph, my relation.”

The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,
They part like sister and brother,
They know each other only too well,
And shun now the sight of each other.

23. KING HAROLD HARFAGAR.

The great King Harold Harfagar
In ocean’s depths is sitting,
Beside his lovely water-fay;
The years are over him flitting.

By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,
He is neither living nor dead now,
And while in this state of baneful bliss
Two hundred years have sped now.

The head of the king is laid on the lap
Of the beautiful woman, and ever
He yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,
And looks away from her never.

His golden hair is silver grey,
His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)
Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,
His body is wither’d and broken.

And many a time from his sweet dream of love
He suddenly is waking,
For over him wildly rages the flood,
The castle of glass rudely shaking.

He oftentimes fancies he hears in the wind
The Northmen shouting out gladly;
He raises his arms with joyous haste,
Then lets them fall again sadly.

He oftentimes fancies he hears far above
The seamen their voices raising,
The great King Harold Harfagar
In songs heroical praising.

And then the king from the depth of his heart
Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing,
When quickly the water-fay over him bends,
With loving kisses replying.

24. THE LOWER WORLD.

I.

Many a time poor Pluto sigh’d thus:
“Were I but a single man!
“Since my married life began,
“Hell, I’ve learnt, was not a hell
“Till I to a wife was tied thus!

“Would that I remain’d still single!
“Since I Proserpine did wed,
“Each day wish I I was dead!
“With the bark of Cerberus
“Her loud scoldings ever mingle.

“Each attempt I make is fruitless
“After peace. There’s not a ghost
“Half so sad in all my host,
“And I envy Sisyphus,
“And the Danaid’s labour bootless.”

II.

On golden chair in the regions infernal,
Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal,
Queen Proserpine’s sitting
With mien ill befitting
Her station, and sadly she’s sighing:

“For roses I yearn, and the rapturous blisses
“Of Philomel’s song, and the sun’s sweet kisses;
“And here ’mongst the pallid
“Lemures and squalid
“Dead bodies, my youth’s days are flying.

“I’m firmly bound in the hard yoke of marriage
“In this hole, which I’m sure e’en a rat would disparage
“And the spectres unsightly
“Through my window peep nightly,
“Their wails with the Styx’s groans vying.

“This very day I’ve invited to dinner
“Old Charon, the bald-pated spindle-shank’d sinner,--
“And also the Judges,
“Those wearisome drudges--
“Such company’s really too trying!”

III.

Whilst these murmurs unavailing
In the lower world found vent,
Ceres on the earth was wailing,
And the crazy goddess went,
With no cap on, with no collar,
And with loose dishevell’d hair,
Uttering, in a voice of dolour,
That lament known everywhere:[13]

“Is’t the beauteous spring I see?
“Hath the earth grown young again?
“Sunlit hills glow verdantly,
“Bursting through their icy chain.
“From the streamlet’s mirror blue
“Smiles the now-unclouded sky,
“Zephyr’s wings wave milder too,
“Youthful blossoms ope their eye.
“In the grove sweet songs resound,
“While the Oread thus doth speak:
“‘Once again thy flow’rs are found,
“Vain thy daughter ’tis to seek.’

“Ah, how long ’tis since I went
“First in search o’er earth’s wide face!
“Titan, all thy rays I sent,
“Seeking for the loved one’s trace!
“Of that form so dear, no ray
“Hath as yet brought news to me,
“And the all-discerning Day
“Cannot yet the lost one see.
“Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?
“Or to Orcus’ gloomy stream,
“Hath she been by Pluto borne,
“Smitten by her beauty’s beams?

“Who will to yon dreary strand
“Be the herald of my woe?
“Ever leaves the bark the land,
“Yet but shadows in it go.
“To each blest eye evermore
“Closed those night-like fields remain;
“Styx no living form e’er bore,
“Since his stream first wash’d the plain.
“Thousand paths lead downward there,
“None lead up again to light;
“And her tears no witness e’er
“Brings to her sad mother’s sight.”

IV.

“Ceres! my good wife’s relation!
“Prythee cease to weep and call so!
“I now grant your application--
“I have suffer’d greatly also!

