Opening…

Preface

It may perhaps be thought that I exhibit something of the brazen-facedness of a hardened offender in venturing once more (but, I hope, for the last time) to present myself to the public in the guise of a translator,--and, what is more, a translator of a great poet. The favourable reception, however, that my previous translations of the Poems of Schiller and Goethe have met with at the hands of the public, may possibly be admitted as some excuse for this new attempt to make that public acquainted with the works of a third great German minstrel. Comparatively little known and little appreciated in England, the name of Heine is in Germany familiar as a household word; and while, on the one hand, many of his charming minor poems have become dear to the hearts of thousands and tens of thousands of his fellow-countrymen, and are sung alike in the palace and the cottage, in the country and the town, on the other his sterner works have done much to influence the political and religious tendencies of the modern German school.

Having prefixed to this Volume a brief memoir of Heine, accompanied by a few observations on his various works and their distinguishing characteristics, I will here confine myself to stating that I have adhered with the utmost strictness to the principles laid down by me for my guidance in the case of the previous translations attempted by me,--those principles being (1) As close and literal an adherence to the original as is consistent with good English and with poetry, and (2) the preservation throughout the work of the original metres, of which Heine presents an almost unprecedented variety. I have, on the occasion of my former publications, fully explained my reasons for adopting this course, and will not weary the reader with repeating them. I have sufficient evidence before me of the approval of the public in this respect to induce me to frame my translation of Heine’s Poems on the same model.

In addition to thus preserving both the language and the metre of the original, I have in one other respect endeavoured to reproduce my author precisely as I found him, and that is in the important particular of completeness. There are doubtless many poems written by Heine that one could wish had never been written, and that one would willingly refrain from translating. But the omission of these would hide from the reader some of Heine’s chief peculiarities, and would tend to give him an incomplete if not incorrect notion of what the poet was. A translator no more assumes the responsibility of his author’s words than a faithful Editor does, and he goes beyond his province if he omits whatever does not happen to agree with his own notions.

In claiming for the present work (extending over more than 20,000 verses) the abstract merits of literalness, completeness, and rigid adherence to the metrical peculiarities of the original, it is very far from my intention to claim any credit for the manner in which I have executed that difficult task, or to pretend that I have been successful in it. That is a question for the reader alone to decide. The credit of conscientiousness and close application in the matter is all that I would venture to assert for myself. All beyond is left exclusively to the candid, and, I would fain hope, generous, appreciation of those whom I now voluntarily constitute my judges.

HEINRICH HEINE.

Although little more than three years have elapsed since Heinrich Heine was first numbered amongst the dead, his name has long been enrolled in the lists of fame. Even during his lifetime he had the good fortune,--and, in a poet, the most unusual good fortune,--of being generally accepted as a Representative Man, and of passing as the National Bard of Young Germany. Although perhaps scarcely entitled to rank with Goethe and Schiller in the very highest order of poets, the name of Heine will assuredly always occupy a prominent place amongst the minstrels not only of Germany, but of the world.

It is only recently that his works have been for the first time published in an absolutely complete form, the poetry extending over more than two of the six volumes of which they consist. Universally known and read in his native land, and highly popular in France, which was for so many years his adopted country, the works of Heine are to the generality of Englishmen (as stated in the Preface) almost entirely unknown. As the present volume is, as far as I am aware, the only attempt that has been made to bring the far-famed poems of Heine in their integrity before the English reader,[1] it seems desirable to preface it by a brief sketch of his life, so that in seeing what Heine is as a poet, we may be able to form some idea as to who he was as a man. One who has been compared in turns to Aristophanes, Rabelais, Burns, Cervantes, Sterne, Jean Paul, Voltaire, Swift, Byron, and Béranger (and to all these has he been likened), can be of no common stamp. The discrepancies both as to facts and dates that occur between the various biographies of Heine are, however, so numerous, that it has been no easy task to avoid error in the following brief sketch of his life.

Heinrich (or Henry) Heine was born in the Bolkerstrasse, at Dusseldorf, on the 12th of December, 1799; but, singularly enough, the exact date of his birth was, until recently, unknown to his biographers, who, on the authority of a saying of his own, assigned it to the 1st of January, 1800, which he boasted made him “the first man of the century.” In reply, however, to a specific inquiry addressed to him by a friend on this subject a few years before his death, he stated that he was really born on the day first mentioned, and that the date of 1800 usually given by his biographers was the result of an error voluntarily committed by his family in his favour at the time of the Prussian invasion, in order to exempt him from the service of the king of Prussia.

By birth he was a Jew, both of his parents having been of that persuasion. He was the eldest of four children, and his two brothers are (or were recently) still alive, the one being a physician in Russia, and the other an officer in the Austrian service. The famous Solomon Heine, the banker of Hamburg, whose wealth was only equalled by his philanthropy, was his uncle. His father, however, was far from being in opulent circumstances. When quite a child, he took delight in reading Don Quixote, and used to cry with anger at seeing how ill the heroism of that valiant knight was requited. He says somewhere, speaking of his boyish days, “apple-tarts” were then my passion. Now it is love, truth, freedom, and “crab-soup.” He received his earliest education at the Franciscan convent in his native town, and while there had the misfortune to be the innocent cause of the death by drowning of a schoolfellow, an incident recorded in one of the poems in his “Romancero.” He mentions the great effect produced upon him by the sorrowful face of a large wooden Christ which was constantly before his eyes in the Convent. Even at that early age the germs of what has been called “his fantastic sensibility, the food for infinite irony,” seem to have been developing themselves. A visit of the Emperor Napoleon to Dusseldorf when he was a boy affected him in a singular manner, and had probably much to do with the formation of those imperialist tendencies which are often to be noticed in his character and writings. He was next placed in the Lyceum of Dusseldorf, and in 1816 was sent to Hamburg to study commerce, being intended for mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he was removed to the University at Bonn which had been founded in the previous year, and there he had the advantage of studying under Augustus Schlegel. He seems, however, to have remained there only six months, and to have then gone to the University of Göttingen, where, as he tells us, he was rusticated soon after matriculation. He next took up his abode at Berlin, where he applied himself to the study of philosophy, under the direction of the great Hegel, whose influence, combined with that of the works of Spinosa, undoubtedly had much to do with the formation of Heine’s mind, and also determined his future career. From this time we hear no more of his turning merchant; and it is from the date of his residence at Berlin that we may date the rise of that spirit of universal indifference and reckless daring that so strongly characterizes the writings of Heine. Amongst his associates at this period may be mentioned, in addition to Hegel, Chamisso, Varnhagen von Ense and his well-known wife Rachel, Bopp the philologist, and Grabbe, the eccentricities of whose works were only equalled by the eccentricities of his life.

Heine’s first volume of poetry, entitled “Gedichte” or Poems, was published in 1822, the poems being those which, under the name of “Youthful Sorrows,” now form the opening of his “Book of Songs.” Notwithstanding the extraordinary success afterwards obtained by this latter work, his first publication was very coldly received. Some of the poems in it were written as far back as 1817,[2] and originally appeared in the Hamburg periodical “Der Wachter” or “Watchman.” Offended at this result, he left Berlin and returned to Göttingen in 1823, where he took to studying law, and received the degree of Doctor in 1825. He was baptized into the Lutheran Church in the same year, at Heiligenstadt, near that place. He afterwards said jocularly that he took this course to prevent M. de Rothschild treating him too fa-millionairely. It is to be feared, however, from the tone of all his works, that his nominal religious opinions sat very lightly upon him through life. He writes as follows on this subject in 1852: “My ancestors belonged to the Jewish religion, but I was never proud of this descent; neither did I ever set store upon my quality of Lutheran, although I belong to the evangelical confession quite as much as the greatest devotees amongst my Berlin enemies, who always reproach me with a want of religion. I rather felt humiliated at passing for a purely human creature,--I whom the philosophy of Hegel led to suppose that I was a god. How proud I then was of my divinity! What an idea I had of my grandeur! Alas! that charming time has long passed away, and I cannot think of it without sadness, now that I am lying stretched on my back, whilst my disease is making terrible progress.”

Previous to this date, and whilst living at Berlin, Heine published (in 1823) his only two plays, “Almanzor” and “Ratcliff,” which were equally unsuccessful on the stage and in print, and which are certainly the least worthy of all his works. Between these two plays he inserted a collection of poetry entitled “Lyrical Interlude,” which attracted little attention at the time. In the year 1827, however, he republished this collection at Hamburg, in conjunction with his “Youthful Sorrows,” giving to the whole the title of the “Book of Songs.” In proportion to the indifference with which his poems had been received on their first appearance, was the enthusiasm which they now excited. They were read with avidity in every direction, especially in the various universities, where their influence upon the minds of the students was very great. In the year 1852, this work had reached the tenth edition.

Heine’s next great work, his “Reisebilder,” or Pictures of Travel, written partly in poetry and partly in prose, was published at Hamburg at various intervals from 1826 to 1831, and, as its name implies, is descriptive of his travels in different countries, especially in England and Italy. The poetical portion of the “Reisebilder,” the whole of which is translated in this volume, is divided into three parts,--“The Return Home,” the “Hartz-Journey,” and “The Baltic,” written between 1823 and 1826. This work again met with an almost unprecedented success, and from the date of its publication and that of the “Book of Songs,” may be reckoned the commencement of a new era in German literature. These remarkable poems exhibit the whole nature of Heine, free from all disguise. The striking originality, the exuberance of fancy, and, above all, the singular beauty and feeling of the versification that characterize nearly the whole of them, stand out in as yet unheard-of contrast to the intense and bitter irony that pervades them,--an irony that spared nobody, that spared nothing, not even the most sacred subjects being exempt from the poet’s mocking sarcasm. This characteristic of Heine only increased as years passed on. In the later years of his life, which were one long-continued agony, his bodily sufferings offer some excuse, it may be, for what would otherwise have been inexcusable in the writings of a great poet. There was doubtless much affectation in the want of all religious and political faith that is so signally apparent in the works of Heine, and yet they betray a real bitterness of feeling that cannot be mistaken. At every page may be traced the malicious pleasure felt by him in exciting the sympathy and admiration of the reader to the highest pitch, and then with a few words,--with the last line or the last verse of a long poem, it may be,--rudely insulting them, and dashing them to the ground. No better parody of this favourite amusement of Heine can be given than by citing two well-known verses of Dr. Johnson:

“Hermit old in mossy cell, “Wearing out life’s evening gray, “Strike thy pensive breast, and tell “Where is bliss, and which the way?”

Thus I spake, and frequent sigh’d, Scarce repress’d the falling tear, When the hoary sage replied: “Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”

The exuberance of Heine’s heart, as has been well said, was only equalled by the dryness of his spirit; a real enthusiasm was blended with an unquenchable love of satire; “his exquisite dilettanteism made him adore the gods and goddesses of Greece at the expense even of Christianity.” In short, qualities scarcely ever found in combination, were combined in him; in one weak, suffering body two distinct and opposite natures, each equally mighty, were united. Perhaps the best name ever applied to him is that of the “Julian of poetry.”

