4.
My good wife is not contented
With the chapter just concluded,
And especially the portion
Speaking of Darius’ casket.
Almost bitterly observes she,
That a husband with pretensions
To religion, into money
Straightway would convert the casket,
That he with it might be able
For his poor and lawful spouse
That nice Cashmere shawl to purchase
That she stands so much in need of.
That Jehuda ben Halevy
Would, she fancies, with sufficient
Honour be preserved, if guarded
In a pretty box of pasteboard,
Deck’d with Chinese elegant
Arabesques, like those enchanting
Sweetmeat-boxes of Marquis
In the Passage Panorama.
“Very strange it is,”—she added,—
“That I never heard the name of
“This remarkable old poet,
“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”
Darling little wife, I answer’d,
Your delightful ignorance
But too well the gaps discloses
In the education given
In the boarding schools of Paris,
Where the girls, the future mothers
Of a proud and freeborn nation,
Learn the elements of knowledge.
All about the dry old mummies,
And embalm’d Egyptian Pharaohs
Merovingian shadowy monarchs,
With perukes devoid of powder,
And the pig-tail’d kings of China,
Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—
This they know by heart and fully,
Clever girls,—but, O, good heavens
If you ask for any great names
From the glorious golden ages
Of Arabian-ancient-Spanish
Jewish schools of poetry,—
If you ask for those three worthies,
For Jehuda ben Halevy,
For great Solomon Gabirol,
Or for Moses Iben Esra,
If you ask for these or suchlike,
Then the children stare upon us
With a look of stupid wonder,
And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.
Let me then advise you, dearest,
These neglected points to study,
And to take to learning Hebrew
Leaving theatres and concerts.
When a few years to these studies
Have been given, you’ll be able
In the’ original to read them,
Iben Esra and Gabirol,
And Halevy in addition,
That triumvirate poetic,
Who evoked the sweetest music
From the instrument of David.
Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,
Is to you unknown, although he
A Voltairian was, six hundred
Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:
“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,
“And the thinker most he pleases;
“Iben Esra shines in art, and
“Is the fav’rite of the artist.
“But Jehuda ben Halevy
“Is in both a perfect master,
“And at once a famous poet
“And a universal fav’rite.”
Iben Esra was a friend,
And I rather think, a cousin
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
Who in his famed book of travels
Bitterly complains how vainly
He had sought through all Granada
For his friend, and only found there
His friend’s brother, the physician,
Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,
And the father of the beauty
Who in Iben Esra’s bosom
Kindled such a hopeless passion.
That he might forget his niece, he
Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff,
Like so many of his colleagues,
Living restlessly and homeless.
Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,
When some Tartars fell upon him,
Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,
And to their wild deserts took him.
Duties there devolved upon him
Quite unworthy of a Rabbi,
Still less fitted for a poet—
He was made to milk the cows.
Once, as he beneath the belly
Of a cow was sitting squatting,
Fing’ring hastily her udder,
While the milk the tub was filling,—
A position quite unworthy
Of a Rabbi, of a poet,—
Melancholy came across him,
And to sing a song began he.
And he sang so well and sweetly,
That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,
Who was passing by, was melted,
And he gave the slave his freedom.
And he likewise gave him presents,
Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy
Saracenic mandoline,
And some money for his journey.
Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,
Which the offspring of Apollo
Worried unto death, and even
Did not spare their noble father,
When he, after Daphne lurking,
In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s
Stead, embraced the laurel only,—
He, the great divine Schlemihl!
Yes, the glorious Delphic god is
A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel
That so proudly crowns his forehead
Is a sign of his Schlemihldom.
What the word Schlemihl betokens
Well we know. Long since Chamisso
Rights of German citizenship
Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).
But its origin has ever,
Like the holy Nile’s far sources,
Been unknown. Upon this subject
Many a night have I been poring.
Many a year ago I travell’d
To Berlin, to see Chamisso
On this point, and from the dean sought
Information of Schlemihl.
