9. THE DRAGONFLY.
The beauteous dragonfly’s dancing
By the waves of the rivulet glancing;
She dances here and she dances there,
The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair.
Full many a beetle with loud applause
Admires her dress of azure gauze,
Admires her body’s bright splendour,
And also her figure so slender.
Full many a beetle, to his cost,
His modicum small of reason lost;
Her wooers are humming of love and truth,
Brabant and Holland pledging forsooth.
The dragonfly smiled and thus spake she:
“Brabant and Holland are nought to me;
“But haste, if my charms you admire,
“And fetch me a sparklet of fire.
“The cook has just been brought to bed,
“And I my supper must cook instead;
“The coals on the hearth are burnt away,—
“So fetch me a sparklet of fire, I pray.”
Scarce had the false one spoken the word,
When off the beetles flew, like a bird.
They seek for fire, and soon they find
Their home in the wood’s left far behind.
At length they see a candle’s light
In garden-bower burning bright;
And then with amorous senseless aim,
They headlong rush in the candle’s flame.
The candle’s flame with crackling consumed
The beetles and their fond hearts so doom’d:
While some with their lives did expiation,
Some only lost wings in the conflagration.
O woe to the beetle, whose wings have been
Burnt off! In a foreign land, I ween,
He must crawl on the ground like vermin fell,
With humid insects that nastily smell.
One’s bad companions—he’s heard to say,—
Are the worst of plagues, in exile’s day.
We’re forced to converse with every sort
Of noxious creatures, of bugs in short,
Who treat us as though their comrades were we,
Because in the selfsame mud we be.
Of this complain’d old Virgil’s scholar,
The poet of exile and hell, with choler.
I think with grief of the happier time,
When I in my glory’s well-winged prime
In my native ether was playing,
On sunny flowers was straying.
From rosy calixes food I drew,
Was thought of importance, and wheeling flew
With butterflies all of elegance rare,
And with the cricket, the artist fair.
But since my poor wings I happen’d to burn,
To my fatherland now I ne’er can return;
I’m turn’d to a worm, that will soon expire,
I’m rotting away in foreign mire.
O would that I had never met
The dragonfly, that azure coquette,
With figure so fine and slender,
The fair but cruel pretender!
10. ASCENSION.
The body lay on the bier of death,
While the poor soul, when gone its breath,
Escaping from earth’s constant riot,
Was on its way to heavenly quiet.
Then knock’d it at the portal high,
And spake these words with a heavy sigh:
“Saint Peter, give me inside a place,
“I am so tired of life’s hard race.
“On silken pillows I fain would rest
“In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best
“With darling angels at blindman’s-buff,
“Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”
A clatter of slippers ere long was heard,
A bunch of keys appear’d to be stirr’d,
And out of a lattice, the entrance near,
Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.
He spake: “The vagabonds come again,
“The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train,
“The idlers and the Hottentots—
“They come alone and they come in knots,
“And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest,
“And there be angels, and there be blest.
“Halloa, halloa! For gallows’ faces
“Like yours, for such contemptible races
“Were never created the halls of bliss,—
“Your portion’s with Satan, far off from this.
“Away, away, and take your flight
“To the black pool of endless night.”—
The old man thus growl’d, but hadn’t the heart
To continue to play a blustering part,
So added these words, its spirits to cheer:
“Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear
“To that base troop of rogues to belong—
“Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong,
“Because it is my birthday to-day,
“And I feel just now in a merciful way.
“But meanwhile tell me the country and place
“From whence thou comest; and was it the case
“That thou wast married? It happens sometimes
“A husband’s patience atones for all crimes;
“A husband need not in hell to be stew’d,
“Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”
The soul replied: “From Prussia I came,
“My native town is Berlin by name,
“There ripples the Spree, and in its bed
“The young cadets jump heels over head;
“It overflows kindly, when rains begin—
“A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin!
“I was a private teacher when there,
“And much philosophy read with care.
