Chapter IX: Preface (3)

“A pretty rosebush a mouth like this
Resembles very closely,
Where cunning poisonous serpents hiss
Amid the leaves morosely.

“Within those beauteous cheeks there lies
A sweet and beauteous dimple;
That is the grave where I fell by surprise,
Lured on by a yearning simple.

“There see I the beauteous locks of hair,
That once so lovingly pleased me;
That is the net so wondrous fair
Wherewith the Evil One seized me.

“And that blue eye, that so sweetly fell,
As clear as the ocean even,
It proved to be the portal of hell,
Though I thought it the gateway of heaven.”

In the wood still farther Sir Ulrich doth ride,
The leaves make a rustling dreary,
A second figure afar he spied,
That seem’d so sad and weary.

The youth then said: “O mother dear,
Who lov’dst me to distraction,
But to whom in life I caused many a tear,
By evil word and action!

“O would that to dry thine eyes could avail
My sorrow so fiercely glowing!
O could I but redden thy cheeks so pale
With the blood from my own heart flowing!”

And farther rides Sir Ulrich there,
The night o’er the forest is falling;
Many singular voices fill the air,
The evening breezes are calling.

The youth then hears his sorrowing words
Full often near him ringing;
’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birds
All twittering loudly and singing:

“Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song,
We call it the song of repentance:
And when he has reach’d the end of his song,
He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”

16. TO A SINGER, ON HER SINGING AN OLD ROMANCE.

Still think I of the magic fair one,
How on her first my glances fell!
How her dear tones resounded sweetly,
How they my heart enthrall’d completely,
How down my cheeks the tears coursed fleetly
But how it chanced, I could not tell.

There over me had crept a vision:
Methought I was again a child,
And in my mother’s chamber sitting
In silence, by the lamp-light flitting,
And reading fairy tales befitting,
Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.

The tales began with life to glimmer,
The knights arise from out the grave;
By Roncesvall the battle rages,
Sir Roland in the fight engages,
And with him many a valiant page is,--
And also Ganelon, the knave.

By him is Roland ill entreated,
He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath;
Scarce can his horn, at such far distance,
Call Charlemagne to his assistance:
So passed away the knight’s existence,
And, with him, sank my dream in death.

It was a loud confusèd echo
That from my vision wakened me.
The legend that she sang was ended,
The people heartily commended,
And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!”
Low bow’d the singer gracefully.

17. THE SONG OF THE DUCATS.

O my golden ducats dear,
Tell me why ye are not here?

Are ye with the golden fishes
Which within the stream so gaily
Leap and splash and wriggle daily?

Are ye with the golden flow’rets
Which, o’er green fields scattered lightly,
In the morning dew gleam brightly?

Are ye with the golden bird-kins
Which we see in happy chorus
In the blue skies hov’ring o’er us?

Are ye with the golden planets
Which in radiant crowds each even
Smile in yonder distant heaven?

Ye, alas, my golden ducats,
Swim not in the streamlet bright,
Sparkle not on meadow green,
Hover not in skies serene,
Smile not in the heavens by night.--
Creditors, with greedy paws,
Hold you safely in their claws.

18. DIALOGUE ON PADERBORN HEATH.

Hear’st thou not far music ringing,
As of double-bass and fiddle?
Many fair ones there are springing
Gaily up and down the middle.

“You’re mistaken friend, in speaking
“Thus of fiddle and its brother;
“I but hear young porkers squeaking,
“And the grunting of their mother.”

Hear’st thou not the forest bugle?
Hunters in the chase are straying;
Gentle lambs are feeding, frugal
Shepherds on their pipes are playing.

“Ah, my friend, what you just now heard,
“Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters;
“I can only see the sow-herd
“Slowly driving home his grunters.”

Hear’st thou not the distant voices
In sweet rivalry contending?
Many an angel blest rejoices
Strains like these to hear ascending.

“Ah, that music sweetly ringing
“Is, my friend, no rival chorus;
“’Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing
“As they drive their geese before us.”

Hear’st thou not the church-bells holy,
Sweet and clear, with deep emotion?
To the village-chapel slowly
Wend the people with devotion.

