Chapter XIX: Part II: 1826 (4)

“No longer thou’lt find those beauteous flowers,
“Which enchanted thy youthful bosom;
“’Twas here they bloom’d,--they’re wither’d now,
“And the tempest has scatter’d each blossom.

“Yes, wither’d, and stripp’d, and trampled down
“By destiny’s footsteps appalling--
“My friend, this is ever the fate upon earth
“Of all that is sweet and enthralling!”--

“Who art thou?” I cried--“like a dream of old times
“Thy appearance doth strangely beset me;
“Where is thy dwelling, enormous one?
“I’ll follow thee there, if thou’lt let me.”

The woman then smiled, and thus she replied:
“Thou art wrong, I’m a decent and quiet
“And highly moral personage too,
“By no means given to riot.

“I’m none of your foreign lorettes, my friend,
“And none of your common ladies;
“I’m Hamburg’s goddess, Hammonia by name,
“And to watch o’er its welfare my trade is!

“Thou art startled perchance to bear this news,
“Thou once undaunted singer?
“Art thou prepared to follow me still?
“Then quick, and no more let us linger.”

But I in reply laugh’d loudly and cried:
“I’ll follow thee instanter!
“If thou’lt go in front, I’ll go behind,--
“Yes, even to hell in a canter!”

CAPUT XXIV.

How I managed to mount the narrow stairs
I haven’t the slightest notion;
Perhaps the spirits carried me up
With some invisible motion.

But here, in Hammonia’s little room,
The hours pass’d swiftly o’er me;
The goddess confess’d the sympathy
That she had ever felt for me.

“Look here”--said she, “in former days
“The minstrel who sang the Messiah
“Was dearest to me of all the throng,
“With his piously-sounding lyre.

“To this day the bust of my Klopstock stands
“On that chest of drawers, but though on it,
“For many a year it has only served
“As a block for holding my bonnet.

“Thou’rt my favourite now, and thy likeness hangs
“At the head of my bed in due order;
“And see, a fresh laurel now surrounds
“The cherish’d portrait’s border.

“Yet thy attacks on my sons, I confess,
“Repeated by thee so often,
“Have sometimes caused me the greatest pain;
“Thy language thou must soften.

“I trust that time has cured thee now
“Of rudeness so cold-hearted,
“And somewhat greater tolerance
“For even the fools imparted.

“But say how thou camest to travel north
“At such an unclement season?
“The weather already is winterly quite,--
“I fain would know the reason.”

“O worthy goddess!” I said in reply,
“In the bosom’s inmost recesses
“Are slumbering thoughts which often awake
“At a time which rather distresses.

“Externally things went on pretty well,
“But within I was weigh’d down with anguish,
“Which every day grew worse and worse,--
“For home I ceased not to languish.

“The air of France, so usually light,
“Began to be oppressive;
“I long’d to breathe some German air,
“To relieve this burden excessive.

“I yearn’d for German tobacco-smoke,
“And the smell of German peat too;
“My foot impatiently quiver’d, the ground
“Of Germany to beat too.

“I sigh’d all night, and I long’d and long’d
“Yet once again to view her,
“The old woman who close to the Dammthor lives,
“And Lotte, who lives close to her.

“The thought of that old and worthy man
“Who always freely reproved me,
“And then his protection over me threw,
“To many a sigh now moved me.

“I fain would hear again from his mouth
“The words ‘young stupid!’ repeated,
“Which always in my younger days
“My heart like music greeted.

“I yearn’d for the blue smoke that high in the air
“From German chimneys reaches,
“For the Lower-Saxony nightingales,
“For the silent groves of beeches.

“I yearn’d for all the sorrowful spots,
“The places where once I resorted,
“Where once I trail’d my youthful cross,
“And my crown of thorns supported.

“I fain would weep where I formerly wept
“Those tears so bitter and burning;
“The love of fatherland methinks
“They call this foolish yearning.

“I love not to talk of it; ’tis nought else
“But a whim of the’ imagination;
“Shamefaced by nature, I hide my wounds
“From public observation.

“O how I detest the trumpery set
“Who, to stir men’s passion heated,
“Of patriotism make a show
“With all its ulcers fetid.

“They’re shameless and shabby beggars all,
“Who live upon people’s charity;
“For Menzel[63] and all his Swabians, here’s
“A penn’orth of popularity!

“My goddess! thou hast found me to-day
“Of a tender disposition!
“I’m rather ill, but a little care
“Will soon recruit my condition.

“Yes, I am ill, and thou canst refresh
“My spirits in a minute
“By means of a cup of excellent tea,
“With a little rum mix’d in it.”

CAPUT XXV.

Some tea the goddess quickly made,
And then the rum pour’d she in;
But she herself preferr’d the rum
Without a drop of tea in.

Against my shoulder she lean’d her head,
And rather tumbled her bonnet
Or mural crown, and gently she spake,
While I reflected upon it:

“I often have thought with much alarm
“That in Paris, that wicked city,
“With the frivolous French thou’rt living still,--
“’Tis really a very great pity.

“Without an object thou’rt passing thy time,
“And hast not even beside thee
“Some faithful German publisher who
“As a Mentor might warn and guide thee.