The French Revolution in 1830 determined Heine’s future life. He was then living at Berlin again, after having resided at Hamburg and Munich. He now turned politician and newspaper writer. His Essay on Nobility was written at this time. He presently (in May 1831) went to live in Paris, where he resided until his death, with the exception of making one or two short visits to his native land. Though the fact is not exactly stated, there can be no doubt that he received some very broad hints from the authorities of Prussia to leave that country. From that time, France became his adopted fatherland, and he himself was thenceforward more of a Frenchman than a German. The Germans have indeed always reproached him as being frivolous and French; he has often been called the Voltaire of Germany; but Thiers perhaps described him the most accurately when he spoke of him as being “the wittiest Frenchman since Voltaire.” He wrote French as fluently as German; and the translations of his various works that were published in Paris in the Revue des deux Mondes and the Bibliothèque Contemporaine, or as separate works, were either written by himself, or by his personal friends under his own immediate superintendence.

Some of his more important prose works were written soon after he took up his abode in Paris. He wrote, in 1831, a series of articles for the Augsburg Gazette on the State of France, which he subsequently collected and published both in French and German. In 1833 appeared his well-known “History of Modern Literature in Germany,” republished afterwards under the title of “The Romantic School,” and in French under that of “L’Allemagne.” This may be looked upon as his most remarkable prose work, and as the one that most exhibits his characteristic peculiarities. The following lively description of it is from the pen of an eminent French critic: “According to M. Heine, the whole of the intellectual movement of Germany since Lessing and Kant has been a death-struggle against Deism. This struggle he describes with passion, and it may be said that he heads it in person. He ranges his army in order of battle, he gives the signals, and marches the Titans against heaven,--Kant, Fichte, Hegel, all those formidable spirits whose every thought is a victory, whose every formula is a cosmogonic bouleversement. Around them, in front or behind, are grouped a crowd of writers, theologians and poets, romance writers and savans. If one of the combatants stops short, like Schelling, the author overwhelms him with invectives. If a timid and poetic band of dreamers, such as Tieck, Novalis, Brentanc, and Arnim, try to bring back this feverish Germany to the fresh poetry of the middle ages, he throws himself upon them and disperses them, like those Cobolds in the ‘Book of Songs’ who overthrew the angels of paradise. And when the philosophical conflict is over, he predicts its consequences with a sort of savage delirium.... He compares Kant to the bloodthirsty dictators of ’93, and proclaims the gospel of pantheism. His theory of the intellectual history of the Germans is altogether false, and should only be consulted as an illustration--alas, too positive!--of the fever at once mystical and sensual of a certain period of our age.” This book produced a perfect storm of fury in Germany. “Denounced by Menzel and the pietists as an emissary of Modern Babylon, cursed by the austere teutomaniacs as a representative of Parisian corruption, Heine was not the less suspected by the democrats, who accused him of treason. To this was added official persecution.”

Proceeding to his next work, the publication of his “Salon,” consisting of an interesting series of essays, &c., commenced at Hamburg in 1834, its fourth and last volume not appearing till 1840. A long essay on the Women of Shakespeare appeared in 1839, and in 1840 a violent personal attack on his old friend, the republican poet Börne, then only recently dead,--a work which, with all its talent, did great injury to his reputation. His remaining great prose work, entitled “Lutezia,” or Paris, consists of a collection of valuable articles on French politics, arts, and manners, written by him as the correspondent of the Augsburg Gazette between 1840 and 1844. The only other writings of his in prose that need be specified, entitled respectively “Confessions,” “Dr. Faust,” and the “Gods in Exile,” were written a few years before his death.

After the publication of the “Reisebilder,” Heine’s next poetical production was the charming poem of “Atta Troll,” which appeared in 1841, written in a simple trochaic metre,--“four-footed solemn trochees,” as he himself expresses it. This poem has been described as the work of a German Ariosto, combining gaiety and poetry, irony and imagination in perfect proportions. Much worldly wisdom is to be learnt from the instructive history of Atta Troll, the dancing bear of the Pyrenees. The striking interlude in it of the vision of Herodias amongst the spirit huntsmen should not be overlooked.

The marriage of Heine seems to have taken place at about this period. His wife, who is often spoken of in his poems in terms of deep affection, and whose name was Mathilde, was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic, and they were married according to the rites of that church. With all his love for Madame Heine, however, he seems to have been very jealous of her, and it is recorded that on one occasion he took it into his head that she had run away from him. He was reassured by hearing the voice of her favourite parrot “Cocotte,” which led him to say, that she would never have gone off without taking “Cocotte” with her. In spite of the bitterness of spirit that pervades all his writings, it is clear that he possessed deep natural affections. His mother survived him; and though almost entirely separated from her for the last twenty-five years of his life, he often introduces her name in his works with expressions of filial reverence. His last visit to Germany in the winter of 1843 seems to have been for the special purpose of visiting her at Hamburg, where she resided. His friends fancied that the “old woman at the Dammthor” (one of the gates of Hamburg), of whom he used to speak, was a myth, but she was no other than his mother. Nothing can be more charming than the manner in which he speaks of both her and his wife in the beautiful little poem called “Night Thoughts.” (See page 179.)

In 1844 he published a fresh collection of poems under the title of “New Poems,” to which was added as an appendix “Germany, a Winter Tale.” The former of these was subsequently added by him to his “Book of Songs,” and will be found in its place accordingly in the present volume, as well as his “New Spring,” which formed a part of the same work. The “Germany” is one of his most remarkable works, and contains an account of his journey to Hamburg the previous winter to see his mother that has just been referred to. None of his productions are more thoroughly impregnated with the spirit of satire. Every stage of his journey, from its commencement at the Prussian frontier, to its termination at Hamburg, gives occasion for the display of his wit and sarcastic raillery. It will be seen that many of the passages in the poem were struck out of the original edition by the official Censors. Perhaps the most amusing portions are the episode of the author’s adventures in the Cavern of Kyffhauser with the famous Emperor Barbarossa (not omitting their little conversation respecting the guillotine), and the rencontre with the Goddess Hammonia in the streets of Hamburg, and his subsequent tête-à-tête with her. The extravagance (slightly coarse it must be confessed) of the latter scene is quite worthy of Rabelais, though the poet takes care to tell us that it is intended to imitate Aristophanes. The remonstrances to the King of Prussia, with which the poem concludes, should also not he passed over.

In the year 1848, after a premonitory attack in 1847 that passed away, that terrible disease which eventually destroyed Heine’s life, first assailed him in an aggravated form. Commencing with a paralysis of the left eyelid, it extended presently to both eyes and finally terminated in paralysis and atrophy of the legs. The last time he ever left his house was in May, 1848. For eight long years he was confined to his couch, to use his own expression, in a state of “death without its repose, and without the privileges of the dead, who have no need to spend money, and no letters or books to write.” But despite his bodily sufferings, his good spirits never seemed to leave him, his love of raillery did but increase, and little did that public whose interest he continued to excite by the wonderful products of his genius know of his distressing state.

In the years 1850 and 1851, in the midst of his fearful malady, Heine composed his last great poetical work entitled “Romancero.” This singular volume is divided into three Books, called respectively “Histories,” “Lamentations,” and “Hebrew Melodies.” The first of these contains a large number of romantic ballads and poems of the most dissimilar character, but all bearing the stamp of the author’s peculiar genius; the second opens with several miscellaneous pieces, including some literary satires, and concludes with twenty pieces bearing the lively title of “Lazarus,” and comprising, as some one has observed, the journal of his impressions as a sick man. The “Hebrew Melodies” are subdivided into three, entitled by Heine “Princess Sabbath,” “Jehuda ben Halevy,” a poem itself in three parts, and “Disputation.” The Jewish descent and Jewish sympathies of the poet are plainly discernible in these Melodies, the most interesting of which, and probably the best of the whole collection contained in the “Romancero,” is that which sets forth the life of Jehuda ben Halevy, the great Hebrew poet of the middle ages. Some critics rank this poem amongst Heine’s very best productions. The concluding piece, “Disputation,” is in Heine’s wildest style, and seems written for the express purpose of destroying the pleasure excited by the one that precedes it. In none of his works is his mocking spirit more plainly discernible. “It is the most Voltairian scene ever imagined by the sceptical demon of his mind.” No one can read this polemical poem without seeing how little Heine himself cared for any received form of religion,--for the Christian faith as professed by him, or the Jewish faith into which he was born. The piece terminates in Heine’s favourite manner, namely, with an unexpected joke in the last line.

The collection entitled “Latest Poems” was written three years afterwards. Its name shows that the end was now not far off. The hand of a master is still visible in all these poems, the most interesting of which is perhaps the “Slave Ship,” one of the most powerful productions of Heine’s pen. In the year 1855, he published a French translation of his “New Spring” in the Revue des deux Mondes. And now the end really arrived.

On the 17th February, 1856, Henry Heine was at length released from his sufferings in his house in the Avenue Matignon, No. 3, as appears from the obituary notice. The smallness of the attendance at his funeral would seem to show that there was some truth in the saying that he had many admirers but few friends. The only names of note that are recorded as having been present on the occasion are Mignet, Gautier, and Dumas. And this was the man who was recognized as the successor of Goethe in the throne of poetry in Germany, and whose songs were already household words in all parts of that country! His humour did not leave him till the very last. A few days before his death Hector Berlioz called on him just as a tiresome German professor was leaving the room after wearying him with his uninteresting conversation. “I am afraid you will find me very stupid, my dear fellow! The fact is, I have just been exchanging thoughts with Dr. ----” was his remark. Only a day or two before he expired, he sent back to the printer the last proofs of a new edition of the “Reisebilder.”

Heine left a singular will behind him, in which he begged that all religious solemnities should be dispensed with at his funeral, and that, although he called himself a Lutheran, no Lutheran minister should officiate on the occasion. He added that this was not a mere freak of a freethinker, for that he had for the last four years dismissed all the pride with which philosophy had filled him, and felt once more the power of religious truth. He also begged for forgiveness for any offence which, in his ignorance, he might have given to good manners and morals.

When the private papers of Louis Philippe fell into the hands of the populace at the sack of the Tuileries in February, 1848, it was discovered that Heine had for many years enjoyed a pension of some 200_l._ a year on the Civil List. This discovery gave an opening to the republicans for violent attacks on him; but there does not appear to have been anything in the circumstances of the case to make this transaction discreditable to either the giver or the receiver of the pension.

Heine is described as having lived in the simplest manner, occupying three small rooms on the third floor, the ménage comprising, in addition to his wife and himself, no one but an old negress as a servant, and “Cocotte,” who has been already alluded to.