“Comfort take! we’ll share your daughter’s
“Sweet society, and let her
“Have on earth six months her quarters
“Yearly, if you like it better.

“She, when men in summer swelter,
“Can assist your rural labours,
“‘Neath a straw hat taking shelter,
“Flow’r-bedizen’d, like her neighbours’.

“She can rant, when colours glowing
“Robe the evening sky in splendour,
“When beside the stream is blowing
“On his flute a bumpkin tender.

“She’ll rejoice with lads and lasses
“At the harvest-home’s gay dances,
“And amongst the sheep and asses
“Be a lioness, the chance is.

“I’ll recruit my spirits sinking
“Here in Orcus in a canter,
“Mingled punch and Lethe drinking,
“And forget my wife instanter!”

V.

“Methinks at times thy brow is shaded
“With yearnings that in secret dwell;
“Thy hapless lot I know full well;
“Lost love, a life untimely faded!

“Thou nodd’st a sad assent! I never
“Can give thee back thy youthful prime;
“Thy heart’s woes cannot heal with time:
“A faded life, love lost for ever!”

15. MISCELLANIES.

1. MULEDOM.

Thy father, as is known to all,
A donkey was, beyond denial;
Thy mother on the other hand
A noble brood-mare proved on trial.

Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,
Though little liked, a thing of course is;
Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,
That thou belongest to the horses.

Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;
Thy fathers were with the invaders
Who to the Holy Sepulchre
Of old time went, the famed Crusaders.

Thou countest ’mongst thy relatives
The charger ridden by the glorious
Sir Godfrey of Bouillon the day
He took God’s town with arm victorious.

Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steed
Thy cousin was, and say (andante)
Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,
The most heroic Rosinante.

But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not own
As kin, he being much too lowly;
Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foal
That whilome bore the Saviour holy.

And thou art not obliged to stick
A long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;
Of thine own value be the judge,
And thou wilt never lay too much on.

2. THE SYMBOL OF MADNESS.

We’ll now begin to sing the song
Of a Number of much reputation,
Known by the name of Number Three:
To joy succeeds vexation.

Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,
In Christian estimation
Nothing in Europe higher stood
Than this Number of proud reputation.

A very pattern of modesty,
How great was her indignation
At finding the man in bed with the maid!
She gave them a sound castigation.

In summer her coffee at seven A.M.
She drank with much gratification,
In winter at nine, and slept all night
Without the least molestation.

But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,
To-day is changed to to-morrow,
And, sad to say, poor Number Three
Must suffer pain and sorrow.

There came a cobbler who said: “The head
“Of Number Three at present
“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top
“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.

“The Seven the mystical number is
“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;
“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,
“And also recals the Sabeans.

“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is
“Of the senior bonze of Babel,
“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth
“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”

A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;
Poor Number Three, he insisted,
Was nought but a name, and nowhere else
Except upon paper existed.

When poor Three heard these cruel words,
Like a duck in a state of distraction
She waddled here and waddled there,
Lamenting with vehement action:

“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,
“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;
“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,
“And nations rising and sinking.

“I’ve stood on the ceaselessly whirling loom
“Of time for many long ages;
“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,
“Where everything rushes and rages.

“And nevertheless I withstood all assaults
“Of darkness and sensuality,
“And safely preserved my virgin charms,
“Despite their cruel brutality.

“What use is my virtue now? By the wise
“And the fools I am evil entreated;
“The world is wicked, and ne’er content
“Till every one is cheated.

“But cheer up, my heart! thou still hast left
“Thy faith and hope and charity,
“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum
“Above the reach of vulgarity.”

3. PRIDE.

O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town,
Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renown
With not less than four horses contented,
At court you are duly presented;
In carriage of gold you go lightly
To the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;
Up the marble stairs rustle
Your clothes with their bustle,
And then at the top, on the landing
The servants in gay dresses standing
Shout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!

Your fan in your hand, talking loudly,
Through the chamber you wander on proudly;
With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,
In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,
Your snowy bosom with madness
Is heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.
What smiles, nods, polite interjections!
What curtsies and deep genuflexions!
The Duchess of Pavia
Calls you her _cara mia_;
The nobles and courtiers advancing
Invite you to join in the dancing;
And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)
Says loudly: How graceful and pretty
Are all the _stern_ movements of Gudelfeld!