“And then the temptations there are so great,
“So many a sylph amuses,
“Whose health is bad, and one’s peace of mind
“One far too easily loses.

“Return not again, but stop with us,
“Here modesty reigns still, and morals;
“And here thou may’st gather, e’en in our midst,
“In silence many fair laurels.

“In Germany stay, and thou’lt relish things more
“Than thou wert formerly able;
“We’re fast advancing, and thou must have seen
“Our progress so rapid and stable.

“The censorship even less rigorous is,
“Friend Hoffmann is milder and older;
“His youthful passion for cutting up
“Thy _Reisebilder_ is colder.

“Thou too art older and milder now,
“And many things quietly takest,
“And in a better spirit than once,
“Past times thou now awakest.

“That matters in Germany used to go ill
“Is a great exaggeration;
“One could always escape, like the Romans of old,
“From serfdom, by self-immolation.

“The people enjoy’d full freedom of thought,
“For the masses it never was stinted;
“Restrictions affected nobody, save
“The limited number who printed.

“No lawless despotism then reign’d,
“The worst of demagogues never
“Were deprived of their rights of citizenship,
“Till condemn’d for some wicked endeavour.

“Things never in Germany went so ill,
“Whatever disputes may have risen;
“Believe me, no mortal was e’er starved to death
“Inside a German prison.

“In those long vanish’d days there bloom’d
“Full many a fair apparition
“Of simple faith and kindliness too,--
“Now all is doubt and sedition.

“The practical freedom that’s all outside
“Will soon destroy the Ideal
“That we bore in our bosoms,--as fair as a dream
“Of lilies, and not more real!

“Our beautiful poetry’s fading fast,
“Already ’tis somewhat faded;
“The _Moorish King_ of Freiligrath,
“Like the rest of the kings, is degraded.

“O couldst thou be silent, I soon would unseal
“The book of fate, free from all error,
“And suffer thee future ages to see
“Within my magic mirror.

“That which to mortal man I ne’er show’d,
“To thee would I gladly discover:
“The future of thy fatherland,--
“Thou wouldst tell it, though, all the world over!”

“Good heavens, dear goddess!” I cried with delight.
“It would give me most exquisite pleasure;
“O let me the future of Germany see,
“I know how a secret to treasure.

“I’m ready to swear whatever oath
“Thou soonest would have me swallow,
“As a pledge to thee of my secrecy;
“So say what form I shall follow.”

But she rejoin’d: “Thou must swear to me
“As by Father Abraham’s order
“His servant Eliezer swore,
“When starting to cross the border.

“Lift up my dress and place thy hand
“Upon my thigh below it,
“And swear that in speaking, the secret thou’lt keep,
“And in thy works as a poet!”

The moment was solemn. I felt as though fann’d
By the breath of ages long perish’d,
When I swore the oath in the manner ordain’d
By Abraham, our forefather cherish’d.

I lifted up the goddess’s dress,
And placed on her thigh below it
My hand, vowing secrecy both in my words
And in my works as a poet.

CAPUT XXVI.

The cheeks of the goddess glow’d all-red
(I think that the rum had ascended
Up into her head) and she spoke in a tone
In which sorrow was painfully blended:

“I’m fast getting old; I was born on the day
“Of Hamburg’s first foundation;
“My mother was a mermaid, who had
“At the mouth of the Elbe her station.

“My father was a monarch renown’d,
“Called Charlemagne the glorious;
“He was still more wise than Frederick the Great,
“And also still more victorious.

“At Aix-la-Chapelle is the seat where he sat
“On the day of his coronation:
“The seat where he sat at night devolved
“On my mother, as nearest relation.

“My mother left it to me in her turn,
“A common-looking article;
“And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold
“I wouldn’t surrender one particle.

“Behold, in yon corner stands a chair,
“Both old and weather-beaten;
“The leather that covers its arms is torn,
“And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.

“Approach it now, and gently lift
“The cushion from the settle;
“Thou’lt see an oval opening then,
“And under it a kettle.

“That is a magic kettle wherein
“The magic forces are brewing;
“On placing thy head in the aperture, soon
“The future thou’lt clearly be viewing.

“Yes, Germany’s future there thou’lt see,
“Like wondrously rolling phantasmas;
“But shudder not, if out of the filth
“Arise any foul miasmas!”

She spoke, and she laugh’d a singular laugh
But I undauntedly hasted
To hold my head over the terrible hole,
And there I eagerly placed it.

I’ll not betray, for silence I vow’d,
The things that I saw and felt there;
I scarcely dare to utter a word,
Good heavens, of what I smelt there!

With deep disgust I think to this day
Of that smell, which blended together,
In vile and accursèd union, a stench
Of old cabbage and Russia leather.

And heavens! the stink that afterwards rose
Was still more filthy and dirty;
’Twas as though they had swept together the soil
From closets six and thirty.

I know full well what was said by Saint Just
In the famous Committee of Safety:
“Great illnesses cannot be cured by musk
“And rose-oil,” he told them with naïveté.

And yet this German futurity’s smell
Was infinitely stronger
Than aught that my nose could e’er have conceived--
In fact I could bear it no longer.--

My senses I lost, and on opening my eyes
Once more, I found myself sitting
Beside the goddess, and leaning my head
On her breast, in a manner befitting.

