From the pot Uraca took some
Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the
Ribs and bosom of her son,
Rubbing hastily, with trembling.
And while rubbing him and salving,
She a cradle-song was humming
Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled
On the hearth the ruddy flames.
Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,
On his mother’s lap the son lay,
Sorrowful as death, wide open
Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.
Is he truly but a dead man
Who each night by love maternal
Hath a life enchanted giv’n him
By the aid of strongest witch-salve?
Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,
Where the leaden limbs feel weary
As though fetter’d, and the senses
O’er-excited, wide awake!
How the herb-smell in the chamber
Troubled me! With painful effort
Thought I where I had already
Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.
How the wind a-down the chimney
Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded
Of dejected dried-up spirits,—
Like the sound of well-known voices.
Most of all was I tormented
By the stuff’d birds, which were standing
On a shelf above my head,
Near the place where I was lying.
They their wings were slowly flapping
And with awful motion, bending
Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing
Their long beaks, like human noses.
Ah! where have I seen already
Noses such as these? At Hamburg,
Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?
Sad the glimmering recollection!