Heine is beyond question the greatest poet that has appeared in Germany since the death of Goethe. Enough has been said in the course of this brief sketch of his life to show the singular, the unprecedented character of his genius, and to illustrate that combination in his person of two separate natures that we have stated to exist. What more touching trait of character was ever heard of, than the simple fact that although the last eight years of his life were spent in a state of intolerable agony, he left his mother in ignorance of his sufferings to the very last! Yes, when stricken with total blindness, and when dying literally by inches, all his letters to the “old woman at the Dammthor” were written in the most cheerful, happy tone, and he made her believe that his only reason for employing an amanuensis instead of writing with his own hand was that he had a slight affection in his eyes, which would be cured with a little care!

The following appreciation of the character of Heine, written while he was still alive, but when the shades of darkness and death were slowly gathering round him, may serve as a fitting termination to these few pages:--“It may be said that Heine bears within him all the misery of a mighty literature that has fallen from his ideal. Let this be his excuse. But now his eyes are closing on this perishable world, whose contradictions and wretchedness provoked his painful gaiety; another world is opening on his mind. There, no more misery, no more irritating contrasts, no more revolting disenchantments; there, all problems are resolved, all struggles cease. If irony, in the case of a capricious and ardent intelligence, could be the faithful mirror of things below, there is no room save for confidence and respect in that spiritual world that his soul’s looks are fast discovering. He sought for serenity in that light raillery which enveloped the whole universe, and played his part in it with grace; but this serenity was incomplete and false, and often suffered his ill-cured sorrows to break forth. True serenity is a higher thing; it is to be found in the intelligence and adoration of that ideal which nothing can affect, that truth which no shadow can obscure.” And so with these words of kindly sympathy, Heinrich Heine,--farewell!

EARLY POEMS.

SONGS OF LOVE.

1. LOVE’S SALUTATION.

Darling maiden, who can be Ever found to equal thee? To thy service joyfully Shall my life be pledged by me.

Thy sweet eyes gleam tenderly, Like soft moonbeams o’er the sea; Lights of rosy harmony O’er thy red cheeks wander free.

From thy small mouth, full of glee, Rows of pearls peep charmingly; But thy bosom’s drapery Veils thy fairest jewelry.

Pure love only could it be That so sweetly thrill’d through me, When I whilome gazed on thee, Darling maid, so fair to see.

2. LOVE’S LAMENT.

On night’s secrecy relying, Silently I breathe my woes; From the haunts of mortals flying, Where the cup of pleasure flows.

Down my cheeks run tears all burning, Silently, unceasingly; But my bosom’s fiery yearning Quench’ed by tears can never be.

When a laughing urchin, gaily Many a merry game I play’d; In life’s sunshine basking daily, Knowing nought of grief or shade.

For a garden of enjoyment Was the world I then lived in, Tending flowers my sole employment, Roses, violets, jessamine.

By the brook’s side, on the meadow, Sweetly mused I in those days; Now I see a pale thin shadow, When upon the brook I gaze.

Pale and thin my grief hath made me, Since mine eyes upon her fell; Secret sorrows now pervade me, Wonderful and hard to tell.

Deep within my heart I cherish’d Angel forms of peace and love, Which have fled, their short joys perish’d, To their starry home above.

Ghastly shadows rise unbidden, Black night round mine eyes is thrown; In my trembling breast is hidden A sad whisp’ring voice unknown.

Unknown sorrows, unknown anguish Toss me wildly to and fro, And I pine away and languish, Tortured by an unknown glow.

But the cause why I am lying Rack’d by fiery torments now,-- Why from very grief I’m dying,-- Love, behold!--The cause art thou!

3. YEARNING.

With sweetheart on arm, all my comrades with joy Beneath the linden trees move; But I, alas, poor desolate boy, In utter solitude rove

Mine eye grows dim, my heart is oppress’d, When happy lovers I see; For a sweetheart by me is also possess’d, But, alas, far distant is she.

I have borne it for years, with a heart fit to break, But no longer can bear with the pain; So pack up my bundle, my pilgrim’s staff take, And start on my travels again.

And onward I go for hundreds of miles, Till I come to a city renown’d; A noble river beneath it smiles, With three stately towers ’tis crown’d.

And now my late sorrows no longer annoy, Made happy at last is my love; For there, with my sweetheart on arm, I with joy Can beneath the sweet linden trees rove.

4. THE WHITE FLOWER

In father’s garden there silently grows A flow’ret mournful and pale; The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes, Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale. The poor pale flower looks still Like a young bride that’s ill.

Pale flow’ret gently saith to me-- “Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!” I answer pale flow’ret--“That must not be, I never will take thee away. I seek with anxious care A purple flow’ret fair.”

Pale flow’ret saith--“Seek here, seek there, Seek e’en till the day of thy death, But still that purple flow’ret fair Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith. “But, prythee, pluck me now, I am as ill as thou.”

Thus whispers pale flow’ret, beseeching me sore; I tremblingly pluck her, and lo! I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more, Mine inward eye brightly doth glow. Mute angel-rapture blest Now fills my wounded breast.

5. PRESENTIMENT.

Yonder, where the stars glow nightly, We shall find those joys smile brightly Which on earth seem far away. Only in Death’s cold embraces Life grows warm, and light replaces Night’s dark gloom at dawn of day.

6.

When I am with my sweetheart kind, A happy youth am I; So great the wealth within my mind, I the whole world could buy.

But when her swanlike arms I quit, In that sad hour of pain, Away my boasted wealth doth flit, And I am poor again.

7.

I would the songs I’m singing Had little flow’rets been; I’d send them to my sweetheart For her to smell, I ween.

I would the songs I’m singing Were kisses all unseen; I’d send them all in secret Upon her cheeks to glean.

I would the songs I’m singing Were little peas so green; I’d make some capital pea-soup All in a soup-tureen!

8.

Of peace, and happiness, and heart, Thou, loved one, long time hast bereft me; And of the gifts that thou hast left me Not one of these doth form a part.

For peace, heart, happiness, hast thou To me a life-long sorrow given, With bitter words commingled even,-- O take these back, my loved one, now.

9.

Remember’st thou those fiery glances In which his trust the novice plac’d? That long-denied first kiss of passion The ardent lover stole in haste?

O glances, ye experienced fish-hooks, On which the fish is captive brought! O kiss, thou charming rod of honey, With which the bird is limed and caught!

10.

Thou spak’st and gav’st a lock to me Of thy dear silken hair; “Wear this, and I for ever thee “Within my heart will wear.”

Full oft have heart and hair been call’d To act this loving part. Now say: is not thy head yet bald? And full thy little heart?

11.

You, loved one, assured me so strongly, I wellnigh fancied it true; That you asserted it was so, Was no sign of folly in you. But that I almost believed it, ’Tis this that I so rue.

12.

I’ve seen full many a tragedy play’d, Extracting my tears like magic; But ’mongst them all, that touching scene Had an end by far the most tragic,

Wherein thou tookedst the principal part, While I at thy feet was panting,-- How well thou actedst the innocent one, Thou actress most enchanting!

13.

Ask not what I have, my loved one,-- Ask me rather what I am; For but little wealth I boast of, But I’m gentle as a lamb.

Do not ask me how I’m living, But for what, that ask of me; For I live in want, and lonely, Yet I live alone for thee.

Do not ask me of my pleasures, Ask not of my bitter smart; Pleasure ever flies his presence Who doth own a broken heart.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

GERMANY. 1815.

Let me sing Germania’s glory! Hearken to my noblest strains! While my spirit tells the story, Thrilling bliss runs through my veins.

Time’s book is before me lying, All things that have happened here, Good with Evil ever vying-- All before my gaze stands clear.

From the Frenchman’s distant nation Hell approach’d, with impious hand, Bringing shame and desecration On our much-loved German land.

All our faith and virtue soiling, All our heavenly yearnings fled, All we deemed of worth, despoiling,-- Giving sin and pain instead.

German shame to gild refusing, Dark the German sun soon grew, And a mournful voice accusing Pierced the German oak trees through.

Now the sun once more is glancing, And the oak trees roar with joy; The avengers are advancing, Shame and sorrow to destroy.

And deceit’s proud altars hateful Totter, fall with hideous sound; Every German heart is grateful, Free is German holy ground.

See’st the glare yon mount illuming? Say, what can that wild flame be? Yes! that fire proclaims the blooming Image pure of Germany.

From the night of sin emerging Germany uninjured stands; Wildly is the spot still surging, Where that fair form burst her bands.

On the old oak’s stems in splendour Glorious blossoms fast unfold; Foreign blossoms fall, and tender Breezes greet us as of old.

All that’s virtuous is returning, All that’s good appears once more And the German, fondly yearning, Is exulting as of yore.

Ancient manners, ancient German Virtues, and heroic deeds! Valiantly each son of Hermann[3] Waves his sword and proudly bleeds.

Heroes never doves engender, Lionlike is Hermann’s race; Yet may love’s religion tender Well near valour take its place.

Germans through their sorrows lonely Learnt Christ’s gentle word to prize; Their land ’genders brethren only, And humanity is wise.

Once again returns the glorious Noble love of minstrel’s song, Well becoming the victorious Breasts of German heroes strong,

As they to the war are going With the Frank to cross the sword, To take signal vengeance glowing For their perfidy abhorr’d.

And at home, no labour heeding, Woman plies her gentle hand, Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding In defence of fatherland.

In her black dress robed, entrancing Looks the beauteous German dame, Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing, Diamond-girded, too, her frame.

But a nobler, prouder feeling Through me at her vision thrills, When, beside the sick-bed kneeling, Acts of mercy she fulfils.

Heavenly angels she resembles When the last draught she supplies To the wounded man, who trembles, Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies.

He to whom to die ’tis given On the battle-field, is blest; But a foretaste ’tis of heaven, Dying on a woman’s breast.

Poor, poor sons of France! Fate ever Unto you unkind has been; On the Seine’s banks, beauty never Save in search of gold is seen.

German women! German women! What a charm the words convey! German women! German women! Flourish on for many a day!

All our daughters like Louisa, All our sons like Frederick be! Hear me in the grave, Louisa! Ever flourish Germany!

DREAM. 1816.

Son of folly, dream thou ever, When thy thoughts within thee burn; But in life thy visions never To reality will turn.

Once in happier days chance bore me To a high mount on the Rhine; Smiling lay the land before me, Gloriously the sun did shine.

Far below, the waves were singing Wild and magic melodies; In my inmost heart were ringing Blissful strains in wondrous wise.

Now, when gazing from that station On the land--how sad its doom! I but see a pigmy nation Crawling on a giant’s tomb.

So-call’d men wear silken raiment, Deem themselves the nation’s flower; Honours now are gain’d by payment, Rogues possess both wealth and power.