Her look it glisten’d, her mouth it glow’d,
Her nostrils twitched, with bacchantic
Excitement she clasp’d the poet, and sang
With ecstasy fearful and frantic:

“Stay with me in Hamburg, I love thee full well,
“And we’ll eat and drink with gladness
“The oysters and wine of present times,
“Forgetting the future’s sadness.

“Put on the cover, for fear lest the stench
“Should all our pleasure cloud over;
“I love thee no German poet had e’er
“A more affectionate lover!

“I kiss thee, and I feel myself now
“By thy genius quite inspired;
“My spirit by a wondrous kind
“Of paroxysm is fired.

“I feel as though I heard in the street
“The watchmen singing in chorus;
“’Tis wedding music and bridal songs,
“Sweet friend, that are rising o’er us.

“The attendants on horseback also approach,
“With their torches flaring brightly;
“The torch-dance they dance in dignified wise,
“And hop and spring about lightly.

“The noble and worshipful Senate is there,
“And the elders according to station;
“The burgomaster clears his throat,
“Preparing a lengthy oration.

“In glittering uniforms also appear
“The whole of the corps diplomatic,
“In the name of the neighbouring states to present
“Congratulations emphatic.

“A clerical deputation, too, comes,
“By rabbis and pastors guided;
“But, alas! here Hoffmann also draws near,
“With his scissors, as censor, provided.

“The scissors rattle in his hand,
“And eagerly he races
“To seize thy body,--he cuts thy flesh--
“Methinks it by far the best place is.”

CAPUT XXVII.

When summer’s pleasant days have come
I’ll tell you all the history
Of the other wonders that came to pass
In that long night of mystery.

The olden hypocritical race,
Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;
To the grave it is sinking, and owes its death
To its ceaseless habit of lying.

Another race is rising up fast,
By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,
Of genial humour and thoughts,--to it
I’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.

The youth which the poet’s goodness and pride
Appreciates, puts forth its blossom,
And warms itself at his radiant soul,
And against his feeling bosom.

My heart is loving as the light,
And pure and chaste as the fire;
The noblest Graces themselves have tuned
The chords of my sweet lyre.

’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songs
My worthy father uses,--
The poet Aristophanes,
The favourite of the Muses.

In the previous chapter I tried my hand
At copying the conclusion
Of the play of the “Birds,” which certainly is
My father’s finest effusion.

The “Frogs” is also capital. This
Is now, in a German translation,
Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at Berlin
For his Majesty’s edification.

The King likes the piece. This shows his taste
For the old-fashion’d style of joking;
The late King far more amusement found
In modern frogs’ loud croaking.

The King likes the piece. But nevertheless
Were the author still living, I kindly
Would counsel him to trust himself
In Prussia not too blindly.

The genuine Aristophanes
Would find it no subject for laughter;
We should see him move, wherever he went,
With a chorus of gendarmes after.

O King, I really wish thee well
When this piece of advice I’m giving:
Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,
And tender be to the living.

Affront the living poets not,
With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,
More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,
By the poets created and burnish’d.

Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell,
Regardless whether they know it;
Affront the mightiest Lord of all,
But O, affront not the poet!

The deities harshly avenge in truth
Man’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;
The fire of hell is passably hot,
And there he must roast and must swelter.

Yet pious steps can the sinner release
From the flames; for saying masses
And giving to churches with liberal hand
From torment a certain pass is.

When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend,
And burst hell’s gloomy portals;
And though he may sit in judgment strict,
He still will acquit many mortals.

And yet there are hells from out of whose clutch
There’s no escape to heaven;
No prayers there avail, and powerless too
Is the Saviour’s pardon even.

Is Dante’s hell to thee unknown,
With its terrible trinary verses?
The man whom the poet there has shut up
Will never escape from his curses.

He ne’er will be freed from those musical flames
By any god or Saviour;
So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,
Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!

ROMANCERO.

_BOOK I.--HISTORIES._

When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath,
Let thy faith soar the higher;
And when thy soul is sad unto death,
Then strike thou the lyre.

A flaming and glowing heroical song
The chords breathe discreetly!
All anger flies, and thy spirit ere long
Will bleed to death sweetly.

RHAMPSENITUS.[64]

When the King Rhampsenitus
Enter’d in the halls resplendent
Of his daughter, she was laughing,
As was also each attendant.

E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs,
Follow’d in loud chorus after;
E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxes
Seem’d about to burst with laughter.

Then the princess said: “I fancied
That I held the thief securely,
But it was a dead arm only
That my hand had seized so surely.

“I can see now how the robber
To thy storehouse penetrated,
And despite all bars and fast’nings
All thy treasure confiscated.

“He a magic key possesses,
“Which the door of house or stable
“Straightway opens; to resist it
“Are the strongest doors unable.

“Now I’m really not a strong door,
“Nor could I resist his pleasure;
“So this night, while treasure-watching,
“Have I lost my little treasure!”

Round the chamber danced the princess,
Laughing at this notion clever,
And the maidens and the eunuchs
Laugh’d again as loud as ever.