But if, poor creature, you money did lack,
The world would straightway show you its back;
The very lackeys with loathing
Would spit on your clothing;
’Stead of bows and civility,
Nought but vulgar scurrility;
The Duchess would cross herself rudely,
And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:
She smells of garlic--this Gudelfeld!

4. AWAY!

If by one woman thou’rt jilted, love
Another, and so forget her;
To pack up thy knapsack, and straight remove
From the town will be still better.

Thou’lt soon discover a blue lake fair,
By weeping willows surrounded;
Thy trifling grief thou’lt weep away there,
Thy pangs so little founded.

Whilst climbing up the hillside fast,
Thou’lt pant and groan full loudly;
But when on the rocky summit at last,
Thou’lt hear the eagle scream proudly.

An eagle thyself thou’lt seem to be,
New life the change will bestow thee;
Thou’lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free,
Not much in the world below thee.

5. WINTER.

The cold may burn us sadly
Like fire, and mortals hurry
Amidst the snowdrift madly,
With still-increasing flurry.

O winter stern and chilly,
When frozen are our noses,
And piano-strumming silly
Our ears so discomposes!

I like the summer only
When in the wood I’m roving
With my own griefs all-lonely,
And scanning verses loving.

6. THE OLD CHIMNEYPIECE.

Outside fall the snowflakes lightly
Through the night, loud raves the storm
In my room the fire glows brightly,
And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.

Musing sit I on the settle
By the firelight’s cheerful blaze,
Listening to the busy kettle
Humming long-forgotten lays.

And beside me sits a kitten,
Warming at the blaze her feet;
Strangely are my senses smitten
As the flickering flames they meet.

Many a dim long-buried story
O’er me soon begins to rise,
But with dead and faded glory,
And in strange and mask’d disguise.

Lovely women with shrewd faces
Greet me with a secret smile,
Then the harlequins run races,
Laughing merrily the while.

Distant marble-gods nod kindly,
Dreamily beside them grow
Fable-flow’rs, whose leaves wave blindly
In the moonlight to and fro.

Magic castles, once resplendent,
Ruin’d now, in sight appear;
Knights in armour, squires attendant
Quickly follow in their rear.

All these visions I discover
As with shadowy haste they pass,--
Ah, the kettle’s boiling over,
And the kitten’s burnt, alas!

7. LONGING.

Thou beholdest in thy vision
Fable’s silent flow’rs before thee,
And a yearning wild steals o’er thee
At their fragrant scent elysian.

But thou from those flow’rs art parted
By a gulf both deep and fearful;
Thou becomest sad and tearful,
And at last art broken-hearted.

How they glitter! how they lure me!
Could I but the gulf pass over!
How the secret to discover,
And a bridge across procure me?

8. HELENA.

Thou hast call’d me forth from out of the grave
By means of thy magic will now,
And fill’d me full of love’s fierce glow--
This glow thou never canst still now.

O press thy mouth against my mouth,
Man’s breath with heaven is scented;
Thy very soul I’ll drain to the dregs,
The dead are never contented.

9. THE WISE STARS.

The flowerets sweet are crush’d by the feet
Full soon, and perish despairing;
One passes by, and they must die,
The modest as well as the daring.

The pearls all sleep in the caves of the deep,
Where one finds them, despite wind and weather
A hole is soon bored and they’re strung on a cord,
And there fast yoked together.

The stars are more wise, and keep in the skies,
And hold the earth at a distance;
They shed their light in the heavens so bright,
In safe and endless existence.

10. THE ANGELS.

Faithless as Saint Thomas, never
Could I in the heaven believe
Which both Jew and Priest endeavour
To compel men to receive.

That the angels, though, are real
I have never held in doubt;
Spotless, and of grace ideal,
On this earth they move about.

Still I doubt if such a being
Wing’d is, it must be confess’d;
I have recently been seeing
Wingless angels, I protest.

With their dear and loving glances
With their loving hands so white
Men they guard, and all advances
Of misfortune put to flight.