Of descent they boast, not merit, ’Tis their dress that makes them men; Old coats now alone the spirit Of old times bring back again;

When respect and virtue holy Modestly went hand in hand; When the youth with deference lowly By the aged took his stand;

When a hand-shake was more valid Than an oath or written sheet; When men, iron-clad, forth sallied, And a heart inside them beat.

Our fair garden borders nourish Many a thousand flow’rets fair; In the fostering soil they flourish, While the sun smiles on them there.

But the flower most fair, most golden, In our gardens ne’er is known,-- That one which, in days now olden, On each rocky height was grown;

Which, in cold hill-fortress dwelling, Men endued with iron frame Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,-- Hospitality its name.

Weary wanderer, never clamber To the mountain’s fort-crown’d brow; ’Stead of warm and friendly chamber, Cold, hard walls receive thee now.

From the watch-tower blow no warders Not a drawbridge is let fall; For the castle’s lord and warders In the cold tomb slumber all.

In dark coffins, too, are sleeping Those dear maids bards sang of old; Shrines like these within them keeping Greater wealth than pearls and gold.

Strange soft whispers there are blended Like sweet minnesinger’s lays; To those dark vaults has descended The fair love of olden days.

True, I also prize our ladies, For they blossom like the May; And delightful, too, their trade is,-- ’Tis to dance, stitch, paint all day.

And they sing, in rhymes delicious, Of old love and loyalty, Feeling all the time suspicious Whether such things e’er could be.

In their simple minds, our mothers Used to think in days of yore, That the gem above all others Fair, man in his bosom bore.

Very different from this is What their daughters wisdom call; In the present day our misses Love the jewels most of all.

Lies, deceit, and superstition Rule,--life’s charms are thrown aside, Whilst Rome’s sordid base ambition Jordan’s pearls has falsified.

To your dark domain return you, Visions of far happier days; O’er a time which thus doth spurn you, Vain laments no longer raise!

THE CONSECRATION.

Lonely in the forest chapel, At the image of the Virgin, Lay a gentle, pallid stripling, Bent in humble adoration.

O Madonna! Let me ever On the threshold here be kneeling; Thou wilt never drive me from thee, To the world so cold and sinful.

O Madonna! Sunny radiance Round thy head’s bright locks is gleaming, And a mild sweet smile is playing Round thy fair mouth’s holy roses.

O Madonna! Thine eyes’ lustre Lightens me like stars in heaven; While life’s bark doth drift at random, Stars lead on for ever surely.

O Madonna! Without wavering I have borne thy test of sorrow, On kind love relying blindly, In thy glow alone e’er glowing.

O Madonna! This day hear me, Full of mercy, rich in wonders! Grant me then a sign of favour, Just one little sign of favour.

Then presently happen’d a marvellous wonder. The forest and chapel were parted insunder; The boy understood not the miracle strange, For all around him did suddenly change.

In a brilliant hall there sat the Madonna, Her rays were gone, as he gazed upon her; She bore the form of a lovely maid, Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.

And see! from her fair and flowing tresses She steals a lock, as she thus addresses In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy: The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!

What attests this consecration? Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding Its sublime illumination, O’er the wide horizon spreading?

Angels up and down are moving, Loudly do their pinions flutter; Breathing music strange and loving, Sweet the melodies they utter.

Well the stripling knows the yearning Through his frame that now doth quiver; To that land his footsteps turning, Where the myrtle blooms for ever.

THE MOOR’S SERENADE.

To my sleeping dear Zuleima’s Bosom run, ye tears all burning! Then will her sweet heart for Abdul ’Gin to beat with tender yearning.

Round my sleeping dear Zuleima’s Ear disport, ye tears of anguish! Then will her fair head in vision Sweet for Abdul’s love straight languish.

O’er my sleeping dear Zuleima’s Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing! Then will her sweet hand bear on it Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.

Sorrow is, alas, born voiceless, In its mouth no tongue is growing, It hath only tears and sighing, And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.

DREAM AND LIFE.

The day was glowing, my heart, too, glow’d, In silence I bore my sorrow’s load; When night arrived, I hastened then To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.

I softly approach’d, and mute as the grave, While tears my cheeks did secretly lave, I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair, And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.

By the rose I joyfully fell asleep, When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep; The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d; A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.

She gave me soon a rich golden store, To a golden cottage the prize I bore; Strange goings-on in the cottage I found,-- Small elves are dancing in graceful round.

Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest, And closely their hands together are press’d; And soon as a dance has come to a close, Another begins, and each merrily goes.

And the music they dance to thus sounds in my ear: “The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear, “The whole of thy life was only a dream, “And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”

The dream is over, the sun is up, I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup. Alas! in the place of the glimmering light, A nasty insect meets my sight.

THE LESSON.

Mother tells little bee, Yonder wax taper flee; But for his mother’s prayers Little bee little cares.

Round the light hovers he, Humming all merrily; Mother’s cry hears not he, Little bee! Little bee!

Youthful one! Foolish one! Poor little simpleton! In the flame rusheth he, Little bee! Little bee!

Now the flame flickers high, In the flame he must die: ’Ware of the maidens, then, Sons of men! Sons of men!

TO FRANCIS V. Z----.

I’m drawn to the North by a golden star; Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far; To poetry ever faithful abide, And never desert that charming bride. As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast The German language so fair and blest; And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand O listen awhile at that Northern strand; And list till thou hearest a ringing remote That over the silent waters doth float. When this thou hearest, expect ere long The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song. Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord, And give me news that may pleasure afford; How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go, And with the others whom I loved so; And how it fares with the lovely girl Who set so many young hearts in a whirl, And filled so many with yearnings divine-- The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine. And give me news of my fatherland too, If still ’tis the land of affection true; If still the old God in Germany lives, And none to the Evil One homage now gives. And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings, And joyous stories with it thus brings Far over the waves to the distant strand, The bard will rejoice in the far North land.

A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.

All I saw and heard when travelling, All that soul and heart found pleasing, All that gave me food for cavilling, All that tedious was or teasing;

Solemn jostlings, wild excitement, Both of simpletons and sages,-- All shall swell the long indictment Of my travels in these pages.

Give not travels life twice over? When at home one lives once only; Wouldst thou nobler ends discover, Thou must leave thy closet lonely.

On the world’s wide stage, each player Is a mimic or a puppet, Rides his hobby his own way, or Bids the others clamber up it.

If we’re laughed at by our neighbour, Riding in this curious fashion, Let us him in turn belabour, Jeering him without compassion.

Read these travels in the manner And the sense in which I’m writing; Each one has his fav’rite banner Under which he fancies fighting.

DEFEND NOT.

Defend it not, defend it not, This wretched world below; Defend its gaping people not, Who care for nought but pomp and show.

The tedious ones, defend them not, Who cause us such ennui; The learned ones, defend them not, In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.

The women, too, defend them not, Though good ones may be there; The best amongst them scorneth not The man she loves not, to ensnare.

And then my friends--defend them not: Count not thyself one now; For thou those friends resemblest not,-- No! firm, and good, and true art thou.

A PARODY.

Indeed they have wearied me greatly, And made me exceedingly sad, One half with their prose so wretched, The other with poetry bad.

Their terrible discord has scatter’d What little senses I had, One half with their prose so wretched, The other with poetry bad.

But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers, They most have stirr’d up my bile, Who write in neither prosaic Nor true poetical style.

WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN.

Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend, Thy yearnings may satisfied be; The fairest of womankind here, friend, All walking together, thou’lt see.

How charming they look, how delicious, In gay silken garments all dress’d! A certain poet judicious “Walking flowers” has named them in jest.

How very charming each bonnet! Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams! Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it! Each neck, how swanlike it seems!

EVENING SONGS.

1.

Without any aim, forth I sallied, And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea; The charming flowers look’d pallid, And spectre-like gazed upon me.

Upon me they gazed, and to chatter And tell my dull tale I began; They ask’d me, what was the matter With me, poor sad-looking man.

The truth, I valiantly said it, No love in the world can I find; And as I have lost all my credit, With want of cash ’tis combin’d.

2.

And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go.

They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high, And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.

3.

When in sorrow, they dare not show it, However mournful their mood, For the swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.

And in their death-hour they waken The air, and break into song; And, unless my ears are mistaken, They sing now, while sailing along.

4.

The cloudlets are lazily sailing O’er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o’er me.

Full deep in my soul it gazes, With old-time-recalling eye, Like a glimpse of joys long buried, And happiness long gone by.

Familiar the vision appeareth, Methinks I know it full well; ’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary, Who on earth no longer doth dwell.

She beckons in friendly silence, And clasps me with gentle despair; But I seize hold of my glasses, To have a better stare!

SONNETS.

1. TO AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL.

The worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt-- The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power-- These struggled my life’s marrow to devour; I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out. Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour, And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about; To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout, Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower. O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace, That as a tree the garden it may grace Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert. My nurse used of that garden to assert That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells, Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.

2. TO THE SAME.

Contented not with thine own property, The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal, The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,-- The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee, Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal, The Seine paid tribute to thine industry, Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary, Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal. Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content With that which seldom unto man is lent; Instead of adding more, to spend prepare! And with the treasures which thou with such ease From North and South accustom’d wert to seize, Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.

3. TO COUNCILLOR GEORGE S----, OF GOTTINGEN.

Though the demeanour be imperious, proud, Yet round the lips may gentleness play still; Though the eye gleam and every muscle thrill, Yet may the voice with calmness be endow’d. Thus art thou in the rostrum, when aloud Thou speak’st of governments and of the skill Of cabinets, and of the people’s will, Of Germany’s long strifes and ends avow’d. Ne’er be thine image blotted from my mind! In times of barbarous self-love like these, How doth an image of such greatness please! What thou, in fashion fatherly and kind, Spak’st to my heart, while hours flew swiftly by, Deep in my heart I still bear faithfully.

4. TO J. B. ROUSSEAU.

Thy friendly greetings open wide my breast, And the dark chambers of my heart unbar; Home visions greet me like some radiant star, And magic pinions fan me into rest. Once more the Rhine flows by me, on its crest Of waters mount and castle mirror’d are; On vine-clad hills gold clusters gleam afar, Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest. Could I but see thee, truest friend of all, Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings The ivy green around a crumbling wall! Could I but be with thee, and to thy song In silence listen, while the redbreast sings, And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!

5.

A torture-chamber was the world to me, Where I suspended by the feet did hang; Hot pincers gave my body many a pang, A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully. I wildly cried in nameless agony, From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang,-- A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang, And presently the coup-de-grace gave she. My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye, My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh, From out my bleeding mouth,--a ghastly sight, My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight; My last death-rattle music is the while To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.

