3.
The knight Tannhauser roam’d on till his feet
Were sore with his wanderings dreary.
At midnight’s hour he came at length
To the Venus’ mountain, full weary.
Fair Venus awoke from out of her sleep,
And out of her bed sprang lightly,
And clasp’d her fair and lily-white arms
Around her beloved one tightly.
From out of her nose the blood fell fast,
The tears from her eyes descended;
She cover’d the face of her darling knight
With blood and tears closely blended.
The knight lay quietly down in the bed,
And not one word has he spoken;
While Venus went to the kitchen, to make
Some soup, that his fast might be broken.
She gave him soup, and she gave him bread,
She wash’d his wounded feet, too;
She comb’d his rough and matted hair,
And laugh’d with a laugh full sweet, too.
“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,
“Full long hast thou been wandering;
“O say in what lands hast thou thy time
“So far from hence been squandering?”
“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth
“In Italy I have been staying;
“I’ve had some bus’ness in Rome, and now
“Return without further delaying.
“Rome stands on the Tiber, just at the spot
“Where seven hills are meeting;
“In Rome I also beheld the Pope,—
“The Pope he sends thee his greeting.
“And Florence I saw, when on my return,
“And then through Milan I hasted,
“And next through Switzerland scrambled fast,
“And not one moment wasted.
“And when I travell’d over the Alps,
“The snow already was falling;
“The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled,
“The eagles were circling and calling.
“And when on the Mount St. Gothard I stood,
“Below me snored Germany loudly;
“Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings
“It slumber’d calmly and proudly.
“In Swabia I saw the poetical school
“Of dear little simpleton creatures;
“They sat together all ranged in a row,
“With very diminutive features.
“In Dresden I saw a certain dog,
“A sprig of the aristocracy;
“His teeth he had lost, and bark’d and yell’d
“Like one of the vulgar democracy.
“At Weimar, the Muses’ widow’d seat,
“I heard them their sentiments giving;
“They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead,
“And Eckermann still ’mongst the living!
“At Potsdam I heard a very loud cry,—
“I said in amaze: ‘What’s the matter?’—
“’Tis Gans[11] at Berlin, who last century’s tale
“Is reading and making this clatter.’
“At Göttingen knowledge was blossoming still,
“But bringing no fruit to perfection;
“’Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night,
“No light was in any direction.
“In the bridewell at Zell Hanoverians alone
“Were confined; at our next Reformation
“A national bridewell and one common lash
“We must have for the whole German nation.
“At Hamburg, in that excellent town,
“Many terrible rascals dwell still;
“And when I wander’d about the Exchange,
“I fancied myself in Zell still!
“At Hamburg I Altona saw; ’tis a spot
“In a charming situation;
“And all my adventures that there I met
“I’ll tell on another occasion.”[12]
14. ROMANCES.
1. A WOMAN.
They loved each other beyond belief,
The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief;
At each piece of knavery, daily
She fell on the bed, laughing gaily.
In joy and pleasure they pass’d the day,
Upon his bosom all night she lay;
When they carried him off to Old Bailey,
At the window she stood, laughing gaily.
He sent her this message: O come to me,
I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee;
I want thee, I pine, and look palely,—
Her head she but shook, laughing gaily.
At six in the morning they hang’d the knave,
At seven they laid him down in his grave;
At eight on her ears this fell stalely,
And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily.
2. CELEBRATION OF SPRING.
O list to this spring time’s terrible jest!
In savage troops the maidens fair
Are rushing along with fluttering hair,
And howls of anguish and naked breast:—
Adonis! Adonis!
The night falls fast. By torchlight clear
They sadly explore each forest track,
Which mournful answers is echoing back
Of laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear:—
Adonis! Adonis!
That youthful figure, so wondrous fair,
Now lies on the ground all pale and dead;
His blood has dyed each floweret red,
And mournful sighs resound through the air:—
Adonis! Adonis!
3. CHILDE HAROLD.
Slow and weary, moves a dreary
Stout black bark the stream along;
Visors wearing, all-uncaring,
Funeral mutes the benches throng.
’Mongst them dumbly, with his comely
Face upturn’d, the dead bard lies;
Living seeming, toward the beaming
Light of heaven still turn his eyes.
From the water, like a daughter
Of the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,
And with wailing unavailing
’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.
4. THE EXORCISM.
The young Franciscan friar sits
In his cloister silent and lonely;
He reads a magical book, which speaks
Of exorcisms only.