But he could not satisfy me,
And referr’d me on to Hitzig,
Who had made the first suggestion
Of the family name of Peter
Shadowless. I straightway hired
The first cab, and quickly hasten’d
To the magistrate Herr Hitzig,
Who was formerly call’d Itzig.
When he still was known as Itzig,
In a vision saw he written
His own name high in the heavens,
And in front the letter H.
“What’s the meaning of this H?”
Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig
“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy
“Is a pretty title. Not, though,
“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,
Tired of thinking, took the name of
Hitzig, and his best friends only
Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy.
“Holy Hitzig!” said I therefore
When I saw him, “have the goodness
“To explain the derivation
“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”
Many circumbendibuses
Took the holy one—he could not
Recollect,—and made excuses
In succession like a Christian,
Till at length I burst the buttons
In the breeches of my patience,
And began to swear so fiercely,
In such very impious fashion,
That the worthy pietist,
Pale as death, with trembling knees,
Forthwith gratified my wishes,
And the following story told me:
“In the Bible it is written
“How, while wandering in the desert,
“Israel oft committed whoredom
“With the daughters fair of Canaan.
“Then it came to pass that Phinehas
“Chanced to see the noble Zimri
“Thus engaged in an intrigue
“With a Canaanitish woman.
“Straightway in his fury seized he
“On his spear, and put to death
“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus
“In the Bible ’tis recounted.
“But, according to an oral
“Old tradition ’mongst the people,
“’Twas not Zimri that was really
“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;
“But the latter, blind with fury,
“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck
“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,
“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—
He, then, this Schlemihl the First,
Was the ancestor of all the
Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended
From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Certainly no wondrous actions
Are preserved of his; we only
Know his name, and in addition
Know that he was a Schlemihl.
But a pedigree is valued
Not according to its fruits, but
Its antiquity alone—
Ours three thousand years can reckon.
Years come round, and years then vanish—
Full three thousand years have fleeted
Since the death of our forefather
This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Phinehas, too, has long been dead,
But his spear is in existence,
And incessantly we hear it
Whizzing through the air above us.
And the noblest hearts it pierces—
Both Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also Moses Iben Esra,
And it likewise struck Gabirol,
Yes, Gabirol, that truehearted
God-devoted Minnesinger,
That sweet nightingale, who sang to
God instead of to a rose,—
That sweet nightingale who caroll’d
Tenderly his loving numbers
In the darkness of the Gothic
Mediæval night of earth!
Undismay’d and caring nothing
For grimaces or for spirits,
Or the chaos of delirium
And of death those ages haunting,
Our sweet nightingale thought only
Of the Godlike One he loved so,
Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,
Whom his hymns were glorifying.
Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d
On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama
Trumpeted abroad the glory
Of his name through every country.
Now at Cordova, his home, he
Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,
Who wrote verses, like the other,
And the poet’s glory envied.
When he heard the poet singing,
Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,
And the sweetness of the songs was
Bitter wormwood to this base one.
He enticed his hated rival
To his house one night, and slew him
There, and then the body buried
In the garden in its rear.
But behold! from out the spot
Where the body had been hidden,
Presently there grew a fig-tree
Of the most enchanting beauty.
All its fruit was long in figure,
And of strange and spicy sweetness;
He who tasted it, sank into
Quite a dreamy state of rapture.
’Mongst the people on the subject
Much was said aloud or whisper’d,
Till at length the rumour came to
The illustrious Caliph’s ears.
He with his own tongue first tasted
This strange fig-phenomenon,
And then form’d a strict commission
Of inquiry on the matter.
Summarily they proceeded;
On the owner of the tree’s soles
Sixty strokes of the bamboo they
Gave, and then his crime confess’d he.
Thereupon they tore the tree up
By its roots from out the ground,
And the body of the murder’d
Man Gabirol was discover’d.
He was buried with due honour,
And lamented by his brethren;
And the selfsame day they also
Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.
DISPUTATION.
In the Aula at Toledo
Loudly are the trumpets blowing
To the spiritual tourney,
Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going.
