3.
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,
And the morning mists are rising
From the ocean-flood, like spirits
Dragging their white shrouds behind them.
Feasts and lights are all extinguish’d
In the temple of the idol,
Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement,
Priest and laity lie snoring.
None are waking, save Red Jacket.
By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer,
Sickly grinning, grimly jesting,
Thus the priest his god addresses:
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli!
“Darling god, my Vitzliputzli!
“Thou to-day hast had amusement,
“And has smelt a fragrant odour!
“Spanish blood to-day we offer’d,
“O how savourily steam’d it!
“And thy fine and dainty nostrils
“Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!
“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,
“Neighing noble monsters are they,
“Offspring of the tempest spirits’
“Amorous toying with the seacow.
“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter
“In thine honour my two grandsons,
“Pretty children,—sweet their blood is,—
“My old age’s only pleasure.
“But indeed thou must be gracious,
“And must grant us further triumphs,
“Let us conquer, darling godhead,
“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!
“All our enemies destroy thou,
“All these strangers who from distant
“And still undiscover’d countries
“Hither came across the ocean—
“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?
“Was it crime or hunger drove them?
“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’
“Is a sensible old proverb.
“What is their desire? Our money
“Stick they in their greedy pockets,
“And they wish us to be happy—
“So they tell us,—in the heavens!
“We at first believed them fully
“Beings of a higher order,
“Children of the Sun, immortal,
“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.
“But they’re only men, as mortal
“As ourselves; my knife to-night has
“Proved beyond all doubt and question
“Their extreme mortality.
“They are mortal, and no fairer
“Than ourselves, and many of them
“Are as ugly as the monkeys,
“And their faces, like the latter,
“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d
“Many of them carry hidden
“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for
“Those not monkeys need no breeches.
“Morally they’re also ugly
“And of piety know nothing,
“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d
“Their own deities to swallow!
“O destroy this vile abandon’d
“Wicked brood, these god-devourers—
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,
“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”—
Thus the priest address’d the god,
And the god’s reply resounded
Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind
Toying with the ocean sedges:
“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!
“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,—
“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now
“In thine own old worn-out body!
“From thy body, thus slit open,
“Will thy spirit make its exit,
“Over roots and over pebbles
“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.
“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,
“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:
“‘So good morning, naked spirit!
“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?
“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely
“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?
“‘Does good fortune from his forehead
“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?
“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,
“‘Hated goddess of all evil,
“‘With her black paws made of iron,
“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’
“Naked spirit, give this answer:
“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,
“‘And a pestilence he wishes
“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!
“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,
“‘And thy counsel was destruction;
“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil
“‘Old and mournful prophecy
“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation
“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,
“‘Who on wooden birds all flying
“‘From the Eastern land come hither.
“‘There’s an ancient proverb also—
“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise—
“‘And the God’s will is redoubled
“‘When the woman is his mother.
“‘She it is that wakes my anger,
“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,
“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,
“‘Working charms and versed in magic.
“‘She protects the Spanish people,
“‘And we all at length must perish,
“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,
“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’—
“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,
Red-coat, let thy naked spirit
In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly
Out of sight of all my misery.
“This proud temple will be shatter’d,
“I myself shall in its ruins
“Disappear,—mere dust and rubbish,—
“No one e’er again will see me.
“Yet I shall not die; we godheads
“Grow as old as do the parrots,
“And we cast our skins, and like them
“Only change at times our feathers.
“To my foemen’s native country
“Which they give the name of Europe
“I shall fly away, beginning
“There a really new career.
“I’ll turn devil, and the god
“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;
“As my foemen’s evil spirit
“I can work as best may suit me.
“There my enemies I’ll trouble,
“And alarm them all with phantoms;
“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,
“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.
“Both their wise men and their doltards
“I’ll allure with my seductions;
“And their virtue will I tickle
“Till it laughs like any strumpet.
“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,
“And salute as my dear comrades
“Satanas and Belial with him,
“Astaroth and Beelzebub.
“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,
“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent
“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,
“And the charming art of lying!
“My belovèd Mexico,
“I no longer can preserve thee,
“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,
“My belovèd Mexico!”