“I married a chanoinesse—strange to say,
“She quarrell’d frightfully every day,
“Especially when in the house was no bread—
“’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”
Saint Peter cried: “Alack, alack!
“Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack.
“In truth it is a puzzle to me
“Why people study philosophy.
“It is such tedious and profitless stuff,
“And is moreover godless enough;
“In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell,
“Till Satan carries them off to hell.
“Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations
“Against the thin and washy potations
“From whence upon her, with comforting gleam
“No eye of fat could ever beam.
“But now, poor soul, pray comforted be!
“The strictest commands are given to me,
“’Tis true, that each who whilst he did live
“To philosophy used his attention to give,
“Especially to the godless German,
“Should be driven away from hence like vermin.
“Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I
“Have said, so there is a reason why
“I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute
“The gate of heaven—quick, enter within it
“With utmost speed—
“Now all is right!
“The whole of the day, from morn’s first light
“Till late in the evening, thou canst walk
“Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk
“Along its jewel-paved streets so fair;
“But mind, thou must not meddle when there
“With any philosophy, or I shall be
“Soon compromised most terribly.
“When angels thou hearest singing, assume
“A face of rapture, and never of gloom;
“But if an archangel sang the song,
“Be full of inspiration strong,
“And say that Malibran ne’er pretended
“To have a soprano so rich and splendid;
“And ever applaud each tuneful hymn
“Of cherubim and of seraphim.
“Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
“With Mario and Tamburini,
“Give them the title of Excellencies,
“And be not sparing of reverencies.
“The singers in heaven, as well as on earth,
“Have all loved flattery since their birth.
“The world’s great Chapel-master on high,
“E’en He is pleased when they glorify
“His works, and delighteth to hear ador’d
“The wonders of God, the mighty Lord,
“And when a psalm to His glory and praise
“In thickest incense clouds they raise.
“Forget me not. Whenever to thee
“The glory of heaven causes ennui,
“Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play.
“All games alike are in my way,
“From doubledummy to faro I’ll go,—
“We’ll also drink. But, apropos,
“If thou should’st meet, when going from hence,
“The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence
“Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said,
“But say, from Vienna or Munich instead.”
11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.
Thou weep’st, and on me look’st, believing
That thou art for my anguish grieving—
Thou know’st not, wife, that ’tis for thee
The tear escapes thee, not for me.
O tell me if it be not true
That o’er thy spirit sometimes grew
The blest foreboding, showing thee
That we were join’d by fate’s decree?
United, bliss was ours below,
But sever’d, nought is ours but woe.
In the great book ’tis written clearly
That we should love each other dearly.
Thy place should be upon my breast,
Here first awoke self-knowledge blest;
From out the realm of plants, with power
’Twas mine to free, to kiss thee, flower!—
Raise thee to me, to highest life,
’Twas mine to give thee soul, my wife.
Now, when reveal’d the riddles stand,
When in the hour-glass is the sand
Run out, weep not, ’tis order’d so—
Alone thou’lt wither, when I go;
Thou’lt wither, ere thou yet hast bloom’d,
Ere thou hast glow’d, be quench’d and doom’d;
Thou’lt die and be the prey of death
Ere thou hast learnt to draw thy breath.
I know it now. By heaven, ’tis thou
Whom I have loved. How bitter now,
The moment we are join’d for ever,
To find the hour when we must sever.
The welcome meanwhile must give way
To sad farewell. We part to-day
For evermore, for ’tis not given
To us to meet again in heaven.
Beauty to dust will fall at last,
Thou’lt pass away, and crumble fast.
The poets’ fate will happier be,
Death cannot kill them utterly.
Annihilation strikes us ne’er,
We live in poesy’s land so fair,
In Avalon, where fairies dwell—
Dear corpse, for ever fare thee well!
12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.
There once was a brother and sister,
The sister was poor, the brother was rich.
The poor one said to the rich one:
“Give me a piece of bread.”
