“Das Maulthier sucht im Düstern seinen Weg.”
Thus vanished Heine, the most brilliant, sparkling, witty poet of Germany. I have seen him, that is all I can say, as Saul saw Samuel, and wished he had not seen him. However, we travel far to see the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum, of Nineveh and Memphis, and the ruins of a mind such as Heine’s are certainly as sad and as grand as the crumbling pillars and ruined temples shrouded under the lava of Vesuvius. “Eine schöne Welt ist da versunken,” I said to myself, and I went home and read in Heine’s “Buch der Lieder.” “Du bist wie eine Blume,” “Ich habe im Traum geweinet,” “Ein Tannenbaum steht einsam.” “Yes,” I said, “snow-white lilies spring from muddy ponds, and small mushrooms are said to grow on fresh-fallen snow.”
Few poets in Germany have been or are still so admired and loved as Heine, but few poets also have been so viciously maligned as Heine. Society, no doubt, had a right to frown on him, but against such calumnies as were heaped on him by envy, hatred, and malice, it is well to remember some of his last lines:—
Hab’ eine Jungfrau nie verführet
Mit Liebeswort, mit Schmeichelei,
Ich hab’ auch nie ein Weib berühret,
Wüsst’ ich, dass sie vermählet sei.
Wahrhaftig, wenn es anders wäre,
Mein Name, er verdiente nicht
Zu strahlen in dem Buch der Ehre,