Every one can comfort borrow
From their favour and regard;
Most of all that child of sorrow
Whom the people call a bard.

16. POEMS FOR THE TIMES.

1. SOUND DOCTRINE.

Quick, beat the drum, and be not afraid,
The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss;
This is the whole of knowledge, in truth,
The deepest book-learning lies in this.

Quick, drum the people out of their sleep,
And drum the réveille with the ardour of youth,
And as you march, continue to drum--
This is the whole of knowledge, in truth.

All Hegel’s philosophy here is found,
The deepest book-learning lies in this;
I’ve found it out, because I’m no fool,
And also because I drum not amiss.

2. ADAM THE FIRST.

Gendarmes of heaven with flaming swords
Thou sent’st in cruel fashion,
And drov’st me out of Paradise
Without the least compassion.

In search of another country, I
And my wife from Eden hasted;
Thou canst not alter the fact that there
The tree of knowledge I tasted.

Thou canst not alter the fact that I know
Thy weakness and many blunders,
However mighty thou seemest to be
When wielding death and thunders.

O heavens, how pitiful is this
Consilium abeundi!
I call it a Magnificus
Of earth, a Lumen Mundi.

I shall not miss the spacious realms
Of Paradise one minute.
It is no genuine Paradise
When trees forbidden are in it.

I claim my full unfetter’d rights!
The slightest limitation
Changes my Paradise at once
To hell and desolation.

3. WARNING.

Worthy friend, ’twill be perdition
Books like this to think of printing!
Wouldst thou money earn or honour
Thou must bend in meek submission.

Never in this manner flighty
Shouldest thou before the public
Thus have spoken of the parsons
And of monarchs high and mighty!

Friend, thou’lt be by all forsaken!
Princes have long arms, the parsons
Have long tongues, and then the public
Have long ears, or I’m mistaken!

4. TO A QUONDAM FOLLOWER OF GOETHE.

(1832.)

Hast thou, then, superior risen
To the chilly dream of glory
Which great Weimar’s poet hoary
Wove around thee, like a prison?

Are thy old friends bores now voted?--
Clara, Gretchen,--names familiar,--
Serlo’s chaste maid, and Ottilia
In the “Wahlverwandschaft” noted?

Thou’rt with Germany enchanted,
Art become a Mignon-hater,
And thou seek’st for freedom greater
Than Philina ever granted.

Like a Luneburgomaster,
Thou dost battle for the nation,
Holding up to execration
Kings, as causing all disaster.

And I hear with pleasure hearty,
What a pitch thy praises grow to,
And how thou’rt a Mirabeau, too,
At each Luneburg tea-party!

5. THE SECRET.

We sigh not, and the eye’s not moisten’d,
We laugh at times, we often smile;
In not a look, in not a gesture
The secret comes to light the while.

Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden,
It lies in silent misery;
If in our wild heart it finds language,
The mouth’s still closed convulsively.

Ask of the suckling in the cradle,
Ask of the dead man in the grave;
They may perchance disclose the secret
To which I never utt’rance gave.

6. ON THE WATCHMAN’S ARRIVAL IN PARIS.

“Good watchman with face so sad and despairing,
“Why runnest thou hither with headlong speed?
“My dear fellow-countrymen, how are they faring?
“My fatherland, is it from tyranny freed?”

All’s going on well, and liberty’s blessing
Is showering silently on us its stores,
And Germany, calmly and safely progressing,
Unfolds and develops herself within doors.

Unlike France, superficial are none of her blossoms,--
_There_ freedom but touches the outside of life;
’Tis but in the depths of their innermost bosoms
That freedom with Germans is found to be rife.

They’ll finish Cologne’s great cathedral, they tell us,
The Hohenzollerns[A] have brought this to pass;
A Hapsburg[A] has shown himself equally zealous,
A Wittelsbach[14] gives it some fine painted glass.

That true Magna Charta, a free constitution,
They’ve promised, and surely their promise they’ll keep;
A king’s word’s a prize, without circumlocution,--
Like the Nibelung stone in the Rhine it lies deep.

The Brutus of rivers, the free Rhine, they surely
Can never remove him from out of his bed;
The Dutchman his feet have fasten’d securely,
The Switzers securely are holding his head.