6. THE NIGHT WATCH ON THE DRACHENFELS. TO FRITZ VON B----.

’Twas midnight as we scaled the mountain height, The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d, And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d, They sang of Germany’s renown in fight. Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright, The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d, Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d, And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight. And from the ruins there arose low moans, Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans; A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully. Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass On the high Drachenfels,--but I, alas, A wretched cold and cough took home with me!

7. IN FRITZ STEINMANN’S ALBUM.

The bad victorious are, the good lie low; The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry, Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh, Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.-- In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow, Image on image, flower on flower pile high, In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die, Unless, before the egg is laid, you know How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on, Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con, And your own trumpet blow with decent pride. Write for the mob, not for posterity, Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be,-- You’ll then be by the public deified.

8. TO HER.

The flow’rets red and white that I hold here, Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound, Into a lovely nosegay I have bound, And offer unto thee, my mistress dear. By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d! I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear, Till I have left a sign of love sincere. Remember me when I my death have found. Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me; My life of grief was enviable e’en,-- For in my heart I bore thee lovingly. And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen, Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.

9. GOETHE’S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON-THE MAIN. 1821.

Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear, Collect subscribers with the utmost speed, The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed To build a monument to Goethe here. “At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear “To foreign traders that we’re of his breed, “That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed, “And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.” O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never, And keep your money in your pockets too; ’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise. He dwelt amongst you in his infant days, But half a world now severs him from you, Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen[4] sever!

10. DRESDEN POETRY.

At Dresden on the Elbe, that handsome city, Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made, They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid) A music-club and music warehouse pretty. There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty, Herr Kuhn,[5] Miss Nostitz[5a]--adepts at the trade,-- Spout verses, calling action to their aid. How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!--more’s the pity! Next day the paper tells us all the facts, Bright’s[6] brightness flies, Child’s[6a] childishness is childlike, The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike. Arnoldi[5b] takes the cash, as salesman acts; Then Böttiger[5c] appears, with noise infernal-- ’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal!

11. BREADLESS ART.

How soon my poverty would ended be, Could I the pencil use, and paint away, The walls of castles proud and churches gay Adorning with my pictures merrily! How soon would wealth replace my penury, Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play. And with such elegance perform each day, That lords and ladies all applauded me! But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part, For I have follow’d thee alone, alas! Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art! When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!) Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass, I needs must go without, or drink on credit!

BOOK OF SONGS.

PREFACE.

This is the olden fairy wood! The linden blossoms smell sweetly, The strange mysterious light of the moon Enchants my senses completely.

I onward went, and as I went, A voice above me was ringing;-- ’Tis surely the nightingale’s notes that I hear Of love and love’s sorrows she’s singing.

She sings of love and love’s sorrows as well, She sings of smiling and aching, She sadly exults, she joyfully sobs, Forgotten visions awaking.

I onward went, and as I went, I saw before me lying, On open ground, a castle vast, With gables in loftiness vying.

The windows were closed, and all things appear’d To stillness and sadness converted; It seem’d as though silent death had his home Within those walls deserted.

A sphinx was lying before the door, Part comical, part not human; Its body and paws a lion’s were, With the breasts and head of a woman.

A woman fair! her white eyes spoke Of yearnings wild but tender; Her lips, all mute, were closely arch’d, And smiled a silent surrender.

The nightingale so sweetly sang, I found it in vain to resist it-- I kiss’d the beauteous face, and, ah! Was ruined as soon as I kissed it.

The marble figure with life was fill’d, The stone began sighing and groaning; She drank my kisses’ tremulous glow With thirsty and eager moaning.

She well nigh drank my breath away, And then, with sensual ardour, Embraced me, while her lion’s paws press’d My body harder and harder.

O blissful torment and rapturous woe! The pain, like the pleasure, unbounded! For while the mouth’s kisses filled me with joy, The paws most fearfully wounded.

The nightingale sang: “O beauteous sphinx! “O loved one, explain the reason “Why all thy raptures with pains of death “Are mingled, in cruel treason?

“O beauteous sphinx! explain to me “The riddle so full of wonder! “I over it many a thousand years “Have never ceased to ponder.”

YOUTHFUL SORROWS.

1817-21.

I. VISIONS.

1.

Of love’s wild glow I dreamt in former days, Of mignonette, fair locks, and myrtle twining, Of lips so sweet, with bitter words combining, Of mournful melodies of mournful lays.

The dreams have long been scatter’d far and banish’d, My dearest vision fled for evermore, And, save the burning glow I used to pour Into my tender numbers, all is vanish’d.

Thou ling’rest still, deserted song! Now go, And seek that long-lost vision; shouldst thou meet it, On my behalf in loving fashion greet it,-- An airy breath to that dim shade I blow.

2.

A dream both strange and sad to see Once startled and delighted me; The dismal vision haunts me still, And in my heart doth wildly thrill.

There was a garden wondrous fair,-- I fain would wander gladly there; The beauteous flowers upon me gazed, And high I found my rapture raised.

The birds were twittering above Their joyous melodies of love; The sun was red with rays of gold, The flowers all lovely to behold.

Sweet fragrance all the herbs exhale, And sweetly, softly blows the gale; And all things glisten, all things smile, And show their loveliness the while.

Amid that bright and flowery land A marble fountain was at hand, And there I saw a maiden fair Washing a garment white with care.

Her cheeks were sweet, her eyes were mild, Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child, And as I gazed, she seem’d to be So strange, yet so well known to me.

The beauteous girl, who made all speed, A song was humming, strange indeed: “Water, water, quickly run, “Let the washing soon be done.”

I went and stood then in her way, And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say, “Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair, “For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”

Then spake she quickly: “Ready be! “I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!”-- Scarce had her lips these words let fall, Like foam the vision vanish’d all.

And still entranced, ere long I stood Within a desert, gloomy wood: To reach the skies the branches sought; I stood amazed, and thought and thought.

And hark! what hollow echoing sound Like axe-strokes fills the air around Through waste and wood I speed apace, Until I reach an open place.

In the green plain before me spread A mighty oak tree rear’d its head; And lo! the maiden, strange to see, Was felling with an axe the tree.

With blow on blow a song she sings Unceasing, as the axe she swings: “Iron glittering, iron bright, “Hew the oaken chest aright.”

I went and stood then in her way, And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say, “Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine, “For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”

Then spake she quickly: “Time is short, “To hew thy coffin is my sport!”-- Scarce had her lips these words let fall, Like foam the vision vanish’d all.

Bleak, dim was all above, beneath, Around was barren, barren heath: I felt in strange mysterious mood, And shuddering inwardly I stood.

And as I roam’d on silently, A whitish streak soon caught mine eye; I hasten’d tow’rd it, and when there, Behold, I found the maiden fair!

On wide heath stood the snowy maid, Digging the ground with sexton’s spade; Scarce dared I gaze on her aright, So fair yet fearful was the sight.

The beauteous girl, who made all speed, A song was humming, strange indeed: “Spade, O spade, so sharp and tried, “Dig a pit both deep and wide.”

I went, and stood then in her way, And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say, “Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair, “What means the pit that’s lying there?”

Then spake she quickly: “Silent be! “A cold, cold grave I dig for thee.” And when the fair maid thus replied, Its mouth the pit straight opened wide.

And when the pit was full in view, A chilling shudder pierced me through, And in the grave so dark and deep Headlong I fell, and--woke from sleep.

3.

In midnight vision I myself have spied, As for some festival, in ruffles dress’d, In a black gala-coat and silken vest;-- My sweet and trusting love with scorn I eyed; And bow’d low down, and said “Art thou a bride?” “I wish thee joy, dear Madam, I protest!” And yet my lips reluctantly express’d The words so cold and tauntingly applied. And bitter tears then suddenly ’gan falling From her dear eyes, and in a sea of weeping Wellnigh dissolved her image so enthralling. O lovely eyes, ye stars of love so kindly, What though ye, when awake, and e’en when sleeping Deceived me oft, I trust ye still as blindly!

4.

In dream I saw a tiny manikin, Who went on stilts, with steps a yard apart; White was his linen, and his dress was smart, But he was coarse and most unclean within. Yes, worthless inwardly, and full of sin; Worthy to seem outside was his great art, Of courage he discoursed, as from his heart, Defiant, stubborn, ’neath a veil but thin. “And know’st thou who he is? Come here and see!” So spake the dream-god, slily showing me Within a mirror’s frame this vision then. The manikin before an altar stood, My love beside him, both said “Yes, they would,” And thousand laughing devils cried “Amen!”

5.

Why stirs and chafes my madden’d blood? Why burns my heart in furious mood? My blood fast boils, and foams and fumes, And passion fierce my heart consumes.

My mad blood boils in foaming stream, Because I’ve dreamt an evil dream: Night’s gloomy son appear’d one day, And bore me in his arms away.

To a bright house soon brought he me, Where sounded harp and revelry, And torches gleam’d and tapers shone-- The hall I entered then alone.

I saw a merry wedding feast, The glad guests round the table press’d; And when the bridal pair I spied, O woe! my mistress was the bride.

There was my love, and strange to say, A stranger claim’d her hand to-day. Then close behind her chair of honour I silent stood and gazed upon her.

The music sounded--still I stood; Their joy but swell’d my mournful mood; The bride she look’d so highly blest, Her hand the while the bridegroom press’d.

The bridegroom next fill’d full his cup, And from it drank, then gave it up Unto the bride; she smiled a thank; O woe! my red blood ’twas she drank.

The bride a rosy apple took, And gave it him with smiling look; He took his knife, and cut a part; O woe! it was indeed my heart.

They lovingly each other eyed, The bridegroom boldly clasp’d the bride, And kissed her on her cheeks so red; O woe! cold death kiss’d me instead.

Like lead my tongue within me lay, Vainly I strove one word to say; A noise was heard,--the dance began, The bridal pair were in the van.

Whilst I stood rooted to the ground, The dancers nimbly whirl’d around; The bridegroom spoke a whisper’d word,-- She blush’d, well pleased with what she heard.

6.

In blissful dream, in silent night, There came to me, with magic might, With magic might, my own sweet love, Into my little room above.

I gazed upon the darling child, I gazed, and she all-gently smiled, And smiled until my heart swell’d high, When stormlike daring words breath’d I:

“Take, take thou everything that’s mine, “My All will I to thee resign, “If I may be thy paramour “From midnight till the morning hour.”

Then on me gazed the beauteous maid, With looks that inward strife betray’d, So sweet, so sad, while thus she said: “Give me thy hope of heaven instead!”

“My life so sweet, my youthful blood, “I’ll give with cheerful joyous mood, “For thee, O maiden angel-fair,-- “But hope of heaven hereafter--ne’er!”

My daring speech flow’d readily, Yet ever fairer blossom’d she, And still the beauteous maiden said “Give me thy hope of heaven instead!”

These words fell on me heavily, Then rush’d, like some fierce flowing sea, Down to my spirit’s depth most deep,-- I scarce had power my breath to keep.