BOOK II.—LAMENTATIONS.
Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,
And in one place will never stay;
The hair from off thy face with kisses
She strokes, and then she flies away.
Misfortune to her heart, however,
To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;
She says she’s in a hurry never,
Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
WOOD SOLITUDE.
In former days, in my life’s young morning,
I wore a garland my brow adorning;
How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!
The garland was fill’d with a magical power.
While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,
Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;
I fled from the envy of mortals rude,
I fled to the wood’s green solitude.
To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoyment
With spirits and beasts was my sole employment.
The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,
Without any fear approach’d me all.
They all approach’d me without any terror,
In this they knew they committed no error;
That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,
That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.
None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,
But how the remaining gentry of station
That lived in the forest treated me well,
I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.
How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,
That airy race, with their charming gabble!
’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,
The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.
With May dance and May games amused they me highly
And tales of the court narrated they slily,
For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’en
Of lovely Titania, the faery queen.
If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springing
Rose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,
With long silver veils and fluttering hair,
The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!
They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,
And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;
The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,
Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.
And yet at times was much less alarming
The noise that they made; these elfins charming
Before my feet lay quietly,
Their heads reclining on my knee.
Some foreign romances they trill’d,—for example
I’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;
A hymn of praise they sang also with grace
On me and my noble human face.
They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,
Many critical matters inquiring after,
For instance: “On what particular plan
“Did God determine on fashioning man?
“Is each individual’s soul altogether
“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,
“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass
“That almost every man is an ass?”
The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,
And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)
Was not in the slightest degree ever hurt
By the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.
While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,
Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,
Which love to help man. I prefer most of all
The race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.
They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,
Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;
I let them not see that I had descried
Why they their feet so carefully hide.
They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;
And fancy that nobody else can know it;
Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,
That to teaze them about it I never could dare.
Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,
We all have something that needs concealing;
No Christians, we fancy, have ever descried
Where we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.
Salamanders for me had never attractions,
I learnt very little respecting their actions
From other wood spirits. They pass’d me by night
Like fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.
They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,
With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,
Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;
Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.
A golden crown, with rubies all over,
The head of each of their number doth cover;
The whole of these vain conceited elves
Quite absolute monarchs consider themselves.
That they are not burnt in the fire is truly
A great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;
And yet the uninflammable wight
Is far from being a true fire-sprite.
The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;
Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;
They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,
But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.
When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,
They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;
But as my welfare they always have sought,
Their origin really to me matters nought.
In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,
How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,
And also to pluck on Midsummer night
The root that makes one invisible quite.
They taught me the stars and strange signs—how astraddle
To ride on the winds without any saddle,
And Runic sentences, able to call
The dead from out of their silent graves all.
They also taught me the whistle mysterious
That serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,
And makes him give us the spurge, to show
Where secret treasures are hidden below.
The words that ’tis needful for people to mutter
When digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;
But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heart
The treasure-digger’s wonderful art.
For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,
My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;
I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,
The income from which came duly to hand.
O charming time, when the heaven’s high arches
With fiddles were hung, when elfin marches
And nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad play
My story-drunk heart enchanted all day!
O charming time, when into auspicious
Triumphal arches the foliage delicious
Appear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,
My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.
That charming time has utterly vanish’d,
And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;
And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fair
That I was then wont on my head to wear.
The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,
But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;
Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,
My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.
The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,
Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,
A churchyard blue, its deities gone;
I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.
From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their graces
Horns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;
While hid in the thicket, the trembling roe
Is licking her wounds with tearful woe.
And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are biding
In clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;
My dear little friends, I’m returning again,
But reft of my garland and joy I remain.
O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,
First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?
The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’d
Stands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.
The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;
Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,
As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,
While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.
I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,—
She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,
And then she fled with a terrified mien,
As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
SPANISH LYRICS.
’Twas on Hubert’s day—the year was
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty—
That the king a banquet gave us
In the castle at Segovia.
These state banquets just the same are
Everywhere, and at the tables
Of all princes sov’reign tedium
Yawns with uncontested vigour.
Everywhere the same silk rabble,
Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.