The rich one said to the poor one:
“Leave me to-day in peace,
“While I give my yearly banquet
“To the lords of the Council all.
“The first doth turtlesoup relish,
“The second doth pineapples eat,
“The third is fond of pheasant
“And Perigord truffles too.
“The fourth eats nought but seafish,
“The fifth in salmon delights,
“The sixth of each dish eateth,
“And drinketh even more.”
The poor rejected sister
Went hungry back to her house;
She threw herself on her straw-bed,
And deeply sighed and died.
We all alike must perish!
The scythe of death at last
Mowed down the wealthy brother,
As it the sister had mown.
And when the wealthy brother
His end approaching saw,
He sent for his notary quickly,
And straightway made his will.
With legacies large and lib’ral
The clergy he endow’d,
The schools, and the great museum
Of zoological things.
And noble sums moreover
The great testator bequeath’d
To the deaf and dumb asylum
And Jewish Conversion fund.
A handsome bell bestow’d he
On the new Saint Stephen’s tower;
It weighs five hundred centners,
Of first-rate metal too.
It is a bell enormous,
And sounds both early and late;
It sounds to the praise and glory
Of that most excellent man.
It tells, with its tongue of iron,
Of all the good he has done
To the town and his fellow-townsmen,
Whatever might be their faith.
Thou great benefactor of mortals
In death as well as in life
The great bell’s ever proclaiming
Each benefaction of thine!
The funeral next with all honour
And pomp was solemnized,
The people crowded to see it
And reverently gazed.
Upon a coal-black carriage,
Like a vast canopy
Adorn’d with black ostrich feathers,
The splendid coffin lay.
Trick’d out with plates of silver,
And silver embroidery fine,
Upon the black ground the silver
The grandest effect produced.
The carriage was drawn by six horses,
In coal-black trappings disguised,
That fell, like funeral mantles,
Down even to their hoofs.
Behind the coffin were crowded
The servants in liveries black,
Their snow-white handkerchiefs holding
Before their sorrowing face.
The people of rank in the city,
In long procession form’d
Of black and showy coaches,
Totter’d along behind.
In this grand fun’ral procession,
Remember, were also found
The noble lords of the Council,
And yet they were not complete.
The one was missing, whose fancy
Was pheasant and truffles to eat;
An attack of indigestion
Had lately carried him off.
13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.
(A true story, repeated after old documents and reproduced in excellent rhyme.)
Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,
He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.
O fly of my soul, ’tis thou alone
Art the wife I have chosen to be my own.
O marry me, and be not cold,
For I have a belly of glistening gold.
My back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—
O would that I were a fool just now!
I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.
I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,
I know that no happiness riches enfold.
’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,
For I am in truth a haughty fly.—
The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,
The fly went away, a bath to take.
O what has become of my maid, the bee,
That she when I’m washing may wait on me,
That she may stroke my soft hair outside,
For I am now a beetle’s bride.
In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,
For handsomer beetle never did live.
His back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.
His belly is golden, and noble each feature;
With envy will burst full many a creature.
Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,
And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.
With otto of roses rub me o’er,
And lavender oil on my feet then pour,
That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,
When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.
Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,
As maids of honour to wait on me too.
Into my bridal garland they’ll twine
The blossoms white of the orange so fine.
Full many musicians are asked to the place,
And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.
The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,
To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.
They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast—
The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,
Are coming in families dapper and brisk,
The commoner insects amongst them frisk.
The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousins
Are coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.
The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,
Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,
The bridegroom however has flown far away.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seat
On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.
Seven years there sits he, until his forgotten
Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.
14. MIMI.
“I’m no modest city creature
“By the hearth demurely spinning,
“But a free cat on the roof,
“In the air, with manners winning.
“When in summer nights I’m musing
“On the roof, in grateful coolness,
“Music in me purrs, I sing
“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”
Thus she speaks, and from her bosom
Wild and wedding-songs stream thickly,
And the melody allures
All the cats unmarried quickly.
