Chapter XX: Part II: 1826 (5)

Like a litany it sounds,
But the words are wild and shocking
They are poor and outcast spirits
At the heavenly portal knocking.

“Brides of Christ we used to be,
“But by love of earth were chainèd,
“And we render’d unto Cæsar
“Things that unto God pertainèd.

“Charming is a uniform
“And mustachios smooth and shining
“For the epaulettes of Cæsar
“Were our hearts in secret pining.

“Antlers to the brow we gave
“By our shameless ill behaviour,
“Which the crown of thorns once carried,--
“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.

“Jesus,--mercy’s very self,--
“Softly wept o’er our transgression,
“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd
“‘For disgracing your profession!’

“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,
“We must wander in these dreary
“Walls, our folly to atone for,--
“Miserere! Miserere!

“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!
“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery
“In the glowing realms of heaven,--
“Miserere! Miserere!

“Jesus sweet, forgive at length
“Our transgression sad and weary;
“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,--
“Miserere! Miserere!”

Thus the troop of nuns sing on,
And a long-dead clerk is playing
On the organ. Hands of spirits
O’er the keys are wildly straying.

PALSGRAVINE JUTTA.

The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,
Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;
The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:
“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d
“That, seeking to find us,
“Are floating behind us?--
“So sadly are floating the corpses!

“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,
“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,
“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make
“That they their oaths should never break,
“I seized and bound them,
“And straightway drown’d them,--
“So sadly are floating the corpses!”

The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,
Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;
From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,
And point with their fingers towards the sky,
In token of swearing,
With glassy eyes staring--
So sadly are floating the corpses!

THE MOORISH KING.

To the Alpuxarres’ exile
Went the youthful Moorish monarch;
Silent and with heart full mournful
Heading the procession rode he.

And behind, on lofty palfreys
Or in golden litters riding,
Sat the women of his household;
Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.

And a hundred trusty followers
Rode on noble Arab horses;
Haughty steeds, and yet the riders
Carelessly bestrode the saddles.

Not a drum and not a cymbal,
Not a single song resounded;
Silver bells upon the mules, though,
Echoed sadly in the silence.

On the height, from whence the glances
Sweep across the Duero valley,
And Granada’s battlements
For the last time rise before one,

There the mournful king dismounted,
And he gazed upon the city
Glittering in the light of evening,
As though deck’d with gold and purple.

But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!
In the place of that dear crescent
Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard
On the tow’rs of the Alhambra.

Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry
Broke from out the monarch’s bosom;
Suddenly the tears ’gan falling
Like a torrent down his cheeks.

Sadly from her lofty palfrey
Downward gazed the monarch’s mother,
Looking on her son’s affliction;
Proudly, bitterly, she chided:

“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
“Like a woman thou bewailest
“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst
“To defend with manly courage.”

When the monarch’s dearest mistress
Heard these words, so harsh and cruel,
Hastily she left her litter,
Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.

“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!
“From the deep abyss of sorrow
“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.

“Not alone the glorious victor,
“Not alone the proud triumphant
“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,
“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,

“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,
“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring
“Has succumb’d, will live for ever
“In the memory of mortals.”--

“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”
To this very moment call they
Yonder height from whence the monarch
For the last time saw Granada.

Time has now fulfill’d full sweetly
His beloved one’s prophecy,
And the Moorish monarch’s name is
Reverenced and held in honour.

Never will his glory vanish,
Never, till the last chord’s broken
Of the last guitar remaining
In the land of Andalusia.

GEOFFRY RUDÈL AND MELISANDA OF TRIPOLI.

In the Château Blay still see we
Tapestry the walls adorning,
Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’
Own fair hands, no labour scorning.

Her whole soul was woven in it,
And with loving tears and tender
Hallow’d is the silken picture,
Which the following scene doth render:

How the Countess saw Rudèl
Dying on the strand of ocean,
And the’ ideal in his features
Traced of all her heart’s emotion.

For the first and last time also
Living saw Rudèl and breathing
Her who in his every vision
Intertwining was and wreathing.

Over him the Countess bends her,
Lovingly his form she raises,
And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,
That so sweetly sang her praises.

Ah! the kiss of welcome likewise
Was the kiss of separation,
And they drain’d the cup of wildest
Joy, and deepest desolation.

In the Château Blay at night-time
Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking
On the tapestry the figures
Suddenly to life are waking.

Troubadour and lady stretch their
Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,
And from out the wall advancing,
Up and down the hall they wander.

Whispers fond and gentle toying,
Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,
Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,
Minnesingers’ times recalling:

“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music
“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,
“And I feel once more a glimmer
“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”

“Melisanda! I awaken
“Unto happiness and gladness,
“When I see thine eyes; dead only
“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”

“Geoffry! Once we loved each other
“In our dreams; now, cut asunder
“By the hand of death, still love we,--
“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”

“Melisanda! What are dreams?
“What is death? Mere words to scare one!
“Truth in love alone e’er find we,
“And I love thee, ever fair one!”