Whispers all the time and buzzing
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.
Near me, by good luck, was sitting
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.
He with wondrous skill related
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.
When I ask’d him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:
Ah, Señor! the tales believe not
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.
And believe not what they chatter
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.
’Twas not to the husband’s jealous
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava’s order.
For the crime Don Pedro never
Would forgive him, was his glory,—
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald—
Never could Don Pedro pardon
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit’s image.
Still within my memory blossoms
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne’er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.
They were just of that description
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.
Blue his eyes were, their enamel
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel’s staring hardness
Seem’d reflected in them likewise.
Black his hair was in its colour,
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.
In the charming town of Coimbra
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world,—unhappy prince!
He was coming from Alcanzor,
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.
O’er his head his helm-plume floated
Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.
By his side, and gaily wagging
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang,—a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.
He, despite his size gigantic,
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox’s it resembled.
Snow-white and like silk in softness,
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.
It was said this collar hid the
Talisman fidelity;
Never did the faithful creature
Leave the side of his dear master.
O that fierce fidelity!
It excites my startled feelings,
When I think how ’twas made public
Here, before our frighten’d presence.
O that day so full of horror!
Here, within this hall, it happen’d,
And as I to-day am sitting,
At the monarch’s table sat I.
At the high end of the table,
Where to-day young Don Henrico
Gaily tipples with the flower
Of Castilian chivalry,
On that day there sat Don Pedro
Darkly silent, and beside him,
Proudly radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.
At the table’s lower end, where
Here to-day we see the lady
With the linen frill capacious,
Like a white plate in appearance.
Whilst her yellow face is gilded
With a smile of sour complexion,
Like the citron that is lying
On the plate already mention’d,—
At the table’s lower end here
Was a place remaining empty;
Some great guest of lofty station
Seem’d the golden seat to wait for.
Don Fredrego was the guest, for
Whom the golden seat was destined;
Yet he came not,—ah! now know we
But too well why thus he tarried.
Ah! that selfsame hour the wicked
Deed of blood was consummated,
And the innocent young hero
Suddenly attack’d and basely
By Don Pedro’s myrmidons,
Tightly bound, and quickly hurried
To a dreary castle dungeon
Lighted only by some torches.
Executioners stood ready,
And their bloody chief was with them,
Who, upon his axe while leaning,
Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:
“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,
“Now must thou for death prepare thee;
“Just one quarter of an hour
“Still is left for thee to pray in.”
Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,
And he pray’d with pious calmness,
And then said: “I now have finish’d,”
And received the stroke of death.
In the very selfsame moment
That the head roll’d on the pavement,
Faithful Allan, who had follow’d
All unseen, sprang quickly to it.
With his teeth the head straight seized he
By the long luxuriant tresses,
And with this much valued booty
Shot away with speed of magic.
Agonizing shouts resounded
Everywhere as on he hasten’d,
Through the passages and chambers,
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.
Since the banquet of Belshazzar
Never company at table
Was so utterly confounded
As was ours that fill’d this hall then,
When the monstrous creature leapt in,
With the head of Don Fredrego,
Which he with his teeth was dragging
By the dripping bloody tresses.
On the seat which, being destined
For his master, still was empty,
Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff
Held the head before our faces.
Ah! it was the well-remember’d
Hero’s features, but still paler
And more solemn now when dead,
And all-fearfully encircled
By the locks in black luxuriance,
Which stood up as did the savage
Serpent-headdress of Medusa,
Turning into stone through terror.
Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,
Wildly stared we on each other,
And each tongue was mute and palsied
Both by etiquette and horror.
But Maria de Padilla
Broke the universal silence;
Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,
She forebodingly lamented:
“Now it will be said ’twas I that
“Brought about this cruel murder;
“Rancour will assail my children,
“My poor innocent young children!—”
Don Diego interrupted
At this place his tale, observing
That the company had risen,
And the court the hall was leaving.
Kind and courteous in his manners,
Then the knight became my escort,
And we rambled on together
Through the ancient Gothic castle.