Purring, mewing, thither hasten
All the young cats, plain or brindled,
And with Mimi join in chorus,
Full of love, with passion kindled.
They are no mere virtuosos
Who profane, for sordid wages,
Music, but of harmony
Are apostles true, and sages.
They no instruments use ever,
Each is his own flute and viol;
All their noses trumpets are,
Bellies, drums, and no denial.
They in chorus raise their voices,
In one general intermezzo,
Playing fugues, as if by Bach,
Or by Guido of Arezzo.
Wild the symphonies they’re singing
Like capriccios of Beethoven,
Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’d
By their strains so interwoven.
Wonderful their music’s might is!
Magic notes without an equal!
E’en the heavens they shake, the stars
All turn pallid in the sequel.
When the magic notes she heareth,
And the wondrous tones delightful,
Then Selene hides her face
With a veil of clouds so frightful.
But the nightingale with envy—
Scandalous old prima donna—
Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scorns
Mimi’s voice, to her dishonour.
Never mind! She’ll go on singing
Spite the envy of Signora,
Till on the horizon’s seen,
Smiling rosily, Aurora.
15. GOOD ADVICE.
Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,
Boldly woo, and, not aside,
Civil they will be to-morrow,
And thou thus wilt win thy bride.
’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—
Give, then, the musicians gold;
Though thou wish them at the devil,
Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.
Give a prince his meed of laurel,
Of a woman speak not ill;
With thy sausages don’t quarrel
When thou hast a sow to kill.
If the church to thee is hateful,
All the more attend its shrine;
To the parson be thou grateful,
Send him, too, a flask of wine.
If an itching chance to teaze thee,
Like a man of honour, scratch;
If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,
Slippers get with all despatch.
If thy soup has too much seasoning,
Be not in an angry mood;
Smiling say, instead of reasoning:
“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”
If thy wife a wish expresses
For a shawl, straight buy her two;
Buy her golden brooches, dresses,
Lace and jewels not a few.
If thou’lt give this plan a trial,
Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain
Heaven to bless thy self-denial,
And on earth to peace attain.
16. REMINISCENCES OF HAMMONIA.[88]
Orphan children two and two,
Wandering gladly on we view,
All of them blue coats are wearing,
All of them red cheeks are bearing—
O the pretty orphan children!
All are moved when thus they prattle,
And the money boxes rattle;
Liberal alms upon them flow,
That their secret sires bestow,—
O the pretty orphan children!
Women of a feeling heart
Many a poor child kiss apart,
Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),
Give him sweetmeats as a present—
O the pretty orphan children!
One, with timid face but willing,
Throws into the box a shilling,—
For he has a heart,—then gaily
Follows he his business daily—
O the pretty orphan children!
One a golden louis-d’or
Next bestows, but not before
Heavenward looking, hoping blindly
That the Lord will view him kindly—
O the pretty orphan children!
Porters, coopers, working men,
Servants, make to-day again
Holiday, and drain their glasses,
Drinking to these lads and lasses—
O the pretty orphan children!
Tutelar Hammonia
Follows them incognita;
As she moves, her form gigantic
Sways about, in manner frantic—
O the pretty orphan children!
In the green field where they went
Music fills the lofty tent,
Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;
There are fed in sumptuous manner
All these pretty orphan children.
There in lengthy rows they sit,
Eating many a nice tit-bit,
Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,
While like little mice they’re munching,—
All these pretty orphan children.
Now my thoughts to dwell begin
On an orphan-house wherein
There no feasting is or gladness,
Where lament in ceaseless sadness,
Millions of poor orphan children.
There no uniforms are seen,
Many want their dinner e’en;
No two walk together yonder,
Lonely, sorrowfully wander
Many million orphan children.
17. THE ROBBERS.
While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling,
Embraced me on the couch, the fox
Her worthy husband from my box
My banknotes quietly was stealing.
My pockets now have got no cash in!
Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?