This is no mere worldly combat,
Not one arm of steel here glances;
Sharply pointed and scholastic
Words are here the only lances.
Gallant Paladins here fight not,
Ladies’ honest fame defending;
Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis
Are the knights who’re here contending.
In the place of helmets are they
Scull caps and capouches wearing;
Scapular and Arbecanfess
Are the armour they are bearing.
Which God is the one true God?
He, the Hebrew stern and glorious
Unity, whom Rabbi Juda
Of Navarre would see victorious?
Or the triune God, whom Christians
Hold in love and veneration,
As whose champion Friar Jose,
The Franciscan, takes his station?
By the might of weighty reasons,
And the logic taught at college,
And quotations from the authors
Whose repute one must acknowledge,
Either champion ad absurdum
His opponent would bring duly,
And the pure divinity
Of his own God point out truly.
’Tis laid down that he whose foeman
Manages his cause to smother,
Should be bound to take upon him
The religion of the other,
And the Jew be duly christen’d,—
This was the express provision,—
On the other hand the Christian
Bear the rite of circumcision.
Each one of the doughty champions
Has eleven comrades by him,
All to share his fate determined,
And for weal or woe keep nigh him.
While the monks who back the friar
With assurance full and steady
Hold the holy-water vessels
For the rite of christening ready,
Swinging sprinkling-brooms and censers,
Whence the incense smoke is rising,—
All their adversaries briskly
Whet their knives for circumcising.
By the lists within the hall stand,
Ready for the fray, both forces,
And the crowd await the signal,
Eager for the knights’ discourses.
’Neath a golden canopy,
While their courtiers duly flatter,
Both the king and queen are sitting;
Quite a child appears the latter.
With a small French nose, her features
Are in roguishness not wanting,
And the ever laughing rubies
Of her mouth are quite enchanting.
Fragile fair inconstant flower,—
May the grace of God be with her!—
From the merry town of Paris
She has been transplanted hither,
To the country where the Spanish
Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her;
Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon,
Donna Blanca now they call her.
And the monarch’s name is Pedro,
With the nickname of The Cruel;
But to-day, in gentle mood, he
Looks as if he ne’er could do ill.
With the nobles of his court he
Enters into conversation,
And both Jew and Moor addresses
With a courteous salutation.
For these sons of circumcision
Are the monarch’s favourite creatures;
They command his troops, and also
In finances are his teachers.
Suddenly the drums ’gin beating,
And the trumpets’ bray announces
That the conflict is beginning,
Where each knight the other trounces.
The Franciscan monk commences,
Bursting into furious passion,
And his voice, now harsh, now growling,
Blusters in a curious fashion.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
In one sentence he comprises,
And the seed accurst of Jacob
In the Rabbi exorcises.
For in suchlike controversies
Little devils oft are hidden
In the Jews, and give them sharpness,
Wit, and arguments when bidden.
Having thus expell’d the devil
By his mighty exorcism,
Comes the monk, dogmatically,
Quoting from the catechism.
He recounts how in the Godhead
Persons three are comprehended,
Who, whenever they so will it,
Into one are straightway blended.
’Tis a mystery unfolded
But to those who, in due season,
Have escaped from out the prison
And the chains of human reason.
He recounts how God was born at
Bethlehem, of a tenderhearted
Virgin, whose divine unsullied
Innocency ne’er departed.
How they laid the Lord Almighty
In a lowly stable manger,
Where the calf and heifer meekly
Stood around the newborn stranger.
He recounts, too, how the Lord
From King Herod’s minions flying,
Went to Egypt, how still later
Death’s sharp pangs he suffer’d, dying.
In the time of Pontius Pilate,
Who subscribed his condemnation,
Urged on by the Jews and cruel
Pharisees’ confederation.
He recounts, too, how the Lord,
Bursting from the tomb’s dark prison
On the third day, into heaven
Had in glorious triumph risen;
How, when ’tis the proper time, he
Would return to earth in splendour,
At Jehoshaphat, to judge there
Every quick and dead offender.