God will grant us a fleet, if we prove persevering;
Our patriotic exuberant strength
Will find a vent in sailing and steering,
The pain of imprisonment ending at length.

The seeds cast their shells and the spring’s blooming sweetly,
We draw a free breath at this time of the year;
If permission to print is denied us completely,
The censorship will of itself disappear.

7. THE DRUM-MAJOR.[15]

The old drum-major it is that we see;
Poor fellow, he’s pull’d down sadly!
In the Emperor’s time a youngster was he,
And merrily lived and gladly.

He used to balance his ponderous stick,
While a smile on his face play’d lightly;
The silver-lace on his tunic so thick
In the rays of the sun gleam’d brightly.

Whene’er with a mighty roll of the drum
He enter’d a village or city,
He caused an echo responsive to come
In the heart of each girl, plain or pretty.

He came and saw and conquer’d too
Each fair one welcomed him in;
His black moustache was wetted through
With tears of German women.

Resistance was vain! In every land
That the foreign invaders came to,
The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, and
The drum-major each maiden and dame too.

Our sorrows full long we patiently bore
Like oaks, with no one to heed ’em,
Until the Authorities gave us once more
The signal to battle for freedom.

Like buffaloes rushing on to the fray,
We toss’d our horns up proudly,
The yoke of France we cast away,
The songs of Körner sang loudly.

O terrible verses! the tyrant’s ear
At their awful sound revolted;
The Emperor and the drum-major in fear
Precipitately bolted.

They both of them reap’d the wages of sin,
And came to an end inglorious;
The Emperor Napoleon tumbled in
The hands of the Britons victorious.

In Saint Helena his time he now pass’d
In martyrdom, banish’d from France, Sir,
And, after long suff’ring, died at last
Of that terrible ailment cancer.

The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace,
And lost his situation;
In our hotel he took the place
Of boots,--what degradation!

He warms the oven, he scours the pots,
And wood and water fetches;
His grey head wags as he wheezingly trots
Up the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.

When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himself
Inclined to jeer and rally
The comical lanky poor old elf
And his motions shilly-shally.

O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please!
The sons of Germany never
Should fallen greatness love to tease,
Or to torment endeavour.

Such people you ought to regard with pride
And filial piety rather;
Perchance upon the mother’s side
The old man is your father!

8. DEGENERACY.

Has Nature’s self been going backward,
And human faults assuming, then?
The very plants and beasts, I fancy,
Now lie as much as mortal men.

I trust not in the lily’s chasteness;
The colour’d fop, the butterfly,
Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters,
Till lost is all her purity.

The violet’s modesty moreover
I hold full cheap. The little flower
With the coquettish breezes trifles,
In secret pants for fame and power.

I doubt if Philomel appreciates
The time she sings with pompous mien;
She overdoes it, sobs, and warbles
Methinks from nought but pure routine.

Truth from the earth is fast departing,
The days of Faith are also o’er;
The dogs still wag their tails, smell bully
And yet are faithful now no more.

9. HENRY.

In Canossa’s castle courtyard
Stands the German Cæsar Henry,
Barefoot, clad in penitential
Shirt--the night is cold and rainy.

From the window high above him
Peep two figures, and the moonlight
Gregory’s bald head illumines
And the bosom of Mathilda.

Henry, with his lips all pallid,
Murmurs pious paternosters;
Yet in his imperial heart he
Secretly revolts and speaks thus:

“In my distant German country
“Upward rise the sturdy mountains;
“In the mountain-pits in silence
“Grows the iron for the war-axe.

“In my distant German country
“Upward rise the fine oak-forests;
“In the loftiest oak-stem ’mongst them
“Grows the handle for the war-axe.

“Thou, my dear and faithful country,
“Wilt beget the hero also
“Who in time will crush the serpent
“Of my sorrows with his war-axe.”

10. LIFE’S JOURNEY.

What laughter and singing! The sun’s rays crossing
Each other gleam brightly; the billows are tossing
The joyous bark, and there I reclined
With friends beloved and lightsome mind.