Ah! what is truth? In days gone by
Thus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.
This evil world, decay’d and rotten,
I soon shall ne’er again behold;
I see that he who has no gold
Will very soon be quite forgotten.
For you, pure souls, whose habitation
In yonder realms of light I see,
My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,
So stealing is not your vocation.
18. THE YOUNG CATS’ CLUB FOR POETRY-MUSIC
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Upon the roof was collected
To-night, but not for sensual joys,
No wrong could there be detected.
No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,
No song of love did they utter
In the winter season, in frost and snow,
For frozen was every gutter.
A newborn spirit hath recently
Come over the whole cat-nation,
But chiefly the young, and the young cat feels
More earnest with inspiration.
The frivolous generation of old
Is extinct, and a newborn yearning,
A pussy-springtime of poetry
In art and in life they’re learning.
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Is now returning to artless
And primitive music, and naïveté,
From modern fashions all heartless.
It seeks in music for poetry,
Roulades with the quavers omitted
It seeks for poetry, music-void,
For voice and instrument fitted.
It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,
Which often bungles truly,
Yet oft in art unconsciously
Attains the highest stage duly.
It honours the genius which prefers
Dame Nature to keep at a distance,
And will not show off its learning,—in fact
Its learning not having existence.
This is the programme of our cat club,
And with these intentions elated,
It holds its first winter concert to-night
On the roof, as before I have stated.
Yet sad was the execution, alas!
Of this great idea so splendid;
I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,
That by thee it wasn’t attended.
It was a charivari, as though
With brandy elated greatly,
Three dozen pipers struck up the tune
That the poor cow died of lately.
It was an utter medley, as though
In Noah’s ark were beginning
The whole of the beasts in unison
The Deluge to tell of in singing,
O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!
O what a mewing and yelling!
And even the chimneys all join’d in,
The wonderful chorus swelling.
And loudest of all was heard a voice
Which sounded languid and shrieking
As Sontag’s voice became at the last,
When utterly broken and squeaking.
The whimsical concert! Methinks that they
A grand Te Deum were chanting,
To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’d
By commonest frenzy and canting.
Perchance moreover the young cats’ club
The opera grand were essaying
That the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]
Composed for Charenton’s playing.
It was not till the break of day
That an end was put to the party;
A cook was in consequence brought to bed
Who before had seem’d well and hearty.
The lying-in woman lost her wits,
Her memory, too, was affected,
And who was the father of her child
No longer she recollected.
Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?
Say who is the father, Eliza!
“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,
And simper’d and look’d the wiser.
19. HANS LACK-LAND.
Farewell, my wife, said Lack-Land Hans,
A lofty object elates me;
Far different goats I now must shoot,
Far different game awaits me.
I’ll leave thee behind my hunting horn,
Thou canst in my absence daily,.
Play merrily on it, for thou hast learnt
To blow on the post-horn gaily.
I’ll also leave thee behind my hound,
To be the castle’s defender;
My German folk, like faithful dogs,
Will guard me and never surrender.
They offer me the imperial throne,
Their affection is almost provoking
My image is graven on every heart,
And every pipe they are smoking.
Ye Germans are a wonderful race,
So simple and yet so clever;
One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,
Had been discover’d never.
Your emperor,—no, your father I’ll be,
Your welfare shall be my sole glory—
O blissful thought! it makes me as proud
As the Gracchi’s mother in story.
I’ll govern my people by feeling alone,
And not by the light of mere reason;
I never could bear diplomacy,
And politics hate like treason.
A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child,
Who had in the forest my training,
With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—
A foe to all nonsense and feigning.
By proclamations I never enticed,
No printed pamphlet invented;
I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,
“With cod for to-day be contented.
“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take
“The first donkey that comes about you;
“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,
“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”
Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell,
I must end my long discourses;
My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,
Awaiting me with the horses.
Quick, hand me over my travelling cap,
With the ribbon all black-red-golden;
Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,
In the dress imperial and olden.
Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too,
The purple robe so glorious,
The gift of the Saracen Sultan erst
To Otto, the Cæsar victorious.
Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress,
Whereon, in each species of jewel,
A train of lions and camels is work’d,
And fabulous monsters and cruel.
Upon my breast the stole I shall wear,
Significantly blended
With eagles black on a yellow ground,—
The garment is really splendid.
Farewell! Posterity shall say
I reign’d with honest intention.—
Who knows? Posterity perchance
My name will never mention.
20. RECOLLECTIONS FROM KRÄHWINKEL’S DAYS OF TERROR.
We, mayor and senate of the town,
The following orders now lay down
To all who love their city truly,
Enjoining them to keep them duly.
’Tis foreigners and strangers most
Who their rebellious spirit boast;
Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly)
The children of the soil are rarely.
The Atheists likewise are concern’d;
For he by whom his God is spurn’d
Is sure at last to hold detested
All those on earth with power invested.
Christian and Jew, at close of day,
Must shut their shops without delay;
“Obey your rulers” should be ever
Both Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.
No person shall be seen at night
In any street without a light;
Where three or more in groups are standing,
Let them at once begin disbanding.
Each one must bring his weapons all,
And lay them down in the guildhall;
And every kind of ammunition
Is subject to the same condition.
He who in any public spot
Ventures to reason, shall be shot;
He who by gestures dares to reason
Shall pay the penalty of treason.
Confide in the authorities,
So gracious, but withal so wise,
Who rule the fortunes of the city,
And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.
21. THE AUDIENCE.
(An old Fable.)
“I’ll let not my children, like Pharaoh, be drown’d
“In the Nile’s deep turbulent water;
“Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old,
“No patron of children’s slaughter.
“I will, as my gracious Saviour did,
“Find the sight of the children pleasant;
“So suffer the children to come, and first
“The big one, the Swabian peasant.”
Thus spake the monarch; the chamberlain ran,
And return’d, introducing slowly
The stalwart child from Swabia’s land,
Who made a reverence lowly.
Thus spake the king: “A Swabian art thou?
“There’s no disgrace in that surely.”—
“Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,”
Replied the Swabian demurely.
“Art thou from the seven Swabians sprung?”
Ask’d the other.—“In truth I’m descended
“From one of them only,” the Swabian replied,
“And not from the whole of them blended.”
The king then ask’d: “Are dumplings this year
“In Swabia as usual eaten?”—
“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d,
“They are not easily beaten.”
“And do ye still boast big men?” next said
The monarch.—“Why, just at present
“The big ones are scarce, but in their place
“We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.
“Has Menzel,” added the king, “received
“On his ear many boxes lately?”
“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said,
“The former ones punish’d him greatly.”
The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool,
“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”
“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,
“By the cobolds, who different made me.”
The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont
“To love their fatherland dearly;
“So why hast thou left thy native home?
“Explain the reason clearly.”
The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought
“But turnips and sour-crout ever;
“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,
“I had left my fatherland never.”
“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said—
Then the Swabian in deep supplication
Knelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant
“Their freedom once more to the nation.
“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant
“That he as a slave should perish;
“O, Sire, restore to the German folk
“The rights that they manfully cherish!”
The monarch in deep amazement stood,
The scene was really enthralling;
With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eye
The tear that was wellnigh falling.
At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream!
“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;
“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,
“Of thy person I’ll give the possession
“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be
“To see thee safe over the border—
“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,
“The drums are beating to order.”
And so this affecting audience came
To a most affecting conclusion.
But from that moment the monarch allow’d
No more of his children’s intrusion.[90]
22. KOBES I.
In eighteen hundred and forty-eight,
When passions men’s minds were heating,
The German nation’s parliament
At Frankfort held its meeting.
Just at this time, in the Senate-house
Appear’d the white lady ghostly,
The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—
They call her the Housekeeper mostly.
