18. CHURCH-COUNSELLOR PROMETHEUS.
Good Sir Paulus,[19] noble robber,
All the gods are on thee gazing
With their brows in anger knitted,
Furious at the theft amazing
Thou hast practised in Olympus—
Sorry for it they will make thee!
Fear the fate of poor Prometheus
If Jove’s bailiffs overtake thee!
Worse indeed his theft, because he
Stole the light in heaven dwelling
To enlighten us weak mortals—
Thou didst steal the works of Schelling,
Just the opposite of light,—nay,
Darkness we can feel and handle
Like the old Egyptian darkness,—
Not one solitary candle!
19. TO THE WATCHMAN.
(On a recent occasion.)
If heart and style remain still true,
I’ll not object, whatever you do.
My friend, I never will mistake you,
E’en though a Counsellor they make you.
They now are raising a terrible din
Because you’ve been sworn as a Counsellor in;
From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason,
For months they’ve declaim’d thus against your sad treason:
His progress onward is changed of late
To progress backward; O, answer us straight—
On Swabian crabs are you really riding?
Is’t only court-ladies you now take pride in?
Perchance you are tired, and long for rest;
All night on your horn you’ve been blowing your best
And now on a nail you quietly stow it;
No longer for Germany’s hobby you’ll blow it.
You lie down in bed, and straightway close
Your eyes, but vainly you seek for repose;
Before the window the mockers salute us:
Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus?
Ah, bawlers like these can never know why
The best of watchmen ceases to cry;
These young braggadocios cannot discover
Why man his exertions at length gives over.
You ask me how matters are going on here?
No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere’s clear;
The weathercocks all are perplex’d, not discerning
The proper direction in which to be turning.
20. CONSOLING THOUGHTS.
We sleep as Brutus slept of yore,—
And yet he awoke, and ventured to bore
In Cæsar’s bosom his chilly dagger!
The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.—
No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke,
Each nation its favourite taste can invoke;
Each nation its special merit possesses—
The finest dumplings Swabia dresses.
But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave,
We sleep as soundly as though in the grave;
And when we awake, our thirst is excessive,
But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive.
’Tis our great pride to be as true
As heart of oak and linden too;
The land which oaks and lindens gives birth to
Can never produce a Brutus of worth too.
And e’en if amongst us a Brutus were found,
No Cæsar exists in the country round;
Despite all his search, he would find him never,—
We make good gingerbread however.
We’ve six-and-thirty masters and lords,
(Not one too many!) who wear their swords
And stars on their regal breasts to protect them;
The Ides of March can never affect them.
We call them Father, and Fatherland
We call the country they command
By right of descent, and love to call so—
We love sour-crout and sausages also.
And when our Father walks in the street
We take off our hats with reverence meet;
Our guileless Germany, injuring no man,
Is not a den of murderers Roman.
21. THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.
The world is topsy-turvy turn’d,
We walk feet-upwards in it;
The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down,
A dozen in a minute.
The calves are seen to roast the cook,
On men are riding the horses;
On freedom of teaching and laws of light
The Catholic owl discourses.
The herring is a sans-culotte,
The truth is told by Bettina,
And puss-in-boots brings Sophocles
On the stage, with learned demeanour.
An ape for German heroes has built
A Pantheon, for glory zealous;[20]
And Massmann has lately been using a comb,
As German papers tell us.
The German bears, I grieve to say,
Are atheists unbelieving,
And in their place the parrots of France
The Christian faith are receiving.
The Moniteur of Uckermark
With equal frenzy seems smitten;
The dead have on the living there
The vilest epitaph written.[21]
Then let us not swim against the stream,
Good friends! ’twould serve us but badly;
But let us ascend the Templehof hill,[22]
“Long life to the king!” shouting gladly.
22. ENLIGHTENMENT.
Have the scales that dimm’d thy vision
Fallen, Michael? Canst thou see
How they’re stealing in derision
All the choicest food from thee?
In return, divine enjoyment
Promise they in realms above,
Where the angels’ sole employment
Is to cook us fleshless love.
Michael, hath thy faith grown weaker,
Or thy appetite more strong?
Thou dost grasp life’s sparkling beaker,
And thou sing’st a hero-song.
Fear not, Michael! take thy pleasure
While on earth, and eat what’s good;
When thou’rt dead, thou’lt have full leisure
To digest in peace thy food.
23. WAIT AWHILE!
Because my lightnings are so striking,
You think that I can’t thunder too!
You’re wrong, for I’ve a special liking
For thunder, as I’ll prove to you.
This will be seen with awful clearness
When the right moment is at hand;
You’ll hear my voice in startling nearness,—
The word of thunder and command.
The raging storm will surely shiver
Full many an oak upon that day;
Each palace to its base shall quiver,
And many a steeple proud give way.
24. NIGHT THOUGHTS.
When, Germany, I think of thee
At night, all slumber flies from me;
I cannot close mine eyes for yearning,
And down my cheeks run tears all burning.
How swiftly speeds each rolling year!
Since I have seen my mother dear
Twelve years have pass’d away; the longer
I wait, my yearning grows the stronger.
My yearning’s growing evermore;
That woman has bewitch’d me sore!
Dear, dear old woman! with what fervour
I think of her! may God preserve her!
The dear old thing in me delights,
And in the letters that she writes
I see how much her hand is shaking,—
Her mother’s heart, how nearly breaking!
My mother’s ever in my mind;
Twelve long long years are left behind,
Twelve years have follow’d on each other
Since to my heart I clasp’d my mother.
For ages Germany will stand;
Sound to the core is that dear land!
Its oaks and lindens I shall ever
Find just the same, they alter never.
For Germany I less should care
If my dear mother were not there;
My fatherland will never perish
But she may die, whom most I cherish.
Since I my native land saw last,
Into the tomb have many pass’d
Whom I so loved—When of them thinking
How sadly bleeds my spirit sinking!
I needs must count them,—as I count
My sorrows higher, higher mount;
I feel as though each corpse were lying
Upon my breast—Thank God, they’re flying!
Thank God! for through the window-pane
France’s clear daylight breaks again;
My fair wife enters, sweetly smiling,
And all my German cares beguiling!
NEW SPRING.
PROLOGUE.
Sometimes when o’er pictures turning
You have seen the man perchance,
Who is for the battle yearning,
Well-equipp’d with shield and lance.
Yet young loves are hov’ring round him,
Stealing lance and sword away;
They with flow’ry chains have bound him
Though he struggle in dismay.
I, too, in such charming fetters,
Bind myself with sad delight,
And I leave it to my betters
In time’s mighty fight to fight.