13. EPILOGUE.
Graves they say are warm’d by glory;
Foolish words and empty story!
Better far the warmth we prove
From a cow-girl deep in love,
With her arms around us flung,
Reeking with the smell of dung.
And that warmth is better too
That man’s entrails pierces through
When he drinks hot punch and wine,
Or his fill of grog divine,
In the vilest, meanest den
’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,
Who escape the gallows daily,
But who breathe and live all-gaily,
With as enviable fate
As e’en Thetis’ son so great.—
Rightly did Pelides say:
Living in the meanest way
In the upper world’s worth more,
Than beside the Stygian shore
King of shades to be; a hero
Such as Homer sang is zero.
ADDENDA TO THE POEMS.[93]
THE SONG OF SONGS.
Fair woman’s body is a song
Inscribed by our great Maker
In Nature’s mighty album erst,
When moved to life to wake her.
Ah yes! propitious was the hour
When thus he show’d compassion!
The coy rebellious stuff he work’d
In true artistic fashion.
Yes, woman’s body is, ’mongst songs,
The song most sweet and tender,
And wondrous strophes are her limbs,
So snowy-white and slender.
And then her neck, her glistening neck,—
O what a godlike notion!—
Where the main thought, her little head,
Rocks with a graceful motion.
Like polish’d epigrams one loves
Her bosom’s rosebuds dearly;
Enchanting the cæsura is
That parts her breasts severely.
The song has flesh, ribs, hands, and feet,
No abstract poem this is!
With lips that rhyme deliciously
It smiles and sweetly kisses.
True poetry is breathing here,
Grace shines in each direction;
The song upon its forehead bears
The stamp of all perfection.
I’ll praise thee, Lord, and in the dust
Will humbly kneel to show it;
Bunglers are we, compared with thee,
Thou glorious heavenly Poet.
Before the splendour of thy song
I’ll bow in adoration,
And to its study day and night
Pay closest application.
Yes, day and night I’ll study it,
No loss of time admitting;
So shall I soon with overwork
Be thinner than befitting.
THE SUTTLER’S SONG.
(From the Thirty Years’ War.)
The brave hussars I dearly love,
I love each gallant fellow;
Without distinction I love them all,
The blue as well as the yellow.
The musketeers I dearly love,
I love the musketeers, too;
The officers, privates, and recruits,
And those of older years too.
The infantry and cavalry—
I love the brave fellows sincerely;
And then the artillery,—one and all,
I love them truly and dearly.
I love the Germans, I love the French,
I love the Italians and Dutchmen;
I love the Bohemians, Spaniards, and Swedes,
I love both many and much men.
Whatever may be his native land,
Whatever his faith or persuasion,
Provided a man is sound in health,
I love him on ev’ry occasion.
Religion and country are nothing more
Than his outside clothing,—God bless him.
Away with his cov’ring, that I to my heart
May fondly and warmly press him!
A mortal am I, and only too glad
With any mortal to dally;
And as for the man who can’t pay on the spot,
For him I keep a tally.
The garland green in front of my tent
In the light of the sun smiles gaily,
And I am now drinking malmsey wine
From a fresh-open’d barrel daily.
POSTHUMOUS POEMS.
HORSE AND ASS.
A train was rushing along one day,
With carriages, engine, and tender;
The chimney vomited forth its smoke,
Like a dashing old offender.
The train pass’d a farmyard, and over the hedge
A grey horse, at the sound of the whistle,
Stretch’d out his head; an ass stood by,
Demurely chewing a thistle.
With wondering gaze the horse long stared
At the train; then strangely quivering
In every limb, he sigh’d, and said:
“The sight has set me a-shivering!
“I’m sure that if I by nature had been
“A chesnut, or black, or bay horse,
“My skin with the fright its colour would change,
“And make me (as now) a grey horse.
“The equestrian race is doom’d, beyond doubt,
“To be swept away in fate’s eddy;
“Although I’m a grey horse, I cannot but see
“A black future before me already.
“The competition of these machines
“Will certainly kill us poor horses;
“For riding and driving will man prefer
“Iron steeds, if so great their force is.
“And if man can get on without our help,
“Alike for riding and driving,
“Good-bye to our oats, good-bye to our hay
“What chance have we of surviving?
“The heart of man is hard as a stone,
“He gives away nothing gratis;
“They’ll drive us out of our stables, and we
“Shall starve—what a cruel fate ’tis!
“We cannot borrow and cannot steal
“Like mortals whose natures are blacker;
“We cannot fawn like men and dogs,
“But shall fall a prey to the knacker.”
Thus grumbled the horse, and deeply sigh’d,—
Meanwhile the ass hard by him
Had quietly chew’d two thistle-tops,
As if nothing could terrify him.
He presently answer’d in dainty tones,
With his tongue first licking his muzzle:
“With what the future may have in store,
“My brains I shall not puzzle.
“You horses proud are threaten’d, no doubt,
“By a future that’s far from pleasant;
“But we modest asses are not afraid
“Of dangers future or present.
“That grey horses, and chesnut, and piebald, and black,
“May be done without, true, alas! is;
“But Mister Steam, with his chimney long,
“Can never replace us asses.