The bark was presently wreck’d and shatter’d,
My friends were poor swimmers, and soon were scatter’d,
And all were drown’d, in our fatherland;
_I_ was thrown by the storm on the Seine’s far strand.

Another ship I now ascended,
My journey by new companions attended;
By strange waves toss’d and rock’d, I depart--
How far my home! how heavy my heart!

Once more arises that singing and laughter!
The wind pipes loud, the planks crack soon after--
In heaven is quench’d the last last star--
How heavy my heart! My home how far!

11. THE NEW JEWISH HOSPITAL AT HAMBURG.

A hospital for Jews who’re sick and needy,
For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow,
Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunes
Of poverty, disease, and Judaism.

The worst by far of all the three the last is,
That family misfortune, thousand years old,
That plague which had its birth in Nile’s far valley,
The old Egyptian and unsound religion.

Incurable deep pain! ’gainst which avail not
Nor douche nor vapour-bath, the apparatus
Of surgery, nor all the means of healing
Which this house offers to its sickly inmates.

Will Time, eternal goddess, e’er extinguish
This glowing ill, descending from the father
Upon the son,--and will the grandson ever
Be cured, and rational become and happy?

I cannot tell! Yet in the meantime let us
Extol that heart which lovingly and wisely
Sought to alleviate pain as far as may be,
Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring.

Dear worthy man! He here has built a refuge
For sorrows which by the physician’s science
(Or else by death’s!) are curable, providing
Cushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and nurses.

A man of deeds, he did his very utmost,
Devoted to good works his hard-earned savings
In his life’s evening, kindly and humanely,
Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy.

He gave with open hand--but gifts still richer,
His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling,
Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploring
His brethren’s great, incurable misfortune.

12. GEORGE HERWEGH.[16]

When Germany first drank her fill,
You then were her obedient vassal,
Believing in each pipe-bowl still,
And in its black-red-golden tassel.

But when the fond delirium ceased,
Good friend, how great your consternation!
The public seem’d a very beast,
After its sweet intoxication!

Pelted by vile abusive swarms
With rotten apples, in disorder,
Under an escort of gendarmes
You reach’d at length the German border.

There you stood still. A tear you wiped
Away, the well-known posts on spying
Which like the zebra’s back are striped,
With heavy heart as follows sighing:--

“Aranjuez, in lightsome mood
“Once stay’d I in thy halls so splendid,
“When I before King Philip stood,
“By all his proud grandees attended.

“He gave me an approving smile
“When I the Marquis Posa acted;
“My prose he could not relish, while
“My verses his applause attracted.”[17]

13. THE TENDENCY.

German bard! extol our glorious
German freedom, that thy lay
May possess our souls, and fire us,
And to mighty deeds inspire us,
Like the Marseillaise notorious.

Be no more, like Werther, tender,
Who for Lotte sigh’d all day;
Thou shouldst tell the people proudly
What the bells proclaim so loudly,--
Speak of dirks, swords, no surrender.

Gentle flutes no more resemble,
Be not so idyllic, pray!
Fire the mortars, beat to quarters,
Crash, kill, thunder, make them tremble.

Crash, kill, thunder like a devil
Till the last foe flies away;
To this cause devote thy singing,
Thy poetic efforts bringing
To the common public’s level.

14. THE CHILD.

The good their gifts in dream enjoy,
How did it fare with thee?
Scarce feeling it, you’ve got a boy,
Poor virgin Germany!

This boy an urchin frolicsome
Ere long shall we behold;
A first-rate archer he’ll become,
As Cupid was of old.

He’ll pierce the soaring eagle through;
And, proudly though he fly,
The double-headed eagle too
Struck by his bolt, shall die.

But that blind heathen God of love
Will he resemble not
In wearing neither clothes nor glove,
Nor be a sans-culotte.

The seasons in our land combine
With morals and police
To make both old and young incline
To wear their clothes in peace.

15. THE PROMISE.

You no more shall barefoot crawl so
Through the dirt, poor German freedom!
Stockings (as you find you need ’em)
You shall have, and stout boots also.

As respects your head, upon it
To protect your ears from freezin’
In the chilly winter-season
You shall have a nice warm bonnet.