“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings
“In this moonlit chamber nightly,
“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams
“I no more shall wander lightly.”

“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!
“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!
“Love and joys of May are budding,
“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”--

Thus those tender spectres wander
Up and down, and sweet caresses
Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight
Through the window’s arch’d recesses.

But at length the rays of morning
Scare away the fond illusion;
To the tapestry retreat they
On the wall, in shy confusion.

THE POET FERDUSI.

1.

Men of gold, and men of silver!
When a fool about a thoman
Talks, of silver he is speaking,
And he means a silver thoman.

In a prince’s mouth, however,
Or a shah’s, a thoman’s always
Golden, for a shah will only
Give and take in golden thomans.

Worthy people have this notion,
And Ferdusi thought so also,
The composer of the famous
And immortal work _Schah Nameh_.

This divine heroic poem
At the Shah’s command composed he,
Who for every verse a thoman
Promised to bestow upon him.

Seventeen times bloom’d the roses,
Seventeen times did they wither,
And the nightingales sang sweetly
And were silent seventeen times,--

And meanwhile the bard was sitting
At the loom of thought, composing
Day and night, and nimbly weaving
His sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,--

Giant-carpet, where the poet
Interwove with skill his country’s
Chronicles from times of fable,
Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,

Fav’rite heroes of his nation,
Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,
Magic beings, hateful demons,
Intertwined with flowers of fable.

All were blooming, all were living,
Bright with colours, glowing, burning,
With the heavenly rays illumin’d
From the sacred light of Iran,

From the godlike light primeval,
Whose last pure and fiery temple,
Spite of Koran and of Mufti,
In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.

When at last the work was finish’d,
Then the manuscript the poet
Sent to his illustrious patron,
E’en two hundred thousand verses.

It was in the public bath room,
In the bathing place at Gasna,
That the Shah’s black messengers
Found at last the bard Ferdusi.

Each a bag of money carried,
Which before the poet’s feet he
Kneeling placed, to be the guerdon
To reward his minstrel labours.

Hastily the poet open’d
Both the bags, his eyes to gladden
With the gold so long kept from him,--
When he saw with consternation

That the bags contain’d within them
Silver only, silver thomans,
Some two hundred thousand of them;--
Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.

Laughing bitterly, the money
He divided in three equal
Portions, and a third part gave he
To the two black messengers,

Each a third, to be his guerdon
For the message, and the third part
Gave he to the man who waited
On his bath, as drinking-money.

Then his pilgrim staff he straightway
Grasp’d, and left at once the city,
And before the gate the dust he
From his very shoes rejected.

2.

“Had he been, like other men,
“Heedless of his words once spoken,
“And his promise merely broken,
“I had not been angry then.

“Suffer _this_? I never will!
“His deceit my heart amazes,
“Both his double-meaning phrases,
“And his silence, falser still.

“He was noble, fair to see,
“Proud his gestures were, and stately;
“Other men excell’d he greatly,
“Every inch a king was he.

“Firelike did his glance once meet me,
“As the sun in yonder heaven
“He, truth’s haughty image even--
“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”

3.

Shah Mahomet full well has dined,
And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.

In the garden at twilight, on purple seat
He sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,

With looks respectful his servants stand:
His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.

From marble vases a fiery gush
Of luxuriant flowers appears to rush.

Like Odalisques with graceful arms
Stand fanning themselves the slender palms.

The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d,
As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.

But sudden to strains of the lute ere long
Is heard a gentle mysterious song.

The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d:
“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”

Ansari, from whom he sought to know it,
Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”

“Ferdusi!”--exclaim’d the prince in dismay,--
“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”

“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great
“He has lived full long in a mournful state

“At Thus, the native town of the bard,
“Where he in his garden works full hard.”

Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said:
“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.

“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty
“Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.

“And lade them all with every treasure
“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,

“With splendid articles, rich and rare,
“With costly dresses and furniture fair

“Of sandal wood and ivory white,
“With gold and silver tissues dight;

“With precious-handled goblets and pots,
“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,

“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade
“That in my kingdom has ever been made.

“And don’t forget to pack with the rest
“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,

“As well as drinks of every kind
“And eatables such as in pots we find,

“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian,
“And gingerbread of every description.

“And also add a dozen steeds
“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,

“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals,
“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.

“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got,
“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.

“Thou must take them all with my kind regard
“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”--

Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest,
And loaded the camels and mules with the best

And costliest presents, the value of which
Was enough to make a whole province quite rich.

In propriâ personâ he left at last
The palace, when some three days had past,

And with a general’s banner red
In front of the caravan he sped.

At the end of a week to Thus came they;
The town at the foot of the mountain lay.

The caravan the western gate
With shouts and noises entered straight.

The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat,
And songs of triumph rang through the street.

“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shout
The camel drivers were calling out.

