Chapter XXIV: Part II (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. AFFRONTENBURG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]

I.

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

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

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

III.

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

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

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

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

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

IV.

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

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

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

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

V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI.

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

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

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

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

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

VII.

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

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

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

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

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

VIII.

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

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

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

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

IX.

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

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

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

X.

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

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

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

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

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

XI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9. THE DRAGONFLY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10. ASCENSION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.

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

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

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

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

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

12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

14. MIMI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

15. GOOD ADVICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16. REMINISCENCES OF HAMMONIA.[88]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

17. THE ROBBERS.

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

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

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

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

18. THE YOUNG CATS’ CLUB FOR POETRY-MUSIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19. HANS LACK-LAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20. RECOLLECTIONS FROM KRÄHWINKEL’S DAYS OF TERROR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

21. THE AUDIENCE.

(An old Fable.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

22. KOBES I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

13. EPILOGUE.

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

_ADDENDA TO THE POEMS._[93]

THE SONG OF SONGS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SUTTLER’S SONG.

(From the Thirty Years’ War.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

HORSE AND ASS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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