And when the hour of midnight knell’d,
An impulse resistless came o’er him;
The underground spirits with pallid lips
He summon’d to rise up before him:
“Ye spirits! Go, fetch me from out of the grave
The corpse of my mistress cherish’d;
For this one night restore her to life,
Rekindling joys long perish’d.”
The fearful exorcising word
He breathes, and his wish is granted;
The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes white
Appears to his vision enchanted.
Her look is mournful; her ice-cold breast
Her sighs of grief cannot smother;
The dead one sits herself down by the monk,
In silence they gaze on each other.
5. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER.
(The Sun speaks.)
What matter all my looks to thee?
It is the well-known right of the sun
To shed down his rays on ev’ry one;
I beam because ’tis proper for me.
What matter all my looks to thee?
Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf;
Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself,
And so a German worthy be!
I beam because ’tis proper for me.
I wander up and down in the sky,
From mere ennui I peep from on high—
What matter all my looks to thee?
(The Poet speaks.)
It is in truth my special merit
That I can bear thy radiant light,
Pledge of an endless youthful spirit,
Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright.
But now mine eyes are growing weary,
On my poor eyelids fast are falling,
Like a black covering, the dreary
Dark shades of night with gloom appalling.
(Chorus of Monkeys.)
We monkeys, we monkeys,
Like impudent flunkies,
Stare at the sun,
Who can’t prevent its being done.
(Chorus of Frogs.)
The water is better,
But also much wetter
Than ’tis in the air,
And merrily there
We love to gaze
On the sun’s bright rays.
(Chorus of Moles.)
How foolish people are to chatter
Of beams and sunny rays bewitching
With us, they but produce an itching
We scratch it and so end the matter.
(A Glow-worm speaks.)
How boastingly the sun displays
His very fleeting daily rays!
But I’m not so immodest quite,
And yet I’m an important light,—
I mean by night, I mean by night!
6. THE EVIL STAR.
The star, after beaming so brightly,
From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,
What is the love by poets sung?
A star amid a heap of dung.
Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying,
Beneath all this filth it is lying;
Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,
And wallows in the fearful slough.
In the garden O had I descended,
By fair flowerets lovingly tended,
Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,
A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!
7. ANNO 1829.
Give me a wide and noble field
Where I may perish decently!
O let me in this narrow world
Of shops be not condemned to die!
They eat full well, they drink full well,
And revel in their mole-like bliss;
Their magnanimity’s as great
As any poor-box opening is.
Cigars they carry in their mouths,
Their hands we in their breeches view,
And their digestive powers are great,—
O could we but digest them too!
They trade in every spice that grows
Upon the earth, yet we can trace,
Despite their spices, in the air
The odour of a grovelling race.
Could I some great transgressions, yes,
Colossal bloody crimes but see,—
Aught but this virtue flat and tame,
This solvent strict morality!
Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence,
To some far spot without delay!
To Lapland or to Africa,
To Pomerania e’en—away!
O bear me hence!—They hearken not—
The clouds on high so prudent are!
They fly above this town, to seek
With trembling haste some region far.
8. ANNO 1839.
Dear distant Germany, how often
I weep when I remember thee!
Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,
Her merry race gives pain to me.
In Paris, in this witty region,
’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;
O bells of folly and religion,
How sweetly sound at home your strains!
Courteous the men! Their salutation
I yet return with feelings sad;
The rudeness shown in every station
In my own country made me glad!
Smiling the women! but their clatter,
Like millwheels, never seems to cease;
The Germans (not to mince the matter)
Prefer I, who lie down in peace.
And all things here with restless passion
Keep whirling, like some madden’d dream;
With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,
And well-nigh void of motion seem.
Methinks I hear the distant ringing
Of the soft bugle’s notes serene;
The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,
With Philomel’s sweet strains between.
At home the bard, a happy vagrant
In Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;
From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant
My tender verses there I wove.
9. AT DAWN.
On the Faubourg Saint Marçeau
Lay the mist this very morning,
Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,
And a white-hued night resembling.
Wandering through this white-hued night,
I beheld before me gliding
An enchanting female form
Which the moon’s sweet light resembled.
Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,
Lightly floating, tender, graceful;
Such a slender shape of limbs
I had here in France ne’er witness’d.
Was it Luna’s self perchance,
Who with some young dear and handsome
Fond Endymion had to-day
In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?
On my way home thus I thought:
Wherefore fled she when she saw me?
Did the Goddess think that I
Was perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?