But through the East gate at the farther end
Of Thus, at that moment chanced to wend

The funeral train so full of gloom,
That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.

VOYAGE BY NIGHT.

The half-moon peer’d from the darksome clouds
With coyness, while rock’d the sea;
And when in the bark our places we took,
Our number then was three.

There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oar
With sad monotony;
White foaming billows came with a roar,
And sprinkled all of us three.

She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim,
As void of motion too,
As though she a marble statue were,
Diana’s image true.

The moon disappear’d. The nightwind piped
With chilly blast on high;
When over our heads there suddenly rose
A wild and piercing cry.

’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice,
And at that terrible cry,
Which fearfully rang like a warning call,
All three felt like to die.

Am I in a fever? A vision is this
Of nightly phantasy?
Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dream
Of wild buffoonery.

Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dream
That I a Saviour am;
And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,
As gentle as a lamb.

Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d,
But soon I’ll set her free
From sin and shame and sorrow and pain,
And earthly misery.

Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified,
Though bitter the medicine be;
Although my heart may break, I myself
Will mete out death to thee.

O folly wild and terrible dream!
O madness fearful to see!
The night is yawning, the ocean yells--
O God, have mercy on me!

Have mercy on me, O merciful God!
O merciful God! Schaddey![75]
A Something falls in the sea--Alas!
Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]

The sun arose, we came to the land,
Sweet smiled the spring to the view;
And when at length we left the bark,
Our number then was two.

THE PRELUDE.

This, then, is America!
This indeed the new world is!
Not the present, which already
Europeanized, is with’ring.--

This indeed the new world is,
As by Christopher Columbus
From the ocean extricated;
In its billowy freshness gleams it,

With its watery pearls still dripping,
Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,
When the sunlight fair it kisses.
O how healthy this new world is!

’Tis no churchyard of romance,
’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,
All made up of mouldy symbols,
And of petrified perukes.

From the healthy earth are shooting
Healthy trees, and none amongst them
_Blasé_ is, or has consumption
Eating up its spinal marrow.

On the branches are disporting
Mighty birds. Of chequer’d colours
Is their plumage. With their solemn
Lengthy beaks, and eyes encircled

With black marks, like spectacles,
They in silence gaze upon thee,
Till they shriek with sudden clamour
And like washerwomen chatter.

Yet I know not what they’re saying,
Notwithstanding that I’m learned
In birds’ tongues as Solomon,
Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,

And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,--
Not the modern ones alone,
But all dialects whatever,
Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.

New the land is, new the flowers!
New the flowers and new the fragrance!
Fragrance wild, and never heard of,
Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,

Teasing, prickling, full of passion--
And my subtle sense of smelling
Racks itself with meditating:
“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?

“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance,
“In the sunny arms so yellow
“Of that Javanese thin woman
“Who was always eating flowers?

“Was it else at Rotterdam,
“Near the Column of Erasmus,
“In the wafer-shop notorious
“With its most mysterious curtain?”

Whilst I in this puzzled fashion
The new world was contemplating,
Seeming to instil into it
Still more bashfulness,--a monkey,

Who, affrighted, sought the bushes,
Cross’d himself at my appearance,
Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!
“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”--

“Monkey, be not thus confounded!
“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;
“Life within my veins is boiling,
“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.

“Yet by living many years
“With the dead, have I adopted
“Dead men’s manners very likely,
“And peculiar ways of thinking.

“All the fairest years of life
“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,
“In the Venusberg, and other
“Catacombs of the Romantic.

“Have no fear of me, good monkey!
“Thee I like, for on thy hairless
“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters
“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”--

Darling colours! Black-red-golden!
Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,
Sorrowfully they remind me
Of the flag of Barbarossa.

VITZLIPUTZLI.

1.

On his head he wore the laurel,
And upon his boots there glitter’d
Golden spurs,--but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.

He was but a robber captain,
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of--Cortez.

Underneath Columbus’ name he
Wrote his own,--yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.

After Christopher Columbus
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world’s proud Pantheon.

Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!

Were’t not better e’en to perish
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity’s long ages
Such a name in comradeship?

Master Christopher Columbus
Was a hero,--and his temper,
That was pure as e’en the sunlight,
Was as gen’rous in addition.

Many people much have given,
But Columbus to the world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And ’tis call’d America.

He had not the power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And our heavy chain to lengthen.

Mortals thankfully revere him,
Being, not of Europe only,
But of Africa and Asia,
Equally quite sick and weary.

One alone, one hero only
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus--that one mean I
Who a God bestow’d upon us.

His old father’s name was Amram,
And his mother’s Jochebed,
And himself, his name was Moses,
And he is my greatest hero.

But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loitering
Far too long with this Columbus;
Know thou that our flight to-day is
With the lesser man,--with Cortez.

So extend thy colour’d pinions,
Wingèd steed! and carry me
To the new world’s beauteous country
That they Mexico entitle.