On that day all Memphis laugh’d too,
E’en the crocodiles so bloody
Laughingly their heads protruded
From the yellow Nile-stream muddy,

When they heard the drum’s loud beating,
And the foll’wing proclamation
Shouted by the public crier
On the bank, to all the nation:--

“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace
“King of Egypt, to our loyal
“Well-belovèd friends and subjects
“Hereby send our greeting royal.

“In the night between the third and
“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred
“Four and twentieth year before Christ,
“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d

“Many jewels from the storehouse
“Where we kept them, and more lately
“Further thefts has perpetrated,
“So that we have suffer’d greatly.

“To discover the offender,
“Made we our belovèd daughter
“Sleep beside the treasure; but he
“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.

“Now, to check this wholesale plunder,
“And to show our deep affection
“For the thief, our admiration,
“And our grateful recollection,

“We will give our only daughter
“As his lawful wife--God bless her!--
“And to princely rank promote him,
“Owning him as our successor.

“Since our son-in-law’s abode is
“Unknown to us just at present,
“This our rescript shall inform him
“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.

“Done the third of January
“Thirteen hundred twenty-six
“Years before Christ; here our seal we,
“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”

And he kept his word; the thief he
As his son-in-law soon counted,
And when he was dead, the robber
On the throne of Egypt mounted.

And he ruled like other monarchs,
Trade and talent patronizing,
And the fewness of the robb’ries
In his reign was quite surprising.

THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King,
Has half of India under his wing;
Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obey
His rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.

Each year with banner, trumpet, and drum
To Siam the trains with the tribute come;
Many thousand camels, with backs piled high
With the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.

When the camels he sees with their heavy piles,
The soul of the King in secret smiles;
But in public in truth he always deplores
That his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.

Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious,
So full of magnificence, so capacious,
The reality’s splendour surpasses in glory
The Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.

The “Castle of Indra” call they the hall
In which are display’d the deities all,
The golden images, chisell’d with care,
And all incrusted with jewels so fair.

Full thirty thousand their numbers are,
Their ugliness passes description far;
A compound of men and animals dread,
With many a hand and many a head.

In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly sees
Some thirteen hundred coral trees,
As big as palms, a singular sight,
With spiral branches, a forest bright.

The floor of purest crystal is made,
And all the trees are in it display’d,
While pheasants of glittering plumage gay
Strut up and down in a dignified way.

The ape on which the monarch doth dote
A ribbon of silk wears round his throat,
Whence hangs the key that opens the hall
Which people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.

All kinds of jewels of value high
All over the ground here scatter’d lie
Like common peas, with diamonds rare
That in size with the egg of a fowl compare.

On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appear
The Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;
The ape lies down by the monarch proud,
And both of them slumber and snore aloud.

But the King’s most precious, costly treasure,
His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,
The joy and the pride of Mahawasant
Is truly his snow-white elephant.

As a home for a guest so highly respected
A splendid palace the King has erected;
Gay lotos-headed columns uphold
Its roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.

Three hundred heralds stand at the gate,
As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;
And kneeling down with low-bent back
There serve him a hundred eunuchs black.

For his proboscis the daintiest meat
On golden dishes they bring him to eat;
From silver buckets he drinks his wine,
Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.

With perfumes they rub him, and otto of roses
On his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,
The richest shawls that are made in the East
As carpets serve for the dignified beast.

The happiest life appears to be his,
But no one on earth contented is;
The noble creature,--one cannot tell why,--
Gives way to a deep despondency.

The melancholy monster white
Is wretched, all this profusion despite;
They fain would enliven and cheer him again,
But all their cleverest efforts are vain.

In vain with singing and springing there come
The bayaderes; the kettle drum
And cornet in vain the musicians play,
But nothing can make the elephant gay.

As matters continue to go on badly,
The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;
He sends for the wisest astrologer known,
And bids him stand before his throne.

“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”--
Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead
“What is it that my poor elephant needs,
“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”

The other one threw himself thrice on the ground,
And finally spoke with obeisance profound:
“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,
“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.

“There lives in the North a woman fair,
“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;
“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,
“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.

“Compared with her, he only appears
“A little white mouse; her form she rears
“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,
“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.

“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame;
“Two lofty pilasters support the same,
“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,
“Of alabaster dazzling and white.

“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic,
“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!
“As lamp there burns within the fane
“A heart quite free from spot and stain.

“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin
“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;
“E’en Gautier[65] unable to do it, alas! is,
“Its whiteness all description surpasses.

“The highest Himalaya’s snow
“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;
“The lily that she by accident thumbs
“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.

“The Countess Bianca is the name
“Of this enormous snow-white dame;
“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,
“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.

“By strange and wondrous elective affinity
“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity
“And into his heart this lofty Ideal
“First crept by means of a vision unreal.

“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy,
“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,
“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,
“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.

“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill!
“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;
“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,
“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’

“His body alone is in Siam, his mind
“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;
“And yet this parting of body and soul
“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.

“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly,
“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;
“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;
“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.

“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive,
“His return to the animal world contrive,
“O King, then send the renown’d invalid
“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.

“When he on the spot in the actual sight
“Of the beautiful lady can take delight--
“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,
“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.

“There where his mistress’s glances fall,
“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;
“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface
“Which in his bosom had taken their place.