“Tremble, Jews!” exclaim’d the friar,
“At the God whom ye tormented
“Cruelly with thorns and scourges,
“To whose death ye all consented.
“Jews, ye were his murderers! nation
“Of vindictive fierce behaviour!
“Him who comes to free you, still ye
“Slay,—ye murder him, the Saviour.
“Jews, the carrion where the demons
“Coming from the lower regions
“Dwell, your bodies are the barracks
“Of the devil’s wicked legions.
“Thomas of Aquinas says so,
“He is famed in Christian story,
“Call’d the mighty ox of learning,
“Orthodoxy’s light and glory.
“Villain race of Jews! you’re nought but
“Wolves, hyenas, jackals hateful,
“Church-yard prowlers, who deem only
“Flesh of corpses to be grateful.
“Jews, O Jews! you’re hogs and monkeys,
“Monsters cruel and perfidious,
“Whom they call rhinoceroses,
“Crocodiles and vampires hideous.
“Ye are ravens, owls, and screechowls,
“Rats and miserable lapwings,
“Gallows’-birds and cockatrices,
“Very scum of all that flap wings!
“Ye are vipers, ye are blindworms,
“Rattlesnakes, disgusting adders,
“Poisonous toads—Christ soon will surely
“Tread you out like empty bladders!
“Or, accursèd people, would ye
“Save your souls so wretched rather?
“Flee the synagogues of evil,
“Seek the bosom of your Father.
“Flee to love’s bright radiant churches,
“Where the well of mercy bubbles
“For your sakes in hallow’d basins,—
“Hide your heads there from your troubles.
“Wash away the ancient Adam,
“And the vices that deface it;
“From your hearts the stains of rancour
“Wash, and grace shall then replace it.
“Hear ye not the Saviour speaking?
“O how well your new names suit you!
“Cleanse yourselves upon Christ’s bosom
“From the vermin that pollute you.
“Yes, our God is very love, is
“Like a lamb that’s dearly cherish’d,
“And our vices to atone for,
“On the cross with meekness perish’d.
“Yes, our God is very love, his
“Name is Jesus Christ the blessèd;
“Of his patience and submission
“We aspire to be possessèd.
“Therefore are we meek and gentle,
“Courteous, never in a passion,
“Fond of peace and charitable,
“In the Lamb the Saviour’s fashion.
“We in heaven shall be hereafter
“Into angels blest converted,
“Wandering there in bliss with lily
“Blossoms in our hands inserted.
“In the place of cowls, the purest
“Robes shall we when there be wearing,
“Made of silk, brocades, and muslin,
“Golden lace and ribbons flaring.
“No more bald pates! Round our heads there
“Will be floating golden tresses;
“While our hair some charming virgin
“Into pretty topknots dresses.
“Winecups will be there presented
“Of circumference so spacious,
“That, compared with them, the goblets
“Made on earth are not capacious.
“On the other hand, much smaller
“Than the mouths of earthly ladies
“Will the mouth be of each woman
“Who in heaven our solace made is.
“Drinking, kissing, laughing will we
“Pass through endless ages proudly,
“Singing joyous Hallelujahs,
“Kyrie Eleyson loudly.”
Thus the Christian ended, and the
Monks believed illumination
Pierced each heart, and so prepared for
The baptismal operation.
But the water-hating Hebrews
Shook themselves with scornful grinning,
Rabbi Juda of Navarre thus
His reply meanwhile beginning:
“That thou for thy seed mightst dung
“My poor soul’s bare field devoutly,
“With whole dung-carts of abuse thou
“Hast in truth befoul’d me stoutly.
“Every one the method follows
“To his taste best calculated,
“And instead of being angry,
“Thank you, I’m propitiated.
“Your fine trinitarian doctrine
“We poor Jews can never swallow,
“Though from earliest days of childhood
“Wont the rule of three to follow.
“That three persons in your Godhead,
“And no more, are comprehended,
“Moderate appears; the ancients
“On six thousand gods depended.