Carry me to yonder castle,
Which the monarch Montezuma
Kindly offer’d to his Spanish
Guests, to be their habitation.

Not mere food and shelter only
In extravagant profusion
Gave the prince these foreign strollers,--
Presents rich and precious also,

Valuable, wrought with cunning,
All of massive gold, and jewels,
Bear gay witness to the monarch’s
Generosity and favour.

This uncivilised, unlearned,
Superstitious, blinded heathen
Still believed in faith and honour,
And the sacredness of guest-right.

He accepted a proposal
To be present at a banquet
That the Spaniards in their castle
Wish’d to give, to do him honour.

And with all his court attendants
Came the inoffensive monarch
Kindly to the Spanish quarters,
Where by trumpets he was greeted.

What they call’d the entertainment
Know I not. ’Twas very likely
“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’s
Name was Don Fernando Cortez.

Cortez gave the signal--straightway
They attack’d the peaceful monarch,
And they bound him and retain’d him
In the castle as a hostage.

But poor Montezuma died there,
And the dam was broken down
Which the bold adventurers
From the people’s wrath protected.

Terribly began the tempest;
Like a wild and furious ocean
Raved and bluster’d ever nearer
The excited human billows.

Valiantly in truth the Spaniards
Drove the tempest back. But daily
Was the castle fresh blockaded,
And the conflict was exhausting.

When the King was dead, the convoys
Of provisions ceased entirely;
In proportion as the rations
Shorter grew, each face grew longer.

With long faces on each other
Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness,
And they sigh’d, when they bethought them
Of their cosy Christian dwellings

In their cherish’d fatherland,
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And upon the hearth there bubbled
Peaceful olla podridas,

Thickly studded with garbanzos,
Under which, with waggish fragrance
Chuckling famously, were hidden
Those dear garlic sausages.

Then the leader held a council,
And upon retreat decided;
On the following morn at daybreak
Was the force to leave the city.

Easy ’twas for clever Cortez
Cunningly to gain an entrance,
But retreat to terra firma
Offer’d fatal obstacles.

Mexico, the island city,
In a mighty lake is founded,
In the middle, wave-surrounded:
E’en a haughty water fortress,

With the continent connected
But by ships and rafts and bridges,
Which repose on piles gigantic,
Little islands forming forts.

’Twas before the sun had risen
That their march began the Spaniards
Not a single drum was beaten,
Not a trumpeter was blowing.

’Twas their object not to waken
From their quiet sleep their hosts--
(For a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamp’d in Mexico).

Yet without his host the Spaniard
Reckon’d, when his plans he settled;
For the Mexicans had risen
Earlier still to-day than he had.

On the rafts and on the bridges,
On the forts they all were waiting,
That they to their guests might offer
Then and there the parting cup.

On the rafts and forts and bridges
Ha! a frantic banquet follow’d;
In red torrents stream’d the blood,
And the bold carousers struggled,--

Struggled, body press’d to body,
And we see on many naked
Indian breasts the arabesque
Of the Spanish arms imprinted.

’Twas a throttling and a choking
And a butchery that slowly,
Sadly slowly, roll’d still onward
Over rafts and forts and bridges.

Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’d
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.

Fighting thus in narrow passes
Small to-day the’ advantage lying
In old Europe’s strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.

Many Spaniards in addition
With the gold were heavy laden,
Lately captured or extorted--
Ah! that yellow load of sin

Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,
And the devilish metal proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.

And meanwhile the lake around them
With canoes and barks was cover’d;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.

True they hit in the confusion
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.

On the third bridge fell at last
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin’s image.

E’en this image’ self was struck
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart,--bright arrows,

Like those swords of golden colour
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday’s sad procession.

Gaston, when he died, made over
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez

Seized himself the precious banner,
He, the leader, and he bore it
On his steed till tow’rd the evening,
When the fight at length was over.

On that day a hundred Spaniards
Fell, and sixty in addition;
Eighty more alive were taken
By the Indians’ cruel hands.

Many of them sorely wounded,
Who ere long their breath surrender’d
And a dozen horses, too, were
Partly kill’d and partly captured.

Cortez and his army only
Just at evening gain’d the shelter
Of the shore, a seacoast planted
Niggardly with weeping willows.

2.

When the battle day is over,
Comes the frantic night of triumph
So in Mexico a hundred
Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;

Hundred thousand lamps of joy, with
Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,
Throw a light as clear as daylight
Over palaces and temples,

And guildhouses,--likewise over
Vitzliputzli’s splendid temple,
Idol-fortress built of red brick,
Strangely like the old Egyptian,

Babylonian, and Assyrian
Monster buildings so colossal,
As we see them in the pictures
Of the English Henry Martin.[77]

Yes, it is the same broad staircase,
So exceeding broad, that on it
Many thousand Mexicans
Up and down are walking freely,

Whilst upon the steps are lying
Mighty troops of savage warriors,
Banqueting in joyous fashion,
Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.