There came a band of angels white Graced with a golden halo bright, But wildly follow’d in their track A grisly train of goblins black.

They wrestled with the angels white, And drove away those angels bright, And then the gloomy squadron too Melted like morning mist from view.--

Fain had I died of rapture there, My arms upheld my maiden fair; She nestled near me like a roe, But also wept with bitter woe.

Sweet maiden wept; well knew I why, Her rosy mouth to peace kiss’d I: “O still, sweet love, that tearful flood, “Surrender to my loving mood!

“Surrender to my loving mood!”-- When sudden froze to ice my blood; The earth beneath me groan’d and sigh’d, A yawning chasm open’d wide.

And from the chasm’s gloomy veil Rose the black troop,--sweet love turn’d pale; My arms were of sweet love bereft, And I in solitude was left.

The gloomy troop around me danced In wondrous circle, then advanced, And seized and bore me to the ground, While scornful laughter rose around.

And still the circle narrower grew, And ever humm’d the fearful crew: “Thy hope of heaven was pledg’d by thee, “Thou’rt ours for all eternity!”

7.

Thou now hast the money,--why longer delay? Thou dark scowling fellow, why lingering stay? I sit in my chamber, and patiently wait, And midnight is near, but the bride is still late.

From the churchyard the shuddering breezes arise;-- Ye breezes, O say, has my bride met your eyes? Pale demons come round me, and hard on me press, Make curtsies with grinning, and nod their “O yes!”

Quick, tell me the message you’re coming about, Black villain, in liv’ry of fire trick’d out! My mistress sends word that she soon will be here; In a car drawn by dragons she’ll shortly appear.

Dear grey little man, say, what would’st thou to-day? Dead master of mine, what’s thy business, pray? He gazes upon me with mute mournful mien, Shakes his head, turns away, and no longer is seen.

His tail wags the shaggy old dog, and he whines; All brightly the eye of the black tom-cat shines; The women are howling with long flowing hair,-- Why sings my old nurse my old cradle-song there?

Old nurse stops at home, to her song to attend, The eiapopeia is long at an end; To-day I am keeping my gay wedding feast; Only watch the arrival of each gallant guest!

Only watch them! Good sirs, how polite is your band! Ye carry your heads, ’stead of hats, in your hand; With your clattering bones, and like gallows-birds dress’d, Why arrive here so late, when the wind is at rest?

The old witch on her broomstick comes galloping on: Ah, bless me, good mother, I’m really thy son. The mouth in her pale face beginning to twitch, “For ever, amen,” soon replies the old witch.

Twelve wither’d musicians come creeping along, The limping blind fiddler is seen in the throng Jackpudding dress’d out in his motley array, On the gravedigger’s back is grimacing away.

With dancing twelve nuns from the convent advance, The leering old procuress leading the dance; Twelve merry young priests follow close in their train, And sing their lewd songs in a church-going strain.

Till you’re black in the face, good old clothesman, don’t yell, Your fur-coat will nothing avail you in hell; ’Tis heated for nought all the year with odd things,-- ’Stead of wood, with the bones of dead beggars and kings.

The girls with the flowers seem’d hunchback’d and bent, Tumbling head over heels in the room as they went; With your faces like owls, and a grasshopper’s leg, That rattling of bones discontinue, I beg.

The squadrons of hell all appear in their shrouds, And bustle and hustle in fast-swelling crowds; The waltz of damnation resounds in the ear,-- Hush, hush! my sweet love is at length drawing near.

Now, rabble, be quiet, or get you away! I scarcely can hear e’en one word that I say; Hark! Is’t not the sound of a chariot at hand? Quick, open the door! Why thus loitering stand?

Thou art welcome, my darling! how goes it, my sweet? You’re welcome, good parson! stand up, I entreat! Good parson, with hoof of a horse and with tail, I’m your dutiful servant, and wish you all hail!

Dear bride, wherefore stand’st thou so pale and so dumb? The parson to join us together has come; Full dear, dear as blood, is the fee I must pay, And yet to possess thee is merely child’s play.

Kneel down, my sweet bride, by my side prythee kneel She kneels and she sinks,--O what rapture I feel!-- She sinks on my heart, on my fast-heaving breast; With shuddering pleasure I hold her close press’d.

Like billows her golden locks circle the pair, ’Gainst my heart beats the heart of the maiden so fair They beat with a union of sorrow and love, And soar to the regions of heaven above.

While our hearts are thus floating in rapture’s wide sea, In God’s holy realms, all untrammell’d and free, On our heads, as a terrible sign and a brand, Has hell in derision imposed her grim hand.

In propriâ personâ the dark son of night As parson bestows the priest’s blessing to-night; From a bloody book breathes he the formula terse, Each prayer execration, each blessing a curse.

A crashing and hissing and howling is heard, Like rolling of thunder, like waves wildly stirr’d; When sudden a bluish-tinged light brightly flames, “For ever, amen!” the old mother exclaims.

8.

I came from the house of my mistress dear, And wander’d, half frenzied, in midnight fear, And when o’er the churchyard I mournfully trod, In solemn silence the graves seem’d to nod.

The musician’s old tombstone seem’d nodding to be; ’Tis the flickering light of the moon that I see. There’s a whisper “Dear brother, I soon shall be here!” Then a misty pale form from the tomb doth appear.

The musician it was who arose in the gloom, And perch’d himself high on the top of the tomb; The chords of his lute he struck with good will, And sang with a voice right hollow and shrill:

“Ah, know ye still the olden song, “That thrill’d the breast with passion strong, “Ye chords so dull and unmoving? “The angels they call it the joys of heaven, “The devils they call it hell’s torments even, “And mortals they call it--loving!”

The last word’s sound had scarcely died, When all the graves their mouths open’d wide; Many airy figures step forward, and each The musician draws near, while in chorus they screech:

“Love, O love, thy wondrous might “Brought us to this dreary plight, “Closed our eyes in endless night,-- “To disturb us why delight?”

Thus howl they confusedly, hissing and groaning, With roaring and sighing and crashing and moaning; The mad troop the musician surround as before, And the chords the musician strikes wildly once more

“Bravo! bravo! How absurd! “Welcome to ye! “Plainly knew ye “That I spake the magic word!

“As we pass the livelong year “Still as mice in prison drear, “Let’s to-day be full of cheer! “First, though, please “See that no one else is here; “Fools were we as long as living, “To love’s maddening passion giving “All our madden’d energies. “Let, by way of recreation, “Each one give a true narration “Of his former history,-- “How devour’d, “How o’erpower’d “In love’s frantic chase was he.”

Then as light as the air from the circle there broke A wizen’d thin being, who hummingly spoke:

“A tailor was I by profession “With needle and with shears; “None made a better impression “With needle and with shears.

“Then came my master’s daughter “With needle and with shears, “And pierced my sorrowing bosom “With needle and with shears.”

In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed; In solemn silence a second stepp’d aft:

“Great Rinaldo Rinaldini, “Schinderhanno, Orlandini, “And Charles Moor especially, “Were my patterns made by me.

“Like those mighty heroes, I “Fell in love, I’ll not deny, “And the fairest woman most “Haunted me like any ghost.

“Sighing, cooing like a dove, “I was driven mad with love, “And my fingers, by ill-luck, “In my neighbour’s pocket stuck.

“But the constable abused me, “And most cruelly ill-used me, “And I sought to hide my grief “In my neighbour’s handkerchief.

“Then their arms policemen placed “Quietly around my waist, “And the bridewell then and there “Took me ’neath its tender care.

“There, with thoughts of love quite full, “Long time sat I, spinning wool, “Till Rinaldo’s ghost one day “Came and took my soul away.”

In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed; A third, all-berouged and bedizen’d, stepp’d aft:

“As monarch I ruled on the stage, “The part of the lover played I, “Oft bellowed ‘Ye Gods,’ in a rage, “Breath’d many a heart-rending sigh.

“I play’d Mortimer’s part best, methinks, “Maria was always so fair; “But despite the most natural winks, “She never gave heed to my prayer.

“Once when I, with desperate look, “‘Maria, thou holy one!’ cried, “The dagger I hastily took, “And plunged it too deep in my side.”

In right merry chorus the spirits then laugh’d; A fourth in a white flowing garment stepp’d aft:

“Ex cathedrâ kept prating the learned professor, “He prated, and I went to sleep all the while; “Yet my pleasure had certainly not been the lesser, “Had I revell’d instead in his daughter’s sweet smile.

“From the window she oft to me tenderly beckon’d, “That flower of flowers, my life’s only light; “Yet that flower of flowers was pluck’d in a second “By a stupid old blockhead, an opulent wight.

“Then cursed I all women and rogues of high station, “And mingled some poisonous herbs in my wine, “And held with old Death a jollification, “While he said: ‘Your good health! from this moment you’re mine!’”

In right merry chorus the spirits then laugh’d; A fifth, with a rope round his neck, next stepp’d aft:

“There boasted and bragg’d a count, over his wine, “Of his daughter so fair, and his jewels so fine. “What care I, Sir Count, for thy jewels so fine? “Far rather would I that thy daughter were mine!

“’Tis true under bar, lock, and key they both lay, “And the Count many servants retain’d in his pay “What cared I for servants, for bar, lock, or key? “Up the rungs of the ladder I mounted with glee.

“To my mistress’s window I climb’d with good cheer, “Where curses beneath me saluted my ear. “‘Stop, stop, my fine fellow! I too must be there, “I’m likewise in love with the jewels so fair.’

“Thus jested the Count, while he grappled me tight, “His servants came round me with shouts of delight. “‘Pooh, nonsense, you rascals! No robber am I, “I but came for my mistress--’tis really no lie.’

“In vain was my talking, in vain what I said, “They got ready the rope, threw it over my head, “And the sun, when he rose, with amazement extreme “Found me hanging, alas, from the gallows’ high beam!”

“In right merry chorus the spirits then laugh’d; “A sixth, with his head in his hand, next stepp’d aft;

“Love’s torments made me seek the chace; “Rifle in hand, I roam’d apace. “Down from the tree, with hollow scoff, “The raven cried: ‘head off! head off!’

“O, could I only see a dove, “I’d take it home for my sweet love! “Thus thought I, and midst bush and tree “With sportsman’s eye sought carefully.

“What billing’s that? What gentle cooing? “It sounds like turtle doves’ soft wooing. “I stole up slily, cock’d my gun, “And, lo, my own sweet love was one!

“It was indeed my dove, my bride; “A stranger clasp’d her waist with pride. “Old gun, now let thy aim be good!-- “The stranger welter’d in his blood.

“Soon through the wood I had to pass, “With hangmen by my side, alas! “Down from the tree, with bitter scoff, “The raven cried: ‘head-off! head-off!’”