“However clever may be the machines
“Made by man with his senses besotted,
“The ass as his portion will always have
“Sure means of existence allotted.
“Its asses will Heaven, I’m sure, ne’er desert,
“Who, moved by a calm sense of duty,
“Turn the mill every day, as their fathers have done,—
“A sight not deficient in beauty.
“The mill-wheel clatters, the miller works hard,
“The meal in the sack well shaking,
“And people eat their bread and their rolls,
“As soon as they’ve finished the baking.
“In Nature’s old-fashion’d and jogtrot way
“The world will keep spinning for ever;
“And as changeless even as Nature herself,
“The ass will alter never.”
* * *
MORAL.
Gone are the days of chivalry,
And the proud steed must hungry be;
But L——, the ass, I boldly say,
Will never want his oats and hay.
THE ASS-ELECTION.
Being tired of freedom for some time past
The beasts’ republic decided
To be with a single ruler at last
As its absolute head provided.
Each kind of beast prepared for the strife,
Electoral billets were written;
Intrigues on every side were rife,
With party zeal all were bitten.
By long-ear’d gentry at its head
The asses’ committee was aided;
Cockades, whose colours were black, gold, and red,[94]
They boastfully paraded.
A small party there was of friends of the horse,
Who yet were afraid of voting,
So greatly they dreaded the outcry coarse
The long-ear’d party denoting.
But when one of them ventured the horse to name
As a candidate, greater and greater
Wax’d the noise, and an old long-ear, to his shame,
Shouted out “Thou art only a traitor.
“A traitor art thou, in thy veins doth not flow
“One drop of asses’ blood proper;
“No ass art thou, and I almost know
“That a foreign mare was thy dropper!
“From the zebra perchance thou art sprung; thy striped hide
“Quite answers the zebra’s description;
“The nasal twang of thy voice is allied
“To the Hebrew as well as Egyptian.
“And if not a stranger, thou art, thou must own,
“A dull ass, of an intellect paltry;
“The depths of ass-nature to thee are unknown
“Thou hear’st not its mystical psalt’ry.
“But with sweet stupefaction my soul drinks in
“That sound which all others surpasses;
“An ass am I, and each hair in the skin
“Of my tail the hair of an ass is.
“I am not a Papist, I am not a slave,
“A German ass am I solely;
“The same as my fathers, who all were so brave,
“So thoughtful, demure, and so holy.
“They were not addicted to doing ill,
“Or practising gallantry gaily;
“But trotted off with the sack to the mill
“In frolicsome fashion daily.
“Our fathers still live. In the tomb only lie
“Their skins, their mortal covering;
“Their happy spirits, high up in the sky,
“Complacently o’er us are hovering.
“Ye glorified asses, ye need not doubt
“That we fain would resemble you ever,
“And from the path that duty points out
“We’ll swerve a finger’s breadth never.
“O what a delight an ass to be,
“From such long-ear’d worthies descended!
“From every house-top I’d fain shout with glee:
“‘An ass I was born—how splendid!’
“The noble jackass who gave me birth
“Was of genuine German extraction;
“From my mother, a German ass of worth,
“My milk suck’d I with great satisfaction.
“An ass am I, and fully intend,
“Like my fathers who now are departed,
“To stand by the asses, yes, stand to the end
“By the asses so dear and true-hearted.
“And since I’m an ass, I advise you all round
“To choose your king from the asses;
“A mighty ass-kingdom we thus will found,
“They being the governing classes.
“We all are asses. Hee-ha! Hee-ha!
“As ostlers we will not demean us;
“Away with the horses! Long live, hurrah,
“The king of the asinine genus!”
Thus spake the patriot. Through the hall
The asses cheer’d him proudly;
They all, in fact, were national,
And with their hoofs stamp’d loudly.
An oaken wreath on the orator’s head
They put as a decoration;
He wagg’d his tail (though nothing he said)
With evident gratification.
BERTHA.
She seem’d so gentle, she seem’d so good,
An angel I thought my lover;
She wrote the dearest letters to me,
With kindness teeming all over.
The wedding was very soon to take place,
Her relations heard this by dozens;
My Bertha was a silly thing,
For she listen’d to aunts and cousins.
She kept not her word, she broke her oath,
And yet I have been forgiving;
Had I married her first, I ne’er should have known
Either pleasure or love while living.
When I of a faithless woman think,
I think of Bertha the faithless;
The only wish I have left, is that she
May pass through her confinement scatheless.
IN THE CATHEDRAL.
Before me the sexton’s daughter fair
Through the sacred edifice skippèd;
Her size was small, and light her hair,
From her neck her kerchief had slippèd.
In the old cathedral for sixpence I got
A sight of its marvellous creatures,
Its tombs, lights, crosses; I turn’d quite hot
When I gazed on Elspeth’s features.
And once again I stared about
At the sacred relics entrancing;
In their under-petticoats all trick’d out,
On the window the women were dancing.
The sexton’s little daughter fair
Stood by me, while thus I inspected.
She had a very pretty pair
Of eyes, wherein all was reflected.
Before me the sexton’s daughter fair
From the sacred edifice skippèd;
Her mouth was small, her neck was bare,
From her bosom her kerchief had slippèd.