“A clerical deputation, too, comes,
“By rabbis and pastors guided;
“But, alas! here Hoffmann also draws near,
“With his scissors, as censor, provided.
“The scissors rattle in his hand,
“And eagerly he races
“To seize thy body,—he cuts thy flesh—
“Methinks it by far the best place is.”
CAPUT XXVII.
When summer’s pleasant days have come
I’ll tell you all the history
Of the other wonders that came to pass
In that long night of mystery.
The olden hypocritical race,
Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;
To the grave it is sinking, and owes its death
To its ceaseless habit of lying.
Another race is rising up fast,
By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,
Of genial humour and thoughts,—to it
I’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.
The youth which the poet’s goodness and pride
Appreciates, puts forth its blossom,
And warms itself at his radiant soul,
And against his feeling bosom.
My heart is loving as the light,
And pure and chaste as the fire;
The noblest Graces themselves have tuned
The chords of my sweet lyre.
’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songs
My worthy father uses,—
The poet Aristophanes,
The favourite of the Muses.
In the previous chapter I tried my hand
At copying the conclusion
Of the play of the “Birds,” which certainly is
My father’s finest effusion.