“And then her voice, like a magical tune,
“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;
“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,
“And feel as he felt in youthful days.

“All things are so very enchanting and pretty
“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!
“How thy elephant there will civilized be,
“Amusing himself right merrily!

“But most of all, O monarch, take care
“That plenty of money he has with him there,
“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,
“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,

“For a million of ducats or thereabouts;
“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts
“About him, but say with an accent mellow:
“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”

The astrologer thus discoursed, and then
He threw himself thrice on the ground again.
The king with rich presents sent him away,
And stretched himself, his course to survey.

He thought of this, and he thought of that;
(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).
His ape beside him took his seat,
And both of them fell asleep with the heat.

What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate;
The Indian mails are behind their date.
The last of these which has come to hand
Was by way of Suez, and overland.

KNAVE OF BERGEN.

At Dusseldorf castle on the Rhine
They’re gaily masquerading;
The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,
The music their nimbleness aiding.

The beauteous Duchess dances too,
And ceases laughing never;
Her partner is a slender youth,
Who seems right courtly and clever.

He wears a mask of velvet black,
Whence merrily is peeping
An eye just like a shining dirk
From out of its sheath half creeping.

The carnival throng exultingly shout
As they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,
While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]
Salute with loud noise and grimaces.

The trumpets crash, and the merry hum
Of the double-bass increases,
Until the dance to an end has come,
And then the music ceases.

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“’Tis time for me to go now--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,
“Unless your face you show now.”

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“My face is a hideous creature’s--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,
“I insist upon seeing your features.”

“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“For night and death are my portion--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go
“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”

In vain he struggled with gloomy words
To change her determination;
At length she forcibly tore the mask
From his face for her information.

“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hall
Exclaim with a feeling of terror,
And timidly shrink;--the Duchess rush’d out,
Her husband to tell of her error.

The Duke was wise, and all the disgrace
Of the Duchess straightway effac’d he;
He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,
Good fellow!” with accents hasty.

“With this stroke of the sword I make you now
“A limb of the order knightly;
“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d
“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”

So the headsman became a nobleman proud,
Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;
A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,
Though now they all underground are!

THE VALKYRES.[67]

While below contending forces
Fight, above on cloudy horses
Three Valkyres ride; their song
Through the air re-echoes long.

“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel,
“Each would bear away the laurel;
“Conquest is the highest prize,
“Highest worth in courage lies.

“No proud helmet gives protection,
“Death brings all things in subjection;
“And the hero’s blood is shed,
“And the wicked win instead.

“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!
On the morrow in he marches,
“Who the better one o’erthrew,
“Winning land and people too.

“Senator and burgomaster
“Go to meet the victor faster
“With the keys that ope the gate,
“And the train then enters straight.

“Cannon from the walls are crashing,
“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,
“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,
“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.

“On the balconies are standing
“Smiling beauteous women, handing
“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;
“He with haughty calmness breathes.”

HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD.

The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d
When he heard the tragical story
That Harold the king had lost his life
On Hastings battle-field gory.

Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he
As messengers then selected,
To seek at Hastings amongst the dead
For Harold’s body neglected.

The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,
And return’d with faces averted:
“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,
“We seem by Fortune deserted.

“The better man has fallen in fight,
“O’ercome by that bastard demon;
“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,
“And make a slave of the freeman.

“The veriest rascal in Normandy now
“Is lord of the island of Britain;
“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs
“We saw as gay as a kitten.

“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!
“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,
“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,
“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.

“The meaning now we can understand
“Of the blood-red comet which lately
“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky
“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.

“At Hastings there was realized
“The evil star’s prediction;
“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there
“We sought with deep affliction.

“Till every hope had disappear’d
“We sought in each direction;
“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,
“Escaped our close inspection.”

’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;
His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d he
Then sank in deep thought, and finally said,
As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:

“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,
“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling
“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,
“In beauty once so excelling.

“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,
“Because her neck in its splendour
“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king
“Loved the maid with affection tender.

“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then
“Forgot, like a faithless lover;
Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years
“Have since those days pass’d over.

“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,
“And bid her return with you quickly
“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king
“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.

“And when you have found his body, with speed
“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,
“That we for his soul due masses may sing,
“And like a Christian inter him.”

At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’d
The hut in the forest, saying:
“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,
“And follow without delaying.

“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,
“And the routed Saxons are flying,
“And on the field of Hastings the corpse
“Of Harold the King is lying.

“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there
“The body beneath the dead hidden,
“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,
“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”

Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,
And not one word she utter’d,
But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hair
In the wind all wildly flutter’d.

The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,
And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,
Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coast
At the dawning of day descried they.

The mist, which like a snowy veil,
The battle-field was cloaking,
Dispersed by degrees; the noisy daws
Were flapping their wings and croaking.

Many thousand corpses were lying there
On the earth with blood bespatter’d,
Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steed
Among the carcases scatter’d.

Poor Edith the Swanneck in the blood
With naked feet now waded;
No single spot the searching glance
Of her piercing eye evaded.

Both here and there she sought, and she oft
Had to scare away the devouring
Black troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;
The monks behind her were cowering.

She sought throughout the livelong day,
Till the shades of the evening were falling;
When out of the poor woman’s breast there burst
A shriek both wild and appalling.