“Quite unknown to me the God is
“Whom you call the Christ, good brother;
“Nor have I e’er had the honour
“To have met his virgin mother.
“I regret that some twelve hundred
“Years back, as your speech confesses,
“At Jerusalem he suffer’d
“Certain disagreablenesses.
“That the Jews in truth destroy’d him
“Rests upon your showing solely,
“Seeing the delicti corpus
“On the third day vanish’d wholly.
“It is equally uncertain
“Whether he was a connection
“Of our God, who had no children—
“In, at least, our recollection.
“Our great God, like some poor lambkin,
“For humanity would never
“Perish; for such philanthropic
“Actions he is far too clever.
“Our great God of love knows nothing,
“Never to affection yields he,
“For he is a God of vengeance,
“And as God his thunders wields he.
“Nothing can his wrathful lightnings
“From the sinner turn or soften,
“And the latest generations
“For the fathers’ sins pay often.
“Our great God, he lives for ever
“In his heavenly halls in glory,
“And, compared with him, eternal
“Ages are but transitory.
“Our great God, he is a hearty
“God, not like the myths that fright us,
“Pale and lean as any wafer,
“Or the shadows by Cocytus.
“Our great God is strong. He graspeth
“Sun and moon and constellation:
“Thrones are crush’d, and people vanish
“When he frowns in indignation.
“And he is a mighty God.
“David sings: We cannot measure
“All his greatness, earth’s his footstool,
“And is subject to his pleasure.
“Our great God loves music dearly,
“Lute and song to him are grateful;
“But, like grunts of sucking pigs, he
“Finds the sounds of churchbells hateful.
“Great Leviathan the fish is
“Who beneath the ocean strayeth,
“And with him the Lord Almighty
“For an hour each morning playeth.
“With the’ exception of the ninth day
“Of the month Ab, that sad morrow,
“When they burnt his holy temple;
“On that day too great’s his sorrow.
“Just one hundred miles in length is
“The Leviathan; each fin is
“Big as Og the King of Basan,
“And his tail no cedar thin is.
“Yet his flesh resembles turtle,
“And its flavour is perfection,
“And the Lord will ask to dinner
“On the day of resurrection
“All his own elect, the righteous,
“Those whose faith was firm and stable,
“And this fish, the Lord’s own favourite,
“Will be set upon the table,
“Partly dress’d with garlic white sauce,
“Partly stew’d in wine and toasted,
“Dress’d with raisins and with spices,
“Much resembling matelotes roasted.
“Little slices of horseradish
“Will the white sauce much embellish,
“So make ready, Friar Jose,
“To devour the fish with relish.
“And the raisin sauce I spoke of
“Makes a most delicious jelly,
“And will be full well adapted,
“Friar Jose, to thy belly.
“What God cooks, is quite perfection—
“Monk, my honest counsel follow,
“And be circumcised, your portion
“Of Leviathan to swallow.”—
Thus the Rabbi to allure him
Spoke with inward mirth insulting,
And the Jews, with pleasure grunting,
Brandish’d all their knives exulting.
To cut off the forfeit foreskins,
Victors after all the fighting,
Genuine spolia opima
In this conflict so exciting.
But the monks to their religion
Stuck, despite the Jews’ derision,
And were equally reluctant
To submit to circumcision.
Next the Catholic converter
Answer’d, when the Jew had finish’d,
His abuse again repeating,
Full of fury undiminish’d.
Then the Rabbi with a cautious
Ardour, with his answer follow’d;
Though his heart was boiling over,
All his rising gall he swallow’d.
He appeals unto the Mischna,
Treatises and commentaries,
And with extracts from the Tausves-
Jontof his quotations varies.
But what blasphemy now speaks the
Friar, arguments in want of!
He exclaim’d: “I wish the devil
“Had your stupid Tausves-Jontof!”
“This surpasses all, good heavens!”
Fearfully the Rabbi screeches,
And his patience lasts no longer,
Like a maniac’s soon his speech is.
“If the Tausves-Jontof’s nothing,
“What is left? O vile detractor!