This great staircase leadeth upwards
Like a zigzag to the platform,
By a balustrade surrounded
At the summit of the temple.

There, upon his altar-throne,
Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli,
Mexico’s bloodthirsty wargod.--
He is but an evil monster,

But so droll is his exterior,
Full of carvings, and so childish,
That despite our inward horror
It must needs excite our laughter.

His appearance altogether
Brought to mind a combination
Of the “Dance of Death” at Basle,
And the Mannekin at Brussels.

On the god’s left side his priests are
Station’d, on his right the people;
Ornaments of colour’d feathers
Are to-day the former wearing.

On the altar-stairs of marble
Squats a man a hundred years old;
On his chin and skull no hair is,
And he wears a scarlet waistcoat.

He’s the priest of sacrifices,
And his bloody knife he’s whetting;
As he whets, he grins, and ofttimes
Leers upon the god above him.

Vitzliputzli seems the glances
Of his servant to appreciate,
And he twitches every eyelash,
And his lips at times he twitches.

On the altar steps squat also
The musicians of the temple,
Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers--
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!

Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
And the Mexican Te Deum
Rises up in noisy chorus,
As if many cats were mewing--

As if many cats were mewing,
But of that enlarged description
Which are “tiger-cats” entitled,
And, instead of mice, eat people!

When the nightwind carries with it
These loud noises to the seashore,
The poor Spaniards there encamping
Feel sensations far from pleasant.

Sadly ’neath the weeping willows
Are the Spaniards still remaining,
Gazing tow’rd the distant city
Which within the dark sea water

Mirrors back, in sheer derision,
All the flames of former pleasure--
There they stand, as in the pit
Of a vast gigantic playhouse,

Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiant
Platform serving as the stage
Where they act a tragic myst’ry
To commemorate their triumph.

“Human sacrifice” the play is,
Old, full old, its plot, its fable;
But the piece is not so fearful
In the Christian treatment of it.

For into the blood is red wine,
And into the actual body
Is a thin and harmless wafer
Transubstantiated truly.

’Mongst these savages at present
Was the joke in downright earnest
Taken up; they fed on flesh,
And the blood was human blood.

This time ’twas indeed the pure blood
Of old Christians, which had never
Never mingled with the baser
Blood of Jews or of Moriscos.

O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!
For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,
And thou mayst refresh thy nostrils
With its warm scent greedily.

Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’d
On this day to do thee honour--
Proud repast to grace the table
Of thy priests, who flesh delight in.

For the priest is but a mortal,
And poor man, unhappy glutton,
Cannot, like the gods, live only
On sweet smells and savoury odours.

Hark! the death-drum now is beating,
And the evil cowhorn screeches!
They proclaim the’ approaching advent
Of the victims’ sad procession.

Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,
With their hands securely fasten’d
To their backs, are harshly driven
Up the temple’s lofty staircase.

And to Vitzliputzli’s image
They must bow the knee right humbly,
And must dance the wildest dances,
Forcibly constrain’d by tortures,

All so terrible and fearful,
That their madden’d screams of anguish
Overpow’r the whole collective
Cannibals’ wild charivari.

Poor spectators by the ocean!
Cortez and his warlike comrades
But too plainly could distinguish
All their friends’ loud cries of torment.

On the stage, too clearly lighted,
They could see, alas! too plainly,
Every figure, every gesture,--
See the knife and see the blood.

Then from off their heads their helmets
Silently they took, and kneeling,
Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,
And they sang the De Profundis.

’Mongst the number of the victims
Was young Raimond de Mendoza,
Offspring of the lovely abbess,
Cortez’ first and youthful love.

When he on the stripling’s bosom
Saw the well-remember’d locket
Which enclosed his mother’s portrait,
Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez--

But from off his eyes he wiped them
With his buffalo’s hard gauntlet--
Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorus
With the others: Miserere!

3.

Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,
And the morning mists are rising
From the ocean-flood, like spirits
Dragging their white shrouds behind them.

Feasts and lights are all extinguish’d
In the temple of the idol,
Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement,
Priest and laity lie snoring.

None are waking, save Red Jacket.
By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer,
Sickly grinning, grimly jesting,
Thus the priest his god addresses:

“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli!
“Darling god, my Vitzliputzli!
“Thou to-day hast had amusement,
“And has smelt a fragrant odour!

“Spanish blood to-day we offer’d,
“O how savourily steam’d it!
“And thy fine and dainty nostrils
“Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!

“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,
“Neighing noble monsters are they,
“Offspring of the tempest spirits’
“Amorous toying with the seacow.

“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter
“In thine honour my two grandsons,
“Pretty children,--sweet their blood is,--
“My old age’s only pleasure.

“But indeed thou must be gracious,
“And must grant us further triumphs,
“Let us conquer, darling godhead,
“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!