“Ah, my friend, the bells ’tis only
“Of the cows and oxen also,
“Who, with sunken heads and lonely,
“Go back to their gloomy stalls so.”

See’st thou not the veil just moving?
See’st thou not those soft advances?
There I see my mistress loving,
Humid sorrow in her glances.

“She, my friend, who nods so much, is
“An old woman, Betsy namely;
“Pale and haggard, on her crutches
“O’er the meadow limps she lamely.”

Overwhelm me with confusion
At my questions, friend, each minute;
Wilt thou deem a mere illusion
What my bosom holds within it?

19. LIFE’S SALUTATIONS. (From an Album.)

This earth resembles a highway vast,
We men are the trav’llers along it;
On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast,
And as runners or couriers throng it.

In passing each other, we nod and we greet
With our handkerchiefs waved from the coaches;
We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,
And speed on, despite all reproaches.

Dear Prince Alexander, as onward we go,
We scarcely have met at a station,
When the signal to start the postilions blow,
Compelling our sad separation.

20. QUITE TRUE.

When the spring returns with the sun’s sweet light,
The flowers then bud and blossom apace;
When the moon begins her radiant race,
Then the stars swim after her track so bright.
When the minstrel sees two beautiful eyes,
Then songs from his inmost bosom arise;--
But songs and stars and flowerets gay,
And eyes and moonbeams and sun’s bright ray,
However delightful they are,
Don’t make up the world, friend, by far.

4. SONNETS.

TO A. W. VON SCHLEGEL.

In dainty hoop, with flowers all-richly dight,
With beauty-patches on her painted face,
With pointed shoes all hung about with lace,
With tow’ring curls, and, wasp-like, fasten’d tight,--
Thus was the spurious muse equipp’d that night
When first she offer’d thee her fond embrace;
But thou eludedst her and leftst the place,
Led by a mystic impulse from her sight:
A castle in the desert thou didst find,
Where, like a lovely marble image shrin’d,
Lay a fair maid, in magic slumber sunk;
But soon the spell was loosed,--when kiss’d by thee,
With smiles the lawful muse of Germany
Awoke, and sank within thine arms, love-drunk.

TO MY MOTHER, B. HEINE, _née_ VON GELDERN.

1.

I have been wont to bear my head right high,
My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;
Even before a monarch’s cold rebuff
I would not timidly avert mine eye.
Yet, mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:
Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,
I feel submissive and subdued enough,
When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh.
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,
Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken,
And soaring to the light of heaven again?
By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d
That I have done so much that grieved thy breast,
Which loved me, more than all things else, the best.

2.

With foolish fancy I deserted thee;
I fain would search the whole world through, to learn
If in it I perchance could love discern,
That I might love embrace right-lovingly.
I sought for love as far as eye could see,
My hands extending at each door in turn,
Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn--
Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.
And ever search’d I after love; yes, ever
Search’d after love, but love discover’d never,
And so I homeward went, with troubled thought;
But thou wert there to welcome me again,
And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then
_That_ was the sweet love I so long had sought.

TO H. S.

When I thy book, friend, open hastily,
Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,
And many a golden image that I knew
In boyish dreams and days of infancy.
Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see
The pious dome, rotted by religion true,
I bear the sound of bell and organ too,
Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.
Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,
The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy
The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.
But though the oak of foliage we may strip,
And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,
When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.

FRESCO-SONNETS TO CHRISTIAN S--.

1.

I take no notice of the blockheads tame
Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand;
I never offer to that rogue my hand
Who secretly would injure my good name;
I bow not to the harlots who proclaim
Boldly their infamy throughout the land;
And when in victor-cars the rabble band
Draw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came.
Well know I that the oak must fall indeed,
Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reed
Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not;
But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot?
What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy,
Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.

2.

Give me a mask, I’ll join the masquerade
As country clown, so that the rabble rot
Who in their proud disguises strut about
May not suppose me one of their vile trade.
Give me low manners, words on purpose made
To show vulgarity beyond all doubt;
All sparks of spirit I’ll with care put out
Wherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid.
So will I dance then at the great mask’d ball,
By German knights, monks, kings surrounded too,
By Harlequin saluted, known to few.
With wooden swords they’ll strike me, one and all.
That is the joke. For if I show my face,
The rascals will be silenced in disgrace.