In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed; At length the musician in person stepp’d aft:

“I’ve sung my own song, friends, demurely, “That charming song’s at an end; “When the heart is once broken, why surely “The song may homeward wend!”

Then began the wild laughter still louder to sound, And the pale spectral troop in a circle swept round. From the neighbouring church-tow’r the stroke of “One!” fell, And the spirits rush’d back to their graves with a yell.

9.

I was asleep, and calmly slept, All pain and grief allay’d; A wondrous vision o’er me crept, There came a lovely maid.

As pale as marble was her face, And, O, so passing fair! Her eyes they swam with pearl-like grace, And strangely waved her hair.

And softly, softly moved her foot The pale-as-marble maid; And on my heart herself she put, The pale-as-marble maid.

How shook and throbb’d, half sad, half blest, My heart, which hotly burn’d! But neither shook nor throbb’d her breast, Which into ice seem’d turn’d.

“It neither shakes nor throbs, my breast, “And it is icy cold; “And yet I know love’s yearning blest, “Love’s mighty pow’r of old.

“No colour’s on my lips and cheek, “No blood my veins doth swell; “But start not, thus to hear me speak, “I love thee, love thee well!”

And wilder still embraced she me, And I was sore afraid; Then crow’d the cock,--straight vanish’d she, The pale-as-marble maid.

10.

I oft have pale spectres before now Conjured with magical might; They refuse to return any more now To their former dwelling of night.

The word that commands their submission I forgot in my terror and fear; My own spirits now seek my perdition, Within their prison-house drear.

Dark demons, approach not a finger! Away, nor to torment give birth! Full many a joy still may linger In the roseate light of this earth.

I needs must be evermore striving To reach the flower so fair; O, what were the use of my living If I may cherish her ne’er?

To my glowing heart fain would I press her, Would clasp her for once to my breast, On her lips and her cheeks once caress her, With sweetest of torments be blest.

If once from her mouth I could hear it, Could hear one fond whisper bestow’d, I would follow thee, beckoning Spirit, Yea, e’en to thy darksome abode.

The spirits have heard, and draw nigh me, And nod with terrific glee: Sweet love, with an answer supply me,-- Sweet love, O lovest thou me?

2. SONGS.

1.

Every morning rise I, crying: Comes my love to-day? Then sink down at evening, sighing: She is still away!

Sleepless and oppress’d with sorrow, All night long I lie Dreaming, half asleep; the morrow Sadly wander I.

2.

I’m driven hither and thither along! But yet a few hours, I shall see her again, Herself, the most fair of the fair maiden-train;-- True heart, what means thy throbbing so strong?

The hours are only a slothful race! Lazily they move each day, And with yawning go their way;-- Hasten on, ye slothful race!

Wild-raging eagerness thrills me indeed; Never in love have the hours delighted; So, in a cruel bond strangely united, Slily deride they the lovers’ wild speed.

3.

By nought but sorrow attended, I wander’d under the trees; That olden vision descended, And stole to my heart by degrees.

Who taught you the word ye are singing, Ye birds in the branches on high? O hush! when my heart hears it ringing, It makes it more mournfully sigh.

“A fair young maiden ’twas taught it, “Who came here, and sang like a bird; “And so we birds easily caught it, “That pretty, golden word.”

No more shall this story deceive me, Ye birds, so wondrously sly: Of my sorrow ye fain would bereave me, On your friendship I cannot rely.

4.

Sweet love, lay thy hand on my heart, and tell If thou hearest the knocks in that narrow cell? There dwells there a carpenter, cunning is he, And slily he’s hewing a coffin for me.

He hammers and knocks by day and by night, My slumber already has banish’d outright; Oh, Master Carpenter, prythee make haste, That I some slumber at length may taste.

5.

Beauteous cradle of my sorrow, Beauteous grave of all my peace, Beauteous town, we part to-morrow, Fare thee well, our ties must cease!

Fare thee well, thou threshold holy, Where my loved one sets her feet! Fare thee well, thou spot so holy, Where we chanced at first to meet!

Would that we had been for ever Strangers, queen of hearts so fair! Then it would have happen’d never That I’m driven to despair.

Ne’er to stir thy bosom thought I, For thy love I never pray’d; Silently to live but sought I Where thy breath its balm convey’d.

Yet thou spurn’st me in my sadness, Bitter words thy mouth doth speak, In my senses riots madness, And my heart is faint and weak

And my limbs, in wanderings dreary, Sadly drag I, full of gloom, Till I lay my head all weary In a chilly distant tomb.

6.

Patience, surly pilot, shortly To the port I’ll follow you; From two maidens I’m departing, From my love and Europe too.

Blood-spring, from mine eyes ’gin running, Blood-spring, from my body flow, So that I then, with my hot blood, May write down my tale of woe.

Ah, my body, wherefore shudder Thus to-day my blood to see? Many years before thee standing Pale, heart-bleeding, saw’st thou me!

Know’st thou still the olden story Of the snake in Paradise, Who, a cursed apple giving, Caused our parents endless sighs?

Apples brought all evils on us, Death through Eve by apples came; Flames on Troy were brought by Eris,-- Both thou broughtest, death and flame!

7.

Hill and castle fair are glancing O’er the clear and glassy Rhine, And my bark is gaily dancing In the sunlight all-divine.

On the golden waters, breaking Sportively, my calm eyes rest; Gently are the feelings waking That I nourish’d in my breast.

With a fond and kindly greeting, Lure me those deep waters bright, Yet I know their smoothness cheating Hides beneath it death and night.

Joy above, below destruction,-- Thou’rt my loved one’s image, stream Blissful is her smile’s seduction, Kind and gentle can she seem.

8.

First methought in my affliction, I can never stand the blow.-- Yet I did--strange contradiction! How I did, ne’er seek to know.

9.

With rose and cypress and tinsel gay, I fain would adorn in a charming way This book, as though a coffin it were, And in it my olden songs inter.

O, could I but bury love also there! On love’s grave grows rest’s floweret fair; ’Tis there ’tis pluck’d in its sweetest bloom,-- For me ’twill not blossom till in my tomb.

Here now are the songs that formerly rose, As wild as the lava from Etna that flows, From out the depths of my feelings true, And glittering sparks around them threw!

Like corpses now lie they, all silent and dumb, And cold and pallid as mist they’ve become; But the olden glow their revival will bring When the spirit of love waves o’er them its wing.

In my heart a presentiment loudly cries: The spirit of love will over them rise: This book will hereafter come to thy hand, My sweetest love, in a distant land.

Then the spell on my song at an end will be, The pallid letters will gaze on thee, Imploringly gaze on thy beauteous eyes, And whisper with sadness and loving sighs.

3. ROMANCES.

1. THE MOURNFUL ONE.

Every heart with pain is smitten When they see the stripling pale, Who upon his face bears written Grief and sorrow’s mournful tale.

Breezes with compassion lightly Fan his burning brow the while, And his bosom many a sprightly Damsel fair would fain beguile.

From the city’s ceaseless bustle To the wood for peace he flies. Merrily the leaves there rustle, Merrier still the bird’s songs rise.

But the merry song soon ceases, Sadly rustle leaf and tree, When he, while his grief increases, Nears the forest mournfully.

2. THE MOUNTAIN ECHO.

At sad slow pace across the vale There rode a horseman brave: “Ah! travel I now to my mistress’s arms, Or but to the darksome grave?” The echo answer gave: “The darksome grave!”

And farther rode the horseman on, With sighs his thoughts express’d: “If I thus early must go to my grave, Yet in the grave is rest.” The answering voice confess’d: “The grave is rest!”

Adown the horseman’s furrow’d cheek A tear fell on his breast: “If rest I can only find in the grave, For me the grave is best.” The hollow voice confess’d: “The grave is best!”

3. THE TWO BROTHERS.

On the mountain summit darkling Lies the castle, veil’d in night; Lights are in the valley sparkling, Clashing swords are gleaming bright.

Brothers ’tis, who in fierce duel Fight, with wrath to fury fann’d; Tell me why these brothers cruel Strive thus madly, sword in hand?

By the eyes of Countess Laura Were they thus in strife array’d; Both with glowing love adore her,-- Her, the noble, beauteous maid.

Unto which now of the brothers Is her heart the most inclined? She her secret feelings smothers,-- Out, then, sword, the truth to find!

And they fight with rage despairing, Blows exchange with savage might; Take good heed, ye gallants daring,-- Mischief walks abroad by night.

Woe, O woe, ye brothers cruel! Woe, O woe, thou vale abhorr’d! Both fall victims in the duel, Falling on each other’s sword.

Races are to dust converted, Many centuries have flown, And the castle, now deserted, Sadly from the mount looks down.

But at night-time in the valley Wondrous forms appear again; At the stroke of twelve, forth sally To the fight the brothers twain.

4. POOR PETER.

I.

While Hans and Grettel are dancing with glee, And each of them loudly rejoices, Poor Peter looks as pale as can be, And perfectly mute his voice is.

While Hans and Grettel are bridegroom and bride, And glitter in smart ostentation, Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide, And bites his nails with vexation.

Then softly Peter said to himself, As he gazed on the couple sadly: “Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf, It had fared with my life but badly!”

II.

“Within my breast there sits a woe That seems my breast to sever; Where’er I stand, where’er I go, It drives me onward ever.

“It makes me tow’rd my loved one fly, As if she could restore me; Yet when I gaze upon her eye, My sorrows rise before me.

“I clamber up the mountain now, In lonely sorrow creeping, And standing silent on its brow, I cannot cease from weeping.”

III.

Poor Peter slowly totters by, Pale as a corpse, and stealthily; The very people in the street Stand still, when his sad form they meet.

The maidens whisper’d as they pitied: “The grave he has this moment quitted.” Ah no, my dear young maidens fair, He’s just about to lie down there!

As he is of his love bereft, The grave’s the best place that is left, Where he his aching heart may lay, And sleep until the Judgment Day.

5. THE PRISONER’S SONG.

When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl, The mob would have burnt her quite readily; But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl, She refused to confess her crime steadily.

And when in the caldron they held her fast, She shouted and yell’d like a craven; But when the black vapour arose, she at last Flew up in the air as a raven.

My black and feathery grandmother dear, O visit me soon in this tower! Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here, And bring me some cakes to devour!

My black and feathery grandmother dear, O prythee protect me from sorrow! For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear, When I merrily soar hence to-morrow.

6. THE GRENADIERS

Two grenadiers travell’d tow’rds France one day, On leaving their prison in Russia, And sadly they hung their heads in dismay When they reach’d the frontiers of Prussia.

For there they first heard the story of woe, That France had utterly perish’d, The grand army had met with an overthrow, They had captured their Emperor cherish’d.

Then both of the grenadiers wept full sore At hearing the terrible story; And one of them said: “Alas! once more My wounds are bleeding and gory.”