Lord, avenge this foul transgression!
“Punish, Lord, this malefactor!
“For the Tausves-Jontof, God,
“Is thyself! And on the daring
“Tausves-Jontof’s base denier
“Thou must vent thy wrath unsparing.
“Let the earth consume him, like the
“Wicked band of Cora, quickly,
“Who their plots and machinations
“Sow’d against thee, Lord, so thickly.
“Punish, O my God, his baseness!
“Thunder forth thy loudest thunder;
“Thou with pitch and brimstone Sodom
“And Gomorrha didst bring under.
“Strike these Capuchins with vigour,
“As of yore thou struckest Pharaoh
“Who pursued us, as well-laden
“Flying from his land we were, Oh!
“Knights a hundred thousand follow’d
“This proud monarch of Mizrayim,
“In steel armour, with bright weapons
“In their terrible Jadayim.
“Lord, thy right hand then extending,
“Pharaoh and his host were smitten
“In the Red Sea, and were drown’d there
“As we drown a common kitten.
“Strike these Capuchins with vigour,
“Show the wicked wretches clearly
“That the lightnings of thine anger
“Are not smoke and bluster merely.
“Then thy triumph’s praise and glory
“I will sing and tell of proudly,
“And moreover will, like Miriam,
“Dance and play the timbrel loudly.”
Then the monk with equal passion
Answer’d thus the furious Rabbi:
“Villain, may the Lord destroy thee,
“Damnable, accurst, and shabby!
“I can well defy your devils
“Whom the Evil One created,
“Lucifer and Beelzebub,
“Astaroth and Belial hated.
“I can well defy your spirits,
“And your hellish tricks unhallow’d,
“For in me is Jesus Christ, since
“I his body blest have swallow’d.
“Christ my only favourite food is,
“Than Leviathan more savoury,
“With its boasted garlic white sauce
“Cook’d by Satan, full of knavery.
“Ah! instead of thus disputing,
“I would sooner roast and bake you
“With your comrades on the warmest
“Funeral pile, the devil take you!”
Thus for God and faith the tourney
Goes on in confusion utter;
But in vain the doughty champions
Screech and rail and storm and splutter.
For twelve hours the fight has lasted,
Neither side gives signs of tiring,
But the public fast grow weary,
And the ladies are perspiring.
And the Court, too, grows impatient,
Ladies make with yawns suggestions;
To the lovely queen the monarch
Turns and asks the following questions:
“Tell me, what is your opinion?
“Which is right, and which the liar?
“Will you give your verdict rather
“For the Rabbi or the friar?”
Donna Blanca gazes on him,
Thoughtfully her hands she presses
With closed fingers on her forehead,
And the monarch thus addresses:
“Which is right, I cannot tell you,
“But I have a shrewd suspicion
“That the Rabbi and the monk are
“Both in stinking bad condition.”
LATEST POEMS.
(1853-4.)
1. PEACE-YEARNING.
O let thy wounds bleed on, and let
Thy tears for ever flow unbidden—
In sorrow revels secret joy,
And a sweet balm in tears is hidden.
If strangers’ hand did wound thee not,
Thou by thyself must needs be wounded;
Thank God with all thy heart, if tears
To wet thy cheek have e’er abounded.
The noise of day is hush’d, and night
In long dark mantle comes from heaven;
While in her arms, nor fool nor dolt
Can break the rest to soothe thee given.
Here thou art safe from music’s noise,
And from the piano’s hammer-hammer,
From the grand opera’s pompous notes,
And the bravura’s fearful clamour.
Here thou art not pursued, nor plagued
By endless crowds of idle smatt’rers;
Nor by the genius Giacomo,[85]
And all the clique of world-known chatt’rers.
O grave, thou art the Paradise
Of ears that shun the rabble’s chorus;
Death’s good indeed, yet better ’twere
Our loving mothers never bore us.
2. IN MAY.
The friends whom I kiss’d and caress’d of yore
Have treated me now with cruelty sore;
My heart is fast breaking. The sun, though, above
With smiles is hailing the sweet month of love.