3.

I laugh at all the fools who at me gape,
And whom with prying goat-like face I see;
I laugh at every fox who knavishly
And idly snuffs me like a very grape;
I laugh at every vain pretentious ape,
Who a proud judge of genius claims to be;
I laugh at all the knaves who threaten me
With poisonous weapons whence there’s no escape.
For when the charming fancies joy once gave
Are wrested from us by the hands of fate,
And at our feet in thousand atoms cast,
And when our very heart is torn at last,
All torn and cut and pierced and desolate,
A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save.

4.

A strange and charming tale still haunts my mind,
Wherein a song the leading part assumes,
And in the song there lives and twines and blooms
A lovely specimen of womankind;
And in this maiden is a heart enshrined,
And yet no love that little heart illumes;
Her loveless frosty disposition dooms
Her life to suffer from her pride so blind.
Hear’st thou how in my head the tale comes back?
And how the song sounds solemnly and sad?
And how the maiden titters softly yet?
I only fear lest my poor head should crack.
Alas! it would indeed be far too bad,
If my unlucky reason were upset.

5.

At evening’s silent, melancholy hour,
Long buried songs around me take their place,
And burning tears course swiftly down my face,
And my old heart-wounds bleed with greater power.
My love’s dear image like a beauteous flower
As in a magic glass again I trace;
In bodice red she sits and sews apace,
And silence reigns around her blissful bower.
But on a sudden springs she from her seat,
And cuts from her dear head a beauteous lock,
And gives it me--the very joy’s a shock.
The Evil One soon spoilt my rapture sweet:
The hair he twisted in a rope full strong,
And many a year has dragg’d me thus along.

6.

“When I a year ago again met thee,
“No kiss thou gav’st me in that moment blest;”--
Thus spake I, and my love a kiss impress’d
With rosy mouth upon my lips with glee.
With a sweet smile she from a myrtle tree
Hard by us pluck’d a twig, and said in jest:
“Take thou this twig, in fresh earth let it rest,
“And o’er it place a glass,”--then nodded she.
Twas long ago. The twig died in the pot.
’Tis many a year since she hath cross’d my sight;
Yet in my head that kiss still burneth hot.
Lately returning home, I sought the place
Where dwells my love. Before her house all night
I stood, and left when morning show’d its face.

7.

Of savage devils’-brats, my friend, beware,
But gentle angels’-brats more hearts will break;
Once such a one a sweet kiss bid me take,
But when I came, I felt sharp talons there.
Of black and ancient cats, my friend, take care,
But white young kittens are still more awake;
Once such a one my sweetheart did I make,--
My heart my sweetheart savagely did tear.
O darling brat! O maiden passing sweet!
How could thy clear eye e’er deceive me so?
How could thy paw e’er give me such a blow?
O my dear kitten’s paw so soft and neat!
Could I but press thee to my glowing lip!
And could my life-blood meanwhile cease to drip!

8.

Thou oft hast seen me boldly strive with those,--
Both spectacled old fop and painted dame,--
Who gladly would destroy my honest name,
And gladly see my last expiring throes.
Thou oft hast seen bow pedants round me close,
How fools with cap and bells my life defame,
How poisonous serpents gnaw my sinking frame,
Whilst from a thousand wounds my life-blood flows
But firm as any tower there stood thy form;
Thy head a lighthouse was amid the storm,
Thy faithful heart a haven was for me;
Though round that haven roars the raging main,
And few the ships the landing place that gain,
Once there, we slumber in security.

9.

Fain would I weep, but, ah, I cannot weep;
Fain would I upwards full of vigour spring
But cannot; to the earth I needs must cling,
Spurn’d by the reptiles that around me creep.
Fain would I near my beauteous mistress keep,
Near my bright light of life be hovering,
And in her dear sweet breath be revelling,
But cannot; for my heart with sorrow deep
Is breaking; from my broken heart doth flow
My burning blood, my strength within me fades
And darker, darker grows the world to me.
With secret awe I yearn unceasingly
For yonder misty realm, where silent shades
Their gentle loving arms around me throw.

_LYRICAL INTERLUDE._

1822-23.