In the crossway which conducted
To the kennels of the monarch,
Which proclaimed themselves already
By far growling sounds and yelpings,
There I noticed, built up strongly
In the wall, and on the outside
Firmly fasten’d by strong iron,
Like a cage, a narrow cell.
And inside it sat two human
Figures, two young boys appearing;
By the legs securely fetter’d,
On the dirty straw they squatted.
Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,
Scarcely older seem’d the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.
They were clothed in rags, half naked,
And their wither’d bodies offer’d
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.
From the depth of their deep mis’ry
They upon me turn’d their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.
“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”
I exclaim’d, with hasty action
Don Diego’s hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch’d it.
Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,
Look’d if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming
A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:
These are children of a monarch,
Early orphan’d, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.
After the great fight at Narvas,
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown’s oppressive burden,
And from that still greater burden
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico’s victor-kindness
Also reach’d his brother’s children.
Under his own care he took them,
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.
Narrow is indeed the chamber
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.
For their food, they live on ryebread,
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres’ self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.
Oftentimes he also sends them
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.
Yet not always is it Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.
For this worthy upper huntsman,
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,
Is the most unhappy husband
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;
And she scolds so loud, that often
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.
But the king is very angry
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.
He will not entrust to any
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward.—
Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach’d us, and politely
Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—
THE EX-LIVING ONE.
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,
The watchman, the crier nightly,
Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee
Used to ramble in converse sprightly?
Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,
Where the darksome clouds were scudding;
A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,
That in your bosoms were budding.
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?
No longer he thinks of destroying;
By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he
As a reader to tyrants employing.
But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,
“Shortsighted as every poet;
“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,
“But his object’s to kill him,—I know it.
“So Matzerath’s[78] poems he reads him each day
“A dagger is each line in it;
“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,
“May die of ennui any minute.”
THE EX-WATCHMAN.
From the Neckar he departed,
With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,
And as play-director started
In fair Munich’s city next.
All that country’s very pretty,
And they in perfection here,
In this fancy-stirring city,
Brew the very best of beer.
But ’tis said the poor Director
Rambles, like a Dante, glum,
Melancholy as a spectre,
Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.
Comedies no longer heeds he,
Nor the very worst of rhyme;
Wretched tragedies oft reads he,
Not once smiling all the time.
Oft herself some fair one flatters
She will cheer his sorrowing heart;
But his coat of mail soon shatters
Every love-directed dart.
All in vain his friends endeavour
To enliven him and sing:
“In thy life rejoice thee ever,
“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”
Is there nought can raise thy spirits
In this fair and charming town,
Which, among its many merits,
Boasts such men of great renown?
It is true, that it has lately
Lost full many a man of worth
Whom we miss and valued greatly,
Chorus-leaders and so forth.
Would that Massmann left us never!
He would surely have some day
By his antics strange but clever
Driven all thy cares away.
Schelling’s[79] loss is very serious,
And can never be replaced,
A philosopher mysterious,
And a mimic highly graced.
That the founder of Walhalla
Went away, and left behind
All his manuscripts,—by Allah!
That was really too unkind!
With Cornelius[80] also perish’d
All his pupils whatsoe’er;
They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,
And their strength was in their hair
For their prudent Master planted
In their hair some magic springs,
And it seem’d, as if enchanted,
To be full of living things.
Apropos! The arch-notorious
Priest, as Dollingerius known,—
That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—
Has he from the Isar flown?
In Good Friday’s sad procession
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.
On Monácho Monachorum
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]
At his name thy dull eye flashes;
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,—
Strike away as formerly!
Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.
Old Erasmus could not master
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.
Old and young laugh,—all the city
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”
When those dirty monks we’re catching,
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.
“Alea jacta est!” however
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.
Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.
Call thy long legs transcendental
Into full and active play;
Vulgar be the monks or gentle,
If they’re monks, then strike away!
He however sigh’d, and wringing
Both his hands he thus replied:
My long legs, so apt at springing,
Are with Europe stupified.
And my corns are twitching sadly,
Tight the German shoes I’ve on;
Where the shoe is pinching badly
Know I now,—so pray begone!
MYTHOLOGY.
Yes! Europa must knock under,—
Who could stand against a bull?
Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder
Golden rain made her a fool!
Sem’le was a victim real,
For she innocently thought
That a heavenly cloud ideal
Could not injure her in aught.
But poor Leda’s tale notorious
Really stirs up all our spleen;
Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,
What a goose must she have been!
IN MATILDA’S ALBUM.
On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
I, who am wont my thoughts to utter
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!
O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
TO THE YOUNG.
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion
Of golden apples that lie in thy way!
The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,
But they cannot long the hero delay.
A daring beginning is halfway to winning,
An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!
Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling
In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.
Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon
The bed of Darius of old, and his crown;
O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!
To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
THE UNBELIEVER.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
With rapturous emotion
My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills
At this delicious notion.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms,
Whilst with thy fair gold tresses
I sport, and thy dear darling head
My shoulder gently presses!
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
To truth will turn my vision,
And here on earth shall I enjoy
The highest bliss elysian.
St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe
The fact, my doubts will linger
Until upon my rapture’s wounds
I lay my eager finger.
WHITHER NOW?
Whither now? my stupid foot
Fain to Germany would guide me;
But my reason shakes its head
Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:
“Ended is the war indeed,
“But they still keep up courts-martial,
“And to writing things esteem’d
“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”
That’s quite true, and being shot
Has for me no great attractions;
I’m no hero, and unskill’d
In pathetic words and actions.
Fain to England would I go,
View’d I not with such displeasure
Englishmen and coals—their smell
Makes me sick beyond all measure.
To America methinks
I would sail the broad seas over;
To that place of freedom where
All alike may live in clover,
Did I not detest a land
Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,
Where they never use spittoons,
And so strangely play at skittles.
Russia, that vast empire fair,
Might be tolerably pleasant,
But I should not like the knout
That’s their usual winter present.
Sadly gaze I up on high,
Where the countless stars are gleaming,
But I nowhere can discern
Where my own bright star is beaming.
Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth
It has got benighted lately,
As I on this bustling earth
Have myself been wandering greatly.
AN OLD SONG.
Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,
The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;
Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,
And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.
’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,
I bore thee myself to the grave outright;
The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,
And after us follow’d the bright constellations.
As through the forest the train moved along,
They made it resound with the litany’s song;
The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,
The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.
And as o’er the willowy lake we flew
The elfins were dancing full in our view;
They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,
And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.
And when we had reach’d the grave, full soon
From out of the heavens descended the moon,
And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condoling
While in the distance the bells were tolling.
READY MONEY.
Love, before she granted favours,
One day told the god Apollo
She on guarantees insisted,
For the times were false and hollow.
Laughingly the god made answer:
“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,
“And thou speakest like a usurer
“Who on pawn lends money duly.
“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,—
“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;
“Prythee say how many kisses
“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
THE OLD ROSE.
She for whom my heart once beat
Was a rosebud fair and tender;
Yet it ever grew more sweet,
Bursting into full-blown splendour.
’Twas the loveliest that could be,
And to pluck it I bethought me;
But it stung me piquantly
With its thorns, and prudence taught me.
Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,
By the wind and tempests shatter’d,
“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,
And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.
Henry here and Henry there
Calleth she with ceaseless din now;
If a thorn is anywhere,
’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.
O how hard the bristles grow
On the chin’s warts of my beauty!
Either to a convent go,
Or to shave will be thy duty.
AUTO-DA-FÉ.
See these violets, dusty tresses,
And this faded ribbon blue,
Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,
And these half-torn billets-doux,—
All, with angry look and gesture
In the blazing fire I throw;
Sadly crackle up these relics
Of my happiness and woe.
Vows of love, and fond deceiving
Broken oaths all upwards fly
In the chimney, while in secret
Cupid laughs maliciously.
Dreamily beside the fireplace
Sit I, while the sparkles bright
Glow in silence midst the ashes,—
So farewell! good night! good night!
LAZARUS.
1. THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
He who has already much,
Finds his wealth increasing faster;
Who but little, is of all
Soon bereft by some disaster.
But if thou hast nothing, friend,
Go and hang thyself this minute;
Only they who’ve aught on earth
Have a claim for living in it.