For Edith the Swanneck had found at last
The corpse of the king, poor creature!
No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,
She kiss’d each pallid feature.

She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,
Her arms encircled him tightly;
She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,
Disfigured by wounds unsightly.

Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,--
And cover’d them over with kisses,--
Three little scars that her teeth had made,
The signs of their former blisses.

And in the meantime the pair of monks
Some branches of trees collected;
These form’d the bier, on which they bore
The body, with hearts dejected.

To Waltham Abbey the body they took,
To bury it rightly and duly,
And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpse
Of him she had loved so truly.

The litanies for the dead she sang
In childlike pious fashion,
And in the night they fearfully rang,--
The monks pray’d, full of compassion.

CHARLES I.

In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the wood
Sits the king, an object of pity;
The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,
And sings this monotonous ditty:

“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st
“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.

“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow
“The sign,--and dead is the kitten;
“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,
“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.

“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,
“And now no longer receive they,--
“Eiapopeia,--the faith in a God,
“Still less in the king believe they.

“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice
“And we from their presence are driven,--
“Eiapopeia,--I, monarch on earth,
“And God, the monarch in heaven.

“My heart grows sicker day by day,
“My brow grows sterner and sterner;
“Eiapopeia,--my headsman art thou,
“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!

“My song of death is thy cradle-song--
“Eiapopeia--thou’lt fumble
“My grey locks about, and cut them off,--
“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.

“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw?
“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;
“Thou strikest off from my body my head,--
“The life of the kitten is ended.

“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,--
“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

The plate-glass windows gleam in the sun
In the Tuileries Castle gaily;
And yet the well-known spectres of old
Still walk about in it daily.

Queen Marie Antoinette still doth haunt
The famous pavilion of Flora;
With strict etiquette she holds her court
At each return of Aurora.

Full dress’d are the ladies,--they most of them stand,
On tabourets others are sitting,
With dresses of satin and gold brocade,
Hung with lace and jewels befitting.

Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,
And from underneath them are peeping
Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,--
If their heads were but still in their keeping!

Not one of the number a head has on,
The queen herself in that article
Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts
Of frizzling not one particle.

Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,
In dignity so resplendent,
Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,
The German Cæsar’s descendant,

She, curlless and headless, now must walk
Amongst her maids of honour,
Who, equally headless and void of curls,
Are humbly waiting upon her.

All this from the French Revolution has sprung,
And its doctrines so pernicious,
From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,
And Voltaire the malicious.

Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly think
That none of these hapless creatures
Have ever observed how dead they are,
How devoid of head and features.

The first _dame d’atour_ a linen shift brings,
And makes a reverence lowly;
The second hands it to the queen,
And both retire then slowly.

The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneel
Before the queen discreetly,
That they may be able to draw on
Her Majesty’s stockings neatly.

A maid of honour curtsying brings
Her Majesty’s robe for the morning;
Another with curtsies her petticoat holds
And assists at the queen’s adorning.

The mistress of the robes with her fan
Stands by, the time beguiling;
And as her head is unhappily gone,
With her other end she is smiling.

The sun his inquisitive glances throws
Inside the draperied casement;
But when the apparitions he sees,
He starts in fearful amazement.

THE SILESIAN WEAVERS.[68]

No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,
They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:
“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!

“A curse on the God to whom our petition
“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;
“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,
“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,--
“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!

“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often
“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;
“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,
“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!

“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,
“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,
“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,
“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!

“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,
“We’re weaving busily night and day;
“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”

POMARE.

1.

All the gods of love are shouting
In my heart, and blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”

Not the queen of Otaheite
Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
To convert; no, she I mean
Is a wild untutor’d beauty.

Twice in every week appears she,
All her subjects quite entrancing
In that dear Jardin Mabille,
Waltzes and the polka dancing.

Majesty in all her footsteps,
Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
Quite a princess every inch,
Whichsoever way you take her.

Thus she dances--gods of love are
In my heart all blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”

2.

She dances. How her figure sways!
What grace her every limb displays!
There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,
As if she from her skin were springing.

She dances. When she twirls with skill
Upon one foot, and then stands still
At last with both her arms extended,
My very reason seems suspended.

She dances. ’Tis the very same
That once Herodias’ daughter came
And danced to Herod. As she dances,
Her eye casts round it deadly glances.

She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,
What shall be thy reward to-day?
Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway
Decapitate the Baptist straightway!

3.

Yesterday for very bread,
In the mire she wallowèd;
But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,
In her carriage takes an airing.
On its silken cushions she
Rests her head, and haughtily
Looks upon the thronging masses
Whom on foot her carriage passes.
When I see thee travelling so,
Then my heart is fill’d with woe!
Ah, this carriage,--so prepare thee,--
To the hospital will bear thee,
Where unfeeling cruel death
Soon will take away thy breath,
And the student, with coarse greasy
Prentice hand, so free and easy,
Will cut up thy body fair
Anatomically there;
And at Montfaucon thy horses
At the knacker’s end their courses.

4.

Thou hast been by fate befriended
Better than at first I said;
God be praised, all now is ended!
God be praised, and thou art dead!

In thy poor and agèd mother’s
Garret thou at length didst die.
She, with love beyond all others,
Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.