You shall have, too, savoury messes--
Grand the future that’s before you!
Let no Satyr, I implore you,
Lure you onward to excesses!

Do not haste on fast and faster!
Render, as becomes inferiors,
Due respect to your superiors
And the worthy burgomaster.

16. THE CHANGELING.

A child with monstrous pumpkin head,
Grey pigtail, and moustache light red,
With lanky arms and yet stupendous,
No bowels, yet with maw tremendous,--
A changeling which a Corporal
Into our cradle had let fall
On stealing from it our own baby--
This monster, falsehood’s child, (or may be
’Twas in reality the son
Of his own favourite dog alone)--
What need to say how much we spurn it?
For heaven’s sake, drown it or else burn it!

17. THE EMPEROR OF CHINA.[18]

My father was a dreadful bore,
A good-for-nothing dandy;
But I’m a mighty Emperor,
And love a bumper of brandy.

These glorious draughts all others surpass
In this, their magical power:
As soon as I have drain’d my glass,
All China bursts into flower.

The Middle Kingdom bursts into life,
A blossoming meadow seeming;
A man I wellnigh become, and my wife
Soon gives me signs of teeming.

On every side abundance reigns,
The sick no longer need potions;
Confucius, Court-philosopher, gains
Distinct and positive notions.

The ryebread the soldiers used to eat
Of almond cakes is made now;
The very vagabonds in the street
In silk and satin parade now.

The knightly Order of Mandarins,
Those weak old invalids, daily
Are gaining strength and filling their skins,
And shaking their pigtails gaily.

The great pagoda, faith’s symbol prized,
Is ready for those who’re believing;
The last of the Jews are here baptized,
The Dragon’s order receiving.

The noble Manchoos exclaim, when freed
From the presence of revolution:
“The bastinado is all that we need,
“We want no constitution!”

The pupils of Æsculapius perhaps
May tell me that drink’s dissipation;
But I continue to drink my Schnaps,
To benefit the nation.

And so in drinking I persevere;
It tastes like very manna!
My people are happy, and drink their beer
And join in shouting Hosanna!

18. CHURCH-COUNSELLOR PROMETHEUS.

Good Sir Paulus,[19] noble robber,
All the gods are on thee gazing
With their brows in anger knitted,
Furious at the theft amazing

Thou hast practised in Olympus—
Sorry for it they will make thee!
Fear the fate of poor Prometheus
If Jove’s bailiffs overtake thee!

Worse indeed his theft, because he
Stole the light in heaven dwelling
To enlighten us weak mortals—
_Thou_ didst steal the works of Schelling,

Just the opposite of light,—nay,
Darkness we can feel and handle
Like the old Egyptian darkness,—
Not one solitary candle!

19. TO THE WATCHMAN.

(On a recent occasion.)

If heart and style remain still true,
I’ll not object, whatever you do.
My friend, I never will mistake you,
E’en though a Counsellor they make you.

They now are raising a terrible din
Because you’ve been sworn as a Counsellor in;
From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason,
For months they’ve declaim’d thus against your sad treason:

His progress onward is changed of late
To progress backward; O, answer us straight--
On Swabian crabs are you really riding?
Is’t only court-ladies you now take pride in?

Perchance you are tired, and long for rest;
All night on your horn you’ve been blowing your best
And now on a nail you quietly stow it;
No longer for Germany’s hobby you’ll blow it.

You lie down in bed, and straightway close
Your eyes, but vainly you seek for repose;
Before the window the mockers salute us:
Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus?

Ah, bawlers like these can never know why
The best of watchmen ceases to cry;
These young braggadocios cannot discover
Why man his exertions at length gives over.

You ask me how matters are going on here?
No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere’s clear;
The weathercocks all are perplex’d, not discerning
The proper direction in which to be turning.

20. CONSOLING THOUGHTS.

We sleep as Brutus slept of yore,--
And yet he awoke, and ventured to bore
In Cæsar’s bosom his chilly dagger!
The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.--

No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke,
Each nation its favourite taste can invoke;
Each nation its special merit possesses--
The finest dumplings Swabia dresses.

But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave,
We sleep as soundly as though in the grave;
And when we awake, our thirst is excessive,
But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive.