Spring blooms around. In the greenwood is heard
The echoing song of each happy bird,
And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile—
O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;
Yes, Orcus’ self I wellnigh praise;
No contrasts vain torment there our days;
For suffering hearts ’tis better below,
There where the Stygian night-waters flow.
That sad and melancholy stream,
And the Stymphalides’ dull scream,
The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill,
With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,—
These match full well with sorrow and pain.
In Proserpine’s accursèd domain,
In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs,
All with our tears doth harmonize.
But here above, like hateful things,
The sun and the rose inflict their stings;
I’m mock’d by the heavens so May-like and blue—
O beauteous world, I hate thee anew!
3. BODY AND SOUL.
Poor soul doth to the body say:
I’ll never leave thee, but I’ll stay
With thee; yea, I with thee will sink
In death and night, destruction drink.
Thou ever wert my second I,
And round me clungest lovingly,
As though a dress of satin bright,
All lined throughout with ermine white—
Alas! I’ve come to nakedness,
A mere abstraction, bodiless,
Reduced a blessèd nullity
In yon bright realms of light to be,
In the cold halls of heaven up yonder,
Where the Immortals silent wander,
And gape upon me, clatt’ring by
In leaden slippers wearily.
’Tis quite intolerable; stay,
Stay with me, my dear body, pray.
The body to poor soul replied:
Cheer up, be not dissatisfied!
We peacefully must learn to bear
What Fate apportions as our share.
I was the lamp’s wick; I must now
Consume away; the spirit, thou,
Wilt be selected by-and-by
To sparkle as a star on high
Of purest radiance. I’m but rags.
Mere stuff, like rotten tinder bags,
Collapsing fast, and nothing worth,
Becoming, what I was, mere earth.
Farewell! take comfort, cease complaining;
Perchance ’tis far more entertaining
In heaven than now supposed by thee.
If thou shouldst e’er the great bear see
(Not Meyer-beer[86]) in those bright climes,
Greet him from me a thousand times.
4. RED SLIPPERS.
A wicked cat, grown old and gray,
That she was a shoemaker chose to say,
And put before her window a board
Where slippers for young maidens were stored;
While some were of morocco made,
Others of satin were there display’d;
Of velvet some, with edges of gold,
And figured strings, all gay to behold.
But fairest of all exposed to view
Was a pair of slippers of scarlet hue;
They gave full many a lass delight
With their gorgeous colours and splendour bright.
A young and snow-white noble mouse
Who chanced to pass the shoemaker’s house
First turn’d to look, and then stood still,
And then peep’d over the window sill.
At length she said: “Good day, mother cat:
“You’ve pretty red slippers, I grant you that.
“If they’re not dear, I’m ready to buy,
“So tell me the price, if it’s not too high.”
“My good young lady,” the cat replied,
“Pray do me the favour to step inside,
“And honour my house, I venture to pray,
“With your gracious presence. Allow me to say
“That the fairest maidens come shopping to me,
“And duchesses too, of high degree.
“The slippers I’m willing full cheap to sell,
“Yet let us see if they’ll fit you well.
“Pray step inside, and take a seat”—
Thus the wily cat did falsely entreat,
And the poor white thing in her ignorance then
Fell plump in the snare in that murderous den.
The little mouse sat down on a chair,
And lifted her small leg up in the air,
In order to try how the red shoes fitted,
A picture of innocent calm to be pitied.
When sudden the wicked cat seized her fast,
Her murderous talons around her cast,
And bit right off her poor little head.
“My dear white creature,” the cat then said,
“My sweet little mouse, you’re as dead as a rat.
“The scarlet red slippers that served me so pat
“I’ll kindly place on the top of your tomb,
“And when is heard, on the last day of doom,
“The sound of the trump, O mouse so white,
“From out of your grave you’ll come to light,
“Like all the rest, and then you’ll be able
“To wear your red slippers.” Here ends my fable.