She a winding-sheet bought duly,
And a coffin, and a grave;
Somewhat close and wretched truly
Was the funeral that they gave.

No priests at that funeral lonely
Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully;
Thy _friseur_ and poodle only
As thy mourners follow’d thee.

“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often
“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,
“And her long black tresses soften,
“Sitting in her easy chair!”

But the dog,--away he scamper’d
At the churchyard gate anon,
And was lodged and fed and pamper’d
Afterwards by Rose Pompon.

She, the Provençaler, grudged thee
Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
As a hated rival judged thee,
Made thee victim of her spleen.

Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,
With thy mud crown on thy head,
Thou art saved by God’s eternal
Goodness, thou at last art dead.

As thy mother, so thy Father
Mercy show’d thee from above;
This He did, methinks, the rather
In that thou so much didst love.

THE APOLLO GOD.

The convent stands high on the rocky steep,
The Rhine beneath it glistens;
The youthful nun doth eagerly peep
Through the lattice window, and listens.

A bark of fable is sailing past,
By the evening glow tinged brightly;
While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,
With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.

Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,
With flowing auburn tresses;
Of very ancient cut, in truth,
His gold and purple dress is.

Before his feet nine women lie,
Of marble-lovely graces;
A tunic fair and loop’d up high
Each slender form embraces.

The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,
And likewise plays his lyre;
The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,
And sets it all on fire.

She makes a cross, and once again
The nun repeats the measure;
The cross scares not her blissful pain,
Nor checks her bitter pleasure.

2.

I am the god of music bright,
Revered in every nation;
In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,
My temple had its station.

In Greece I oft have sat and play’d
On famed Parnassus’ mountain,
Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,
Beside Castalia’s fountain.

My daughters sat around their Pa,
And raised a vocal chorus;
They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!
While laughter floated o’er us.

The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!
From out the forest loudly;
There hunted Artemisia,
My little sister, proudly.

And whensoe’er I took some sips,--
I can’t describe it neatly,--
From out Castalia’s fount, my lips
Burst into music sweetly.

I sang--my lyre, as it replied,
O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;
I felt as if I Daphne spied
Behind the laurels peeping.

I sang--ambrosial incense stream’d,
And lightly o’er me hover’d;
And the whole world around me seem’d
By a bright halo cover’d.

A thousand years from Grecia’s land
Have I been sadly banish’d;
Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land
Remain’d, though I have vanish’d.

3.

In the costume of the Beguins,
In the cloak with cap upon it
Of the coarsest blackest serge,
Is the youthful nun envelop’d.

Hastily along the Rhine banks
Paces she adown the highway
On the road to Holland, asking
Eagerly of every passer:

“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”

None will answer her inquiry,
Many turn their backs in silence,
Many stare upon her smiling,
Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”

But along the highway trotting
Comes a slovenly old man;
Making figures in the air, he
Keeps on singing through his nose.

He a clumsy wallet carries,
And a little hat three-corner’d,
And with sharp and smiling eyes he
Listens to the nun’s inquiry:

“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”

He however gave this answer,
Whilst his little head he waggled
Here and there, and comically
At his sharp beard kept on twitching:

“Have I chanced to see Apollo?
“Yes, I certainly have seen him
“When at Amsterdam full often,
“In the German synagogue.

“He was there the leading singer,
“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,
“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,--
“But he’s not my idol truly.

“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too
“I remember; genuine scarlet,
“And the price per ell eight florins,--
“Not all paid for to this moment.

“His old father, Moses Jitscher,
“Know I well; he’s circumciser
“To the Portuguese, I fancy,
“And to various sovereigns also.

“And his mother is a cousin
“Of my sister’s husband, trading
“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,
“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.

“In their son they take no pleasure;
“On the lyre he plays not badly,
“But, I grieve to say, far better
“Plays he at taroc and ombre.

“He is likewise a free-thinker,
“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,
“And then travell’d round the country
“With some painted low comedians.

“In the shops and on the markets
“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,
“Holofernes, or King David,
“But the latter most excell’d in.

“For the king’s own sorrows sang he
“In the king’s own mother language,
“Giving all the proper quavers
“In the proper olden fashion.

“Recently some wenches took he
“From the Amsterdam casino,
“And he’s travelling with these Muses
“Round the country as Apollo.

“One amongst them is a stout one,
“Squeaking very much and grunting:
“On account of her green laurel
“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”

HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69]

Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,
Few monarchs are half so splendid;
In him a king the Bavarians revere,
From an ancient line descended.

He’s fond of art: fair women to get
For their portraits to sit, is his passion:
In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,
In eunuch-artistic fashion.

A marble place of skulls hath he
Near Ratisbon constructed,
And all the arrangements for every head
In his own royal person conducted.

Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,
Where the merit of every man is
Set forth, with his character and his acts,
From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71]

But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,
Has no place in this proud mausoleum;
The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out
In a natural hist’ry museum.

King Louis is also a poet renown’d;
Whenever sings or plays he,
Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:
“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”

King Louis is also a hero renown’d,
Like his child, his little son, Otho,
Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece
(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).

When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be
At Rome by the holy Father;
A cat with ruffles a face like his
With its Glory will look like rather.