By night they say in the Senate-house
She is wont to make her appearance,
Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks play
With extra perseverance.
I saw her myself at the selfsame time
As she roam’d in the hours of slumber
Through the silent chambers, wherein were piled
The middle ages’ old lumber.
She held the lamp and a bunch of keys
In her hands so pale and sickly;
She open’d the presses against the walls,
And the chests strew’d around her thickly.
There lie the imperial insignia all,
There lies the bull all-golden,
The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,
And more of such fancies olden.
There lie the ancient imperial robes,
The purple frippery faded,
The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,
Now rusted and rot-pervaded.
The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her head
At the sight, then with deep displeasure
She suddenly cries at the top of her voice:
“The whole of them stink beyond measure!
“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung
“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;
“And all the gaudy trumpery work
“Is swarming with noxious vermin.
“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress,
“Once used at the coronation,
“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont
“To lie, as their lying-in station.
“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate
“Of the Emperor next elected;
“By the fleas in his coronation robe
“His health will be surely affected.
“And know ye, that all the people must scratch,
“Whenever the Emperor itches—
“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas
“Who swallow up much of your riches.
“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas?
“For rusty are now and all rotten
“The olden costumes—By modern days
“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.
“The German poet at Kyffhauser said
“To Barbarossa quite truly:
“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,
“When I weigh the matter duly.’
“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have,
“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,
“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves
“To be snared by genius or glory.
“Choose one of the people your monarch to be,
“All sons of the nobles reject ye;
“Select not the lion, select not the fox,
“The dullest of sheep elect ye.
“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son,
“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;
“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,
“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.
“A log is ever the best of kings,
“As Esop has shown in the fable;
“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,
“As the stork with his long bill is able.
“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be,
“No Holofernes or Nero;
“He boasts no terrible antique heart,
“A soft modern heart has our hero.
“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart
“Yet in the arms of the helot
“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,
“Becoming a regular zealot.
“The men of the journeymen’s Burschenschaft
“As president Kobes elected;
“He shared with them their last piece of bread,
“They held him vastly respected.
“They boasted that he in all his life
“Had never been at college,
“And out of his head composed his books
“By the light of intuitive knowledge.
“Yes, his consummate ignorance
“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;
“With foreign wisdom and training he
“Had injured his intellect never.
“From abstract philosophy’s influence he
“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit
“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!
“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!
“The tear of the usual stereotype form
“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,
“And from his lips incessantly
“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.
“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates,
“His words with long ears are provided;
“A pregnant woman who heard him speak
“Gave birth to a donkey decided.
“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont
“His idle hours to flavour;
“The stockings that he with his own hands knit
“Have met with particular favour.
“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d
“By Apollo and all the Muses;
“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand
“A goose-quill laboriously uses.
“His knitting recals the olden time
“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting
“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne
“No means of amusement omitting.
“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal
“To life these Funken deserving;
“The valiant band will surround his throne,
“As the guard imperial serving.
“He well might be glad to go at their head,
“And march over France’s borders,
“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair
“Bring under Germany’s orders.
“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain,
“Intent on a scheme long suspended,
“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,
“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.
“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete,
“Then Kobes will get in a passion,
“And sword in hand, will bring the French
“To account in a regular fashion.
“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away
“(By France from the empire estreated);
“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,
“When once the Cathedral’s completed.
“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite,
“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;
“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,
“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!
“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne,
“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,
“Shall be his ministers of state,
“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.
“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself
“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,
“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,
“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]
“Within his good sacred town of Cologne
“Will be Kobes’s habitation;
“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,
“They’ll have an illumination.
“The bells, the iron dogs of the air,
“Into joyous barks will be breaking,
“And the three holy kings from the land of the East
“In their chapel will soon be awaking.
“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones,
“All dancing with rapture and springing;
“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains
“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—
Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghost
With loud uproarious laughter;
Through all the resounding halls of the place
The echo rang wildly long after.