“All our enemies destroy thou,
“All these strangers who from distant
“And still undiscover’d countries
“Hither came across the ocean--

“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?
“Was it crime or hunger drove them?
“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’
“Is a sensible old proverb.

“What is their desire? Our money
“Stick they in their greedy pockets,
“And they wish us to be happy--
“So they tell us,--in the heavens!

“We at first believed them fully
“Beings of a higher order,
“Children of the Sun, immortal,
“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.

“But they’re only men, as mortal
“As ourselves; my knife to-night has
“Proved beyond all doubt and question
“Their extreme mortality.

“They are mortal, and no fairer
“Than ourselves, and many of them
“Are as ugly as the monkeys,
“And their faces, like the latter,

“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d
“Many of them carry hidden
“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for
“Those not monkeys need no breeches.

“Morally they’re also ugly
“And of piety know nothing,
“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d
“Their own deities to swallow!

“O destroy this vile abandon’d
“Wicked brood, these god-devourers--
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,
“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”--

Thus the priest address’d the god,
And the god’s reply resounded
Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind
Toying with the ocean sedges:

“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!
“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,--
“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now
“In thine own old worn-out body!

“From thy body, thus slit open,
“Will thy spirit make its exit,
“Over roots and over pebbles
“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.

“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,
“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:
“‘So good morning, naked spirit!
“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?

“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely
“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?
“‘Does good fortune from his forehead
“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?

“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,
“‘Hated goddess of all evil,
“‘With her black paws made of iron,
“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’

“Naked spirit, give this answer:
“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,
“‘And a pestilence he wishes
“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!

“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,
“‘And thy counsel was destruction;
“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil
“‘Old and mournful prophecy

“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation
“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,
“‘Who on wooden birds all flying
“‘From the Eastern land come hither.

“‘There’s an ancient proverb also--
“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise--
“‘And the God’s will is redoubled
“‘When the woman is his mother.

“‘She it is that wakes my anger,
“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,
“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,
“‘Working charms and versed in magic.

“‘She protects the Spanish people,
“‘And we all at length must perish,
“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,
“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’--

“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,
Red-coat, let thy naked spirit
In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly
Out of sight of all my misery.

“This proud temple will be shatter’d,
“I myself shall in its ruins
“Disappear,--mere dust and rubbish,--
“No one e’er again will see me.

“Yet I shall not die; we godheads
“Grow as old as do the parrots,
“And we cast our skins, and like them
“Only change at times our feathers.

“To my foemen’s native country
“Which they give the name of Europe
“I shall fly away, beginning
“There a really new career.

“I’ll turn devil, and the god
“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;
“As my foemen’s evil spirit
“I can work as best may suit me.

“There my enemies I’ll trouble,
“And alarm them all with phantoms;
“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,
“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.

“Both their wise men and their doltards
“I’ll allure with my seductions;
“And their virtue will I tickle
“Till it laughs like any strumpet.

“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,
“And salute as my dear comrades
“Satanas and Belial with him,
“Astaroth and Beelzebub.

“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,
“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent
“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,
“And the charming art of lying!

“My belovèd Mexico,
“I no longer can preserve thee,
“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,
“My belovèd Mexico!”

_BOOK II.--LAMENTATIONS._

Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,
And in one place will never stay;
The hair from off thy face with kisses
She strokes, and then she flies away.

Misfortune to her heart, however,
To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;
She says she’s in a hurry never,
Sits down beside thy bed and knits.

WOOD SOLITUDE.

In former days, in my life’s young morning,
I wore a garland my brow adorning;
How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!
The garland was fill’d with a magical power.

While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,
Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;
I fled from the envy of mortals rude,
I fled to the wood’s green solitude.

To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoyment
With spirits and beasts was my sole employment.
The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,
Without any fear approach’d me all.

They all approach’d me without any terror,
In this they knew they committed no error;
That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,
That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.

None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,
But how the remaining gentry of station
That lived in the forest treated me well,
I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.

How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,
That airy race, with their charming gabble!
’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,
The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.

With May dance and May games amused they me highly
And tales of the court narrated they slily,
For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’en
Of lovely Titania, the faery queen.

If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springing
Rose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,
With long silver veils and fluttering hair,
The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!

They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,
And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;
The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,
Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.

And yet at times was much less alarming
The noise that they made; these elfins charming
Before my feet lay quietly,
Their heads reclining on my knee.

Some foreign romances they trill’d,--for example
I’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;
A hymn of praise they sang also with grace
On me and my noble human face.

They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,
Many critical matters inquiring after,
For instance: “On what particular plan
“Did God determine on fashioning man?

“Is each individual’s soul altogether
“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,
“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass
“That almost every man is an ass?”

The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,
And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)
Was not in the slightest degree ever hurt
By the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.

While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,
Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,
Which love to help man. I prefer most of all
The race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.

They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,
Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;
I let them not see that I had descried
Why they their feet so carefully hide.

They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;
And fancy that nobody else can know it;
Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,
That to teaze them about it I never could dare.

Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,
We all have something that needs concealing;
No Christians, we fancy, have ever descried
Where we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.

Salamanders for me had never attractions,
I learnt very little respecting their actions
From other wood spirits. They pass’d me by night
Like fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.

They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,
With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,
Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;
Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.

A golden crown, with rubies all over,
The head of each of their number doth cover;
The whole of these vain conceited elves
Quite absolute monarchs consider themselves.

That they are not burnt in the fire is truly
A great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;
And yet the uninflammable wight
Is far from being a true fire-sprite.

The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;
Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;
They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,
But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.

When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,
They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;
But as my welfare they always have sought,
Their origin really to me matters nought.

In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,
How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,
And also to pluck on Midsummer night
The root that makes one invisible quite.

They taught me the stars and strange signs--how astraddle
To ride on the winds without any saddle,
And Runic sentences, able to call
The dead from out of their silent graves all.

They also taught me the whistle mysterious
That serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,
And makes him give us the spurge, to show
Where secret treasures are hidden below.

The words that ’tis needful for people to mutter
When digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;
But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heart
The treasure-digger’s wonderful art.

For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,
My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;
I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,
The income from which came duly to hand.

O charming time, when the heaven’s high arches
With fiddles were hung, when elfin marches
And nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad play
My story-drunk heart enchanted all day!

O charming time, when into auspicious
Triumphal arches the foliage delicious
Appear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,
My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.

That charming time has utterly vanish’d,
And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;
And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fair
That I was then wont on my head to wear.

The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,
But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;
Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,
My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.

The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,
Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,
A churchyard blue, its deities gone;
I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.

From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their graces
Horns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;
While hid in the thicket, the trembling roe
Is licking her wounds with tearful woe.

And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are biding
In clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;
My dear little friends, I’m returning again,
But reft of my garland and joy I remain.

O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,
First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?
The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’d
Stands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.

The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;
Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,
As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,
While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.

I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,--
She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,
And then she fled with a terrified mien,
As if she some fearful spectre had seen.

SPANISH LYRICS.

’Twas on Hubert’s day--the year was
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty--
That the king a banquet gave us
In the castle at Segovia.

These state banquets just the same are
Everywhere, and at the tables
Of all princes sov’reign tedium
Yawns with uncontested vigour.

Everywhere the same silk rabble,
Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.

Whispers all the time and buzzing
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.

Near me, by good luck, was sitting
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.

He with wondrous skill related
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.

When I ask’d him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:

Ah, Señor! the tales believe not
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.

And believe not what they chatter
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.

’Twas not to the husband’s jealous
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava’s order.

For the crime Don Pedro never
Would forgive him, was his glory,--
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald--

Never could Don Pedro pardon
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit’s image.

Still within my memory blossoms
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne’er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.

They were just of that description
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.

Blue his eyes were, their enamel
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel’s staring hardness
Seem’d reflected in them likewise.

Black his hair was in its colour,
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.

In the charming town of Coimbra
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world,--unhappy prince!

He was coming from Alcanzor,
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.

O’er his head his helm-plume floated
Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.

By his side, and gaily wagging
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang,--a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.

He, despite his size gigantic,
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox’s it resembled.

Snow-white and like silk in softness,
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.

It was said this collar hid the
Talisman fidelity;
Never did the faithful creature
Leave the side of his dear master.

O that fierce fidelity!
It excites my startled feelings,
When I think how ’twas made public
Here, before our frighten’d presence.

O that day so full of horror!
Here, within this hall, it happen’d,
And as I to-day am sitting,
At the monarch’s table sat I.

At the high end of the table,
Where to-day young Don Henrico
Gaily tipples with the flower
Of Castilian chivalry,

On that day there sat Don Pedro
Darkly silent, and beside him,
Proudly radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.

At the table’s lower end, where
Here to-day we see the lady
With the linen frill capacious,
Like a white plate in appearance.

Whilst her yellow face is gilded
With a smile of sour complexion,
Like the citron that is lying
On the plate already mention’d,--

At the table’s lower end here
Was a place remaining empty;
Some great guest of lofty station
Seem’d the golden seat to wait for.

Don Fredrego was the guest, for
Whom the golden seat was destined;
Yet he came not,--ah! now know we
But too well why thus he tarried.

Ah! that selfsame hour the wicked
Deed of blood was consummated,
And the innocent young hero
Suddenly attack’d and basely

By Don Pedro’s myrmidons,
Tightly bound, and quickly hurried
To a dreary castle dungeon
Lighted only by some torches.

Executioners stood ready,
And their bloody chief was with them,
Who, upon his axe while leaning,
Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:

“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,
“Now must thou for death prepare thee;
“Just one quarter of an hour
“Still is left for thee to pray in.”

Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,
And he pray’d with pious calmness,
And then said: “I now have finish’d,”
And received the stroke of death.

In the very selfsame moment
That the head roll’d on the pavement,
Faithful Allan, who had follow’d
All unseen, sprang quickly to it.

With his teeth the head straight seized he
By the long luxuriant tresses,
And with this much valued booty
Shot away with speed of magic.

Agonizing shouts resounded
Everywhere as on he hasten’d,
Through the passages and chambers,
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.

Since the banquet of Belshazzar
Never company at table
Was so utterly confounded
As was ours that fill’d this hall then,

When the monstrous creature leapt in,
With the head of Don Fredrego,
Which he with his teeth was dragging
By the dripping bloody tresses.

On the seat which, being destined
For his master, still was empty,
Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff
Held the head before our faces.

Ah! it was the well-remember’d
Hero’s features, but still paler
And more solemn now when dead,
And all-fearfully encircled

By the locks in black luxuriance,
Which stood up as did the savage
Serpent-headdress of Medusa,
Turning into stone through terror.

Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,
Wildly stared we on each other,
And each tongue was mute and palsied
Both by etiquette and horror.

But Maria de Padilla
Broke the universal silence;
Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,
She forebodingly lamented:

“Now it will be said ’twas I that
“Brought about this cruel murder;
“Rancour will assail my children,
“My poor innocent young children!--”

Don Diego interrupted
At this place his tale, observing
That the company had risen,
And the court the hall was leaving.

Kind and courteous in his manners,
Then the knight became my escort,
And we rambled on together
Through the ancient Gothic castle.

In the crossway which conducted
To the kennels of the monarch,
Which proclaimed themselves already
By far growling sounds and yelpings,

There I noticed, built up strongly
In the wall, and on the outside
Firmly fasten’d by strong iron,
Like a cage, a narrow cell.

And inside it sat two human
Figures, two young boys appearing;
By the legs securely fetter’d,
On the dirty straw they squatted.

Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,
Scarcely older seem’d the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.

They were clothed in rags, half naked,
And their wither’d bodies offer’d
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.

From the depth of their deep mis’ry
They upon me turn’d their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.

“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”
I exclaim’d, with hasty action
Don Diego’s hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch’d it.

Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,
Look’d if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming
A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:

These are children of a monarch,
Early orphan’d, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.

After the great fight at Narvas,
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown’s oppressive burden,

And from that still greater burden
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico’s victor-kindness
Also reach’d his brother’s children.

Under his own care he took them,
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.

Narrow is indeed the chamber
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.

For their food, they live on ryebread,
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres’ self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.

Oftentimes he also sends them
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.

Yet not always is it Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.

For this worthy upper huntsman,
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,

Is the most unhappy husband
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;

And she scolds so loud, that often
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.

But the king is very angry
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.

He will not entrust to any
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward.--

Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach’d us, and politely
Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?--

THE EX-LIVING ONE.

Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,
The watchman, the crier nightly,
Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee
Used to ramble in converse sprightly?

Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,
Where the darksome clouds were scudding;
A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,
That in your bosoms were budding.

Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?
No longer he thinks of destroying;
By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he
As a reader to tyrants employing.

But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,
“Shortsighted as every poet;
“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,
“But his object’s to kill him,--I know it.

“So Matzerath’s[78] poems he reads him each day
“A dagger is each line in it;
“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,
“May die of ennui any minute.”

THE EX-WATCHMAN.

From the Neckar he departed,
With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,
And as play-director started
In fair Munich’s city next.

All that country’s very pretty,
And they in perfection here,
In this fancy-stirring city,
Brew the very best of beer.

But ’tis said the poor Director
Rambles, like a Dante, glum,
Melancholy as a spectre,
Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.

Comedies no longer heeds he,
Nor the very worst of rhyme;
Wretched tragedies oft reads he,
Not once smiling all the time.

Oft herself some fair one flatters
She will cheer his sorrowing heart;
But his coat of mail soon shatters
Every love-directed dart.

All in vain his friends endeavour
To enliven him and sing:
“In thy life rejoice thee ever,
“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”

Is there nought can raise thy spirits
In this fair and charming town,
Which, among its many merits,
Boasts such men of great renown?

It is true, that it has lately
Lost full many a man of worth
Whom we miss and valued greatly,
Chorus-leaders and so forth.

Would that Massmann left us never!
He would surely have some day
By his antics strange but clever
Driven all thy cares away.

Schelling’s[79] loss is very serious,
And can never be replaced,
A philosopher mysterious,
And a mimic highly graced.

That the founder of Walhalla
Went away, and left behind
All his manuscripts,--by Allah!
That was really too unkind!

With Cornelius[80] also perish’d
All his pupils whatsoe’er;
They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,
And their strength was in their hair

For their prudent Master planted
In their hair some magic springs,
And it seem’d, as if enchanted,
To be full of living things.

Apropos! The arch-notorious
Priest, as Dollingerius known,--
That’s, I think, his name inglorious,--
Has he from the Isar flown?

In Good Friday’s sad procession
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.