The other one said: “The game’s at an end, With thee I would die right gladly, But I’ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend, For without me they’ll fare but badly.

“What matters my child, what matters my wife? A heavier care has arisen; Let them beg, if they’re hungry, all their life,-- My Emperor sighs in a prison!

“Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer: If my hours I now must number, O take my corpse to my country fair, That there it may peacefully slumber.

“The legion of honour, with ribbon red, Upon my bosom place thou, And put in my hand my musket dread, And my sword around me brace thou.

“And so in my grave will I silently lie, And watch like a guard o’er the forces, Until the roaring of cannon hear I, And the trampling of neighing horses.

“My Emperor then will ride over my grave, While the swords glitter brightly and rattle; Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave, For my Emperor hasting to battle!”

7. THE MESSAGE.

Good servant! up, and saddle quick, And leap upon thy steed, And to King Duncan’s castle then Through plain and forest speed.

Into the stable creep, and wait, ’Till by the helper spied; Then say: “Of Duncan’s daughters, which Has just become a bride?”

And if he says: “The brown one ’tis,” The news bring quickly home; But if he says: “The fair one ’tis,” More slowly thou mayst come.

Then go to the ropemaker’s shop, And buy a rope for me; And riding slowly, bring it here, And mute and silent be.

8. TAKING THE BRIDE HOME.

I’ll go not alone, my sweetheart dear! With me thou must go now To the cheery, old, and cosy room In the dreary cold abode of gloom, Where at the door my mother keeps guard, And for her son’s return looks hard.

“Away from me, thou gloomy man! Who bid thee come hither? Thy hand’s like ice, thine eye glows bright, Thy breath is burning, thy cheek is white;-- But I would rather my time beguile With smell of roses and sun’s sweet smile.”

The roses may smell, and the sun may shine, My darling sweetheart! Throw thy spreading white veil thy figure around, Make the chords of the echoing lyre resound, And sing a wedding song to me; The night-wind pipes the melody.

9. DON RAMIRO.

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara! Through long years the hotly-loved one Thou hast will’d now my destruction, Will’d it, too, without compassion.

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara! Very sweet the gift of life is! But beneath us all is fearful, In the tomb so dark and chilly.

“Donna Clara, joy! to-morrow Will Fernando at the altar As his wedded bride salute thee,-- Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?”

“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro! Bitterly thy words are sounding, Bitt’rer than you stars’ decree is, Scoffing at my heart’s own wishes.

“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro! Shake thy gloomy sadness from thee; On the earth are many maidens, But by God have we been parted.

“Don Ramiro, who so bravely Many Moors hast overpower’d, Overpower now thyself too,-- Come to-morrow to my wedding.”

“Donna Clara! Donna Clara! Yes, I swear it, yes, I’ll come there! And the dance will lead off with thee;-- So good night, I’ll come to-morrow.”

“So good night!”--The window rattled; Sighing stood below Ramiro, Seeming turn’d to stone long stood he; Then he vanish’d in the darkness.

Lastly, after lengthen’d conflict, Night to day in turn surrender’d; Like a blooming flowery garden Lies extended fair Toledo.

Palaces and splendid buildings Glitter in the radiant sunlight, And the churches’ domes so lofty Glisten proudly, as though gilded.

Humming like a busy beehive, Merrily the bells are sounding; Sweetly rise the solemn psalm-tunes From the God-devoted churches.

But look yonder! but look yonder! Where from out the market chapel, Midst the heaving crowd and uproar, Streams the throng in chequer’d masses.

Glittering knights and stately ladies In gay courtly dresses sparkle, And the clear-toned bells are ringing, And the organ peals between times.

But with reverence saluted, In the people’s midst are walking, Nobly clad, the youthful couple, Donna Clara, Don Fernando.

To the bridegroom’s palace entrance Slowly moves the gay procession; There begin the ceremonies, Stately, and in olden fashion.

Knightly games and merry feasting Interchange with loud rejoicing; Swiftly fly the hours thus gladly Till the shades of night have fallen.

And the wedding-guests assemble In the hall, to hold the dances, And their chequer’d gala dresses Midst the glittering lights are sparkling.

On a high-exalted dais Bride and bridegroom are reclining, Donna Clara, Don Fernando, Holding loving conversation.

In the hall are gaily moving All the festal crowd of people, And the kettle-drums sound loudly, And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Wherefore, O my heart’s fair mistress. Are thy glances so directed Tow’rd the hall’s most distant corner?” Thus the knight exclaim’d with wonder.

“Seest thou not, then, Don Fernando, Yonder man in dark cloak hidden?” And the knight with smiling answered: “Ah, ’tis nothing but a shadow.”

But the shadow soon approach’d them, And a man was in the mantle, And Ramiro recognising, Clara greeted him with blushes.

And the dancing has begun now, And the dancers whirl round gaily In the waltz’s giddy mazes, And the ground beneath them trembles.

“Gladly will I, Don Ramiro, In the dance become thy partner, But thou didst not well to come here In a black and nightlike mantle.”

But with eyes all fix’d and piercing Looks Ramiro on the fair one; Clasping her, with gloom thus speaks he: “At thy bidding have I come here!”

And the pair of dancers vanish In the dance’s giddy mazes, And the kettle-drums sound loudly, And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Snow-white are thy cheeks, Ramiro,” Clara speaks with secret trembling. “At thy bidding have I come here!” In a hollow voice replies he.

In the hall the wax-lights glimmer Through the ebbing, flowing masses, And the kettle-drums sound loudly, And the trumpets, too, are crashing.

“Ice-cold are thy hands, Ramiro,” Clara speaks with shudd’ring terror. “At thy bidding have I come here!” And within the whirl they vanish.

“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro! Ah, thy breath is like a corpse’s!” Once again the dark words speaks he “At thy bidding have I come here!”

And the very ground seems glowing. Fiddle, viol sound right merry; Like a wondrous weft of magic All within the hall is whirling.

“Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro!” Sadly sounds amidst the tumult; Don Ramiro ever answers: “At thy bidding have I come here!”

“In the name of God depart, then!” Clara with a firm voice utters, And the words she scarce had spoken When Ramiro vanish’d from her.

Clara, death in every feature, Chilly, night-surrounded, stood there, And a swoon her lightsome figure To its darksome kingdom carries.

But at last her misty slumber Yields, at last her eyelids open, But again, with deep amazement, Would she fain have closed her fair eyes.

For since they began the dancing, From her seat had she not moved once, And she still sits by the bridegroom, And the anxious knight thus asks her

“Say, why are thy cheeks so pallid? Wherefore is thine eye so darksome?”-- “And Ramiro?”--stammers Clara, And her tongue is mute with horror.

But with deep and solemn wrinkles Is the bridegroom’s brow now furrow’d: “Lady, bloody news why seek’st thou? This day’s noontide died Ramiro.”

10. BELSHAZZAR.

The midnight hour was coming on, In deathlike calm lay Babylon.

But in the monarch’s castle high Held the monarch’s attendants gay revelry.

And in the regal hall upstairs A regal feast Belshazzar shares.

The servants in glittering circles recline, And empty the goblets of sparkling wine.

The servants are shouting, the goblets ring, Delighting the heart of the ruthless king.

The king’s cheeks feel a ruddy glow, The wine doth swell his ardour so.

And blindly led on by his ardour’s wiles, The Godhead with blasphemous words he reviles.

And wildly he curses and raves aloud, Approvingly bellow the serving crowd.

The king commands with a look that burns, The servant hastens and soon returns.

Many golden vessels he bears on his head, The spoils of Jehovah’s temple dread.

And the monarch straight seized on a sacred cup With impious hand, and fill’d it up.

And down to the dregs he drains it fast, And with foaming mouth exclaims at last:

“Jehovah, thy power I here defy, The King of Babylon am I.”

But scarcely had sounded the fearful word, When the heart of the king with terror was stirr’d.

The yelling laughter is silenced all, And deathlike silence fills the hall.

And see! And see! On the wall so white A human hand appears in sight.

And letters of flame on the wall so white It wrote, and wrote, and vanish’d from sight.

The king the writing with wonderment sees, As pale as death, and with trembling knees.

The awestruck servants sat around, And silent sat, and utter’d no sound.

The magicians appear’d, but none ’mongst them all Could rightly interpret the words on the wall.

But Belshazzar the king the selfsame night Was slain by his servants,--a ghastly sight.

11. THE MINNESINGERS.

In the minstrels’ strife engaging Pass the Minnesingers by; Strange the war that they are waging, Strange the tourney where they vie.

Fancy, that for battle nerves him, Is the Minnesinger’s steed; Art as trusty buckler serves him, And his word’s a sword indeed.

Beauteous dames, with glances pleasant, From the balcony look down; But the right one is not present With the proper laurel crown.

Other combatants, when springing To the lists, at least are sound; Minnesingers must be bringing To the fray a deadly wound.

He from whom the most there draineth Song’s blood from the inmost breast,-- He is victor, and obtaineth From fair lips the praise most blest,

12. LOOKING FROM THE WINDOW.

Fair Hedwig lay at the window, to see If pale Henry would chance to detect her; She said half aloud: “Why goodness me! The man is as pale as a spectre!”

With yearning pale Henry look’d above At her window, in hopes to detect her; Fair Hedwig now felt the torments of love, And she became pale as a spectre.

Love-sick, now stood fair Hedwig all day At her window, lest he should reject her; But soon in pale Henry’s arms she lay All night, at the time for a spectre.

13. THE WOUNDED KNIGHT.

I know a story of anguish, A tale of the times of old; A knight with love doth languish, His mistress is faithless and cold.

As faithless must he esteem now Her whom in his heart he adored; His loving pangs must he deem now Disgraceful and abhorr’d.

In vain in the lists would he wander, And challenge to battle each knight; “Let him who my mistress dares slander Make ready at once for the fight!”

But all are silent, save only His grief, that so fiercely doth burn; His lance he against his own lonely Accusing bosom must turn.

14. THE SEA-VOYAGE.

I leaning stood against the mast, And told each wave of ocean; Farewell, my beauteous fatherland! My bark, how swift thy motion!

I pass’d my lovely mistress’ house, The windows gleam’d all over; But though I gazed and gazed and gazed, No sign could I discover.

Ye tears, obscure not thus mine eyes On this too-painful morrow; My love-sick heart, O do not break With overweight of sorrow!

15. THE SONG OF REPENTANCE.

Sir Ulrich rides in the forest so green, The leaves with joy seem laden; He sees, the trees’ thick branches between, The form of a beauteous maiden.

The youth then said: “Well know I thee, So blooming and glowing thy face is; Alluringly ever encircles it me, In deserts or crowded places.

“Those lips, by fresh loveliness ever stirr’d, Appear a pair of roses; Yet many a hateful bitter word That roguish mouth discloses.

“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.

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