’Tis our great pride to be as true
As heart of oak and linden too;
The land which oaks and lindens gives birth to
Can never produce a Brutus of worth too.

And e’en if amongst us a Brutus were found,
No Cæsar exists in the country round;
Despite all his search, he would find him never,--
We make good gingerbread however.

We’ve six-and-thirty masters and lords,
(Not one too many!) who wear their swords
And stars on their regal breasts to protect them;
The Ides of March can never affect them.

We call them Father, and Fatherland
We call the country they command
By right of descent, and love to call so--
We love sour-crout and sausages also.

And when our Father walks in the street
We take off our hats with reverence meet;
Our guileless Germany, injuring no man,
Is not a den of murderers Roman.

21. THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.

The world is topsy-turvy turn’d,
We walk feet-upwards in it;
The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down,
A dozen in a minute.

The calves are seen to roast the cook,
On men are riding the horses;
On freedom of teaching and laws of light
The Catholic owl discourses.

The herring is a sans-culotte,
The truth is told by Bettina,
And puss-in-boots brings Sophocles
On the stage, with learned demeanour.

An ape for German heroes has built
A Pantheon, for glory zealous;[20]
And Massmann has lately been using a comb,
As German papers tell us.

The German bears, I grieve to say,
Are atheists unbelieving,
And in their place the parrots of France
The Christian faith are receiving.

The Moniteur of Uckermark
With equal frenzy seems smitten;
The dead have on the living there
The vilest epitaph written.[21]

Then let us not swim against the stream,
Good friends! ’twould serve us but badly;
But let us ascend the Templehof hill,[22]
“Long life to the king!” shouting gladly.

22. ENLIGHTENMENT.

Have the scales that dimm’d thy vision
Fallen, Michael? Canst thou see
How they’re stealing in derision
All the choicest food from thee?

In return, divine enjoyment
Promise they in realms above,
Where the angels’ sole employment
Is to cook us fleshless love.

Michael, hath thy faith grown weaker,
Or thy appetite more strong?
Thou dost grasp life’s sparkling beaker,
And thou sing’st a hero-song.

Fear not, Michael! take thy pleasure
While on earth, and eat what’s good;
When thou’rt dead, thou’lt have full leisure
To digest in peace thy food.

23. WAIT AWHILE!

Because my lightnings are so striking,
You think that I can’t thunder too!
You’re wrong, for I’ve a special liking
For thunder, as I’ll prove to you.

This will be seen with awful clearness
When the right moment is at hand;
You’ll hear my voice in startling nearness,--
The word of thunder and command.

The raging storm will surely shiver
Full many an oak upon that day;
Each palace to its base shall quiver,
And many a steeple proud give way.

24. NIGHT THOUGHTS.

When, Germany, I think of thee
At night, all slumber flies from me;
I cannot close mine eyes for yearning,
And down my cheeks run tears all burning.

How swiftly speeds each rolling year!
Since I have seen my mother dear
Twelve years have pass’d away; the longer
I wait, my yearning grows the stronger.

My yearning’s growing evermore;
That woman has bewitch’d me sore!
Dear, dear old woman! with what fervour
I think of her! may God preserve her!

The dear old thing in me delights,
And in the letters that she writes
I see how much her hand is shaking,--
Her mother’s heart, how nearly breaking!

My mother’s ever in my mind;
Twelve long long years are left behind,
Twelve years have follow’d on each other
Since to my heart I clasp’d my mother.

For ages Germany will stand;
Sound to the core is that dear land!
Its oaks and lindens I shall ever
Find just the same, they alter never.

For Germany I less should care
If my dear mother were not there;
My fatherland will never perish
But _she_ may die, whom most I cherish.

Since I my native land saw last,
Into the tomb have many pass’d
Whom I so loved--When of them thinking
How sadly bleeds my spirit sinking!

I needs must count them,--as I count
My sorrows higher, higher mount;
I feel as though each corpse were lying
Upon my breast--Thank God, they’re flying!

Thank God! for through the window-pane
France’s clear daylight breaks again;
My fair wife enters, sweetly smiling,
And all my German cares beguiling!

_NEW SPRING._