As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos
Are converted to Christianity,
They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,
In proof of their perfect sanity.

TWO KNIGHTS.

Crapulinski and Waschlapski,
Poles in Poland born and bred,
Fought for their dear country’s freedom
’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.

Boldly did they fight, and lastly
Found at Paris a retreat;
Living, just as much as dying
For one’s fatherland, is sweet.

Like Achilles and Patroclus,
David and his Jonathan,
Loved the pair of Poles each other,
Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]

Neither e’er betray’d the other,
Both were faithful friends and true,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Born and bred in Poland too.

They the same apartment dwelt in,
In the selfsame bed slept they,
And in noble emulation
Scratch’d themselves by night and day.

In the selfsame beershop dined they,
And as neither was content
That the other paid his reckoning,
Neither ever paid a cent.

’Twas the selfsame washerwoman
Did the washing for the pair;
Humming, for their linen came she
Every month to wash and air.

Yes, they really had their linen,
Each one had two shirts, well-worn,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Poles in Poland bred and born.

They to-day sit near the chimney,
Where the flames a bright glow cast;
Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,
And the coaches driving past.

They a mighty bowl of punch have
Drain’d already and devour’d;
(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,
And unwater’d and unsour’d.)

Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,
Tears their furrow’d faces streak:
With a voice of deep emotion
Thus doth Crapulinski speak;

“Would that I had here in Paris
“My dear bearskin, my old cotton
“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,
“In my fatherland forgotten!”

Thus to him replied Waschlapski:
“O thou art a driv’ller true;
“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,
“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.

“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,
“Still our wives to sons give birth,
“And our girls will do so likewise,
“And produce us men of worth,

“Heroes, like great Sobieski,
“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,
“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,
“And the mighty Eselinski.”

OUR MARINE.[73]

(A Nautical tale.)

A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,
And enjoy’d a sail delicious
Far over the wide and boundless sea,
The wind was quite propitious.

We gave our frigates the proudest names
That we in our calendar reckon’d;
One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,
And Prutz[74] we christen’d the second.

There floated the cutter Freiligrath,
Whereon was seen the figure
Of the Moorish king, which gazed below
Like a moon (but as black as a nigger).

There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,
A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;
On each of them stood a Swabian face,
Each holding a wooden lyre.

There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which bore
On its mast the escutcheon olden
Of the famous German Admiralty,
On tatters black-red-golden.

We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,
And bore ourselves like sailors;
Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,
And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.

Full many, who formerly sipp’d but tea
As husbands kind and forbearing,
Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,
And, seaman-like, took to swearing.

So bright was our vision, we well nigh won
A naval victory splendid;
But when return’d the morning sun,
Both fleet and vision had ended.

We still were lying at home in bed,
Our limbs all over it sprawling;
We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,
The following wise speech bawling:

“The world is round; why seek to be tost
“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?
“When we sail round the world, at last we return
“To the point from which we started.”

THE GOLDEN CALF.

Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,
To the idol-dance inviting--
Round the golden calf with springing
All of Jacob’s daughters come--
Brum--brum--brum--
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!

Girding up their tunics lightly,
Clasping hands together tightly,
Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,
Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,
Round the beast--
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!

Aaron’s self joins in the mazy
Circling dance with motions crazy;
His concerns not looking after,
Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,
Like a goat--
Kettle drums and ringing laughter!

KING DAVID.

Despots smiling yield their breath,
Knowing after their own death
That their slaves but change their master,
And, if anything, work faster.

Ah, poor race! like horse and bull
They the waggons still must pull,
And their backs will soon be broken
If they heed not what is spoken.

David said to Solomon
On his deathbed: “List, my son!
“My most dreaded foe of course is
“Joab, general of my forces.

“This brave general many a year
“I have view’d with hate and fear;
“But, however I detest him,
“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.

“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,
“Fearing God, art strong enough;
“’Tis for thee an easy matter
“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”

KING RICHARD.

Through the silent glades of the forest there springs
An eager horseman proudly;
He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings
Exultingly and loudly.

His armour is made of the brass most strong,
But stronger still is his bosom;
’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,
That Christian chivalry’s blossom.

“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough
“Exclaims with joyous assurance;
“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou
“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”

The king snuffs up the free air the while,
Like a newborn creature lives he;
He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,--
And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.

THE ASRA.

Daily went the wondrous lovely
Sultan’s daughter at the cooling
Hour of evening to the fountain,
Where the waters white were plashing.

Daily at the hour of evening
Stood the young slave at the fountain
Where the waters white were plashing,
Daily grew he pale and paler.

And one evening came the princess,
And these sudden words address’d him:
“Thou must tell me what thy name is,
“And thy country and thy kindred!”

And the slave replied: “My name is
“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,
“And my race is of those Asras,
“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”

THE NUNS.

Who at night the convent walls
Passes, sees the windows brightly
Lighted up, for there the spectres
Make their gloomy circuit nightly.

’Tis dead Ursulines that join
In the sad and dark procession;
From the linen hoods are peeping
Faces young of sweet expression.

Tapers bear they in their hands,
Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious
Strangely echo in the crossway
Whispers low, wails sad and serious.

To the church the train moves on;
Sitting on the wooden benches
Of the quire, their mournful chorus
Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches.