Thou, by whom, freed from rules constrained and wrong,On truth and nature once again we're placed,—Who, in the cradle e'en a hero strong,Stiffest the serpents round our genius laced,—Thou whom the godlike science has so longWith her unsullied sacred fillet graced,—Dost thou on ruined altars sacrificeTo that false muse whom we no longer prize?
This theatre belongs to native art,No foreign idols worshipped here are seen;A laurel we can show, with joyous heart,That on the German Pindus has grown greenThe sciences' most holy, hidden partThe German genius dares to enter e'en,And, following the Briton and the Greek,A nobler glory now attempts to seek.
For yonder, where slaves kneel, and despots holdThe reins,—where spurious greatness lifts its head,Art has no power the noble there to mould,'Tis by no Louis that its seed is spread;From its own fulness it must needs unfold,By earthly majesty 'tis never fed;'Tis with truth only it can e'er unite,Its glow free spirits only e'er can light.
'Tis not to bind us in a worn-out chainThou dost this play of olden time recall,—'Tis not to seek to lead us back againTo days when thoughtless childhood ruled o'er all.It were, in truth, an idle risk and vainInto the moving wheel of time to fall;The winged hours forever bear it on,The new arrives, and, lo! the old has gone.
The narrow theatre is now more wide,Into its space a universe now steals;In pompous words no longer is our pride,Nature we love when she her form reveals;Fashion's false rules no more are deified;And as a man the hero acts and feels.'Tis passion makes the notes of freedom sound,And 'tis in truth the beautiful is found.
Weak is the frame of Thespis' chariot fair,Resembling much the bark of Acheron,That carries naught but shades and forms of air;And if rude life should venture to press on,The fragile bark its weight no more can bear,For fleeting spirits it can hold alone.Appearance ne'er can reach reality,—If nature be victorious, art must fly.
For on the stage's boarded scaffold hereA world ideal opens to our eyes,Nothing is true and genuine save—a tear;Emotion on no dream of sense relies.The real Melpomene is still sincere,Naught as a fable merely she supplies—By truth profound to charm us is her care;The false one, truth pretends, but to ensnare.
Now from the scene, art threatens to retire,Her kingdom wild maintains still phantasy;The stage she like the world would set on fire,The meanest and the noblest mingles she.The Frank alone 'tis art can now inspire,And yet her archetype can his ne'er be;In bounds unchangeable confining her,He holds her fast, and vainly would she stir.
The stage to him is pure and undefiled;Chased from the regions that to her belongAre Nature's tones, so careless and so wild,To him e'en language rises into song;A realm harmonious 'tis, of beauty mild,Where limb unites to limb in order strong.The whole into a solemn temple blends,And 'tis the dance that grace to motion lends.
And yet the Frank must not be made our guide.For in his art no living spirit reigns:The boasting gestures of a spurious prideThat mind which only loves the true disdains.To nobler ends alone be it applied,Returning, like some soul's long-vanished manes.To render the oft-sullied stage once moreA throne befitting the great muse of yore.
Ring and staff, oh to me on a Rhenish flask ye are welcome!Him a true shepherd I call, who thus gives drink to his sheep.Draught thrice blest! It is by the Muse I have won thee,—the Muse, too,Sends thee,—and even the church places upon thee her seal.
Two are the roads that before thee lie open from life to conduct thee;To the ideal one leads thee, the other to death.See that while yet thou art free, on the first thou commencest thy journey,Ere by the merciless fates on to the other thou'rt led!
Once wisdom dwelt in tomes of ponderous size,While friendship from a pocketbook would talk;But now that knowledge in small compass lies,And floats in almanacs, as light as cork,Courageous man, thou dost not hesitateTo open for thy friends this house so great!Hast thou no fear, I seriously would ask,That thou may'st thus their patience overtask?
Nature in charms is exhaustless, in beauty ever reviving;And, like Nature, fair art is inexhaustible too.Hail, thou honored old man! for both in thy heart thou preservestLiving sensations, and thus ne'er-ending youth is thy lot!
Years has the master been laboring, but always without satisfaction;To an ingenious race 'twould be in vision conferred.What they yesterday learned, to-day they fain would be teaching:Small compassion, alas, is by those gentlemen shown!
Seerest thou the highest, the greatest!In that the plant can instruct thee;What it unwittingly is, be thou of thine own free will!
Thou'rt welcome in my box to peep!Life's puppet-show, the world in little,Thou'lt see depicted to a tittle,—But pray at some small distance keep!'Tis by the torch of love alone,By Cupid's taper, it is shown.
See, not a moment void the stage is!The child in arms at first they bring,—The boy then skips,—the youth now storms and rages,—The man contends, and ventures everything!
Each one attempts success to find,Yet narrow is the race-course ever;The chariot rolls, the axles quiver,The hero presses on, the coward stays behind,The proud man falls with mirth-inspiring fall,The wise man overtakes them all!
Thou see'st fair woman it the barrier stand,With beauteous hands, with smiling eyes,To glad the victor with his prize.
Ever take it for granted, that man collectively wishesThat which is right; but take care never to think so of one!
Oh, how many new foes against truth! My very soul bleedethWhen I behold the owl-race now bursting forth to the light.
With one last bumper let us hailThe wanderer beloved,Who takes his leave of this still valeWherein in youth he roved.
From loving arms, from native home,He tears himself away,To yonder city proud to roam,That makes whole lands its prey.
Dissension flies, all tempests end,And chained is strife abhorred;We in the crater may descendFrom whence the lava poured.
A gracious fate conduct thee throughLife's wild and mazy track!A bosom nature gave thee true,—A bosom true bring back!
Thou'lt visit lands that war's wild trainHad crushed with careless heed;Now smiling peace salutes the plain,And strews the golden seed.
The hoary Father Rhine thou'lt greet,Who thy forefather [58] blestWill think of, whilst his waters fleetIn ocean's bed to rest.
Do homage to the hero's manes,And offer to the Rhine,The German frontier who maintains,His own-created wine,—
So that thy country's soul thy guideMay be, when thou hast crossedOn the frail bark to yonder side,Where German faith is lost!
Woman in everything yields to man; but in that which is highest,Even the manliest man yields to the woman most weak.But that highest,—what is it? The gentle radiance of triumphAs in thy brow upon me, beauteous Amanda, it beams.When o'er the bright shining disk the clouds of affliction are fleeting,Fairer the image appears, seen through the vapor of gold.Man may think himself free! thou art so,—for thou never knowestWhat is the meaning of choice,—know'st not necessity's name.That which thou givest, thou always givest wholly; but one art thou ever,Even thy tenderest sound is thine harmonious self.Youth everlasting dwells here, with fulness that never is exhausted,And with the flower at once pluckest thou the ripe golden fruit.
Trust me, 'tis not a mere tale,—the fountain of youth really runneth,Runneth forever. Thou ask'st, where? In the poet's sweet art!
When hostile elements with rage resound,And fury blindly fans war's lurid flame,—When in the strife of party quarrel drowned,The voice of justice no regard can claim,—When crime is free, and impious hands are foundThe sacred to pollute, devoid of shame,And loose the anchor which the state maintains,—No subject there we find for joyous strains.
But when a nation, that its flocks still feedsWith calm content, nor other's wealth desiresThrows off the cruel yoke 'neath which it bleeds,Yet, e'en in wrath, humanity admires,—And, e'en in triumph, moderation heeds,—That is immortal, and our song requires.To show thee such an image now is mine;Thou knowest it well, for all that's great is thine!
Severe the proof the Grecian youth was doomed to undergo,Before he might what lurks beneath the Eleusinia know—Art thou prepared and ripe, the shrine—the inner shrine—to win,Where Pallas guards from vulgar eyes the mystic prize within?Knowest thou what bars thy way? how dear the bargain thou dost make,When but to buy uncertain good, sure good thou dost forsake?Feel'st thou sufficient strength to brave the deadliest human fray,When heart from reason—sense from thought, shall rend themselves away?Sufficient valor, war with doubt, the hydra-shape, to wage;And that worst foe within thyself with manly soul engage?With eyes that keep their heavenly health—the innocence of youthTo guard from every falsehood, fair beneath the mask of truth?Fly, if thou canst not trust thy heart to guide thee on the way—Oh, fly the charmed margin ere th' abyss engulf its prey.Round many a step that seeks the light, the shades of midnight close;But in the glimmering twilight, see—how safely childhood goes!
Into life's ocean the youth with a thousand masts daringly launches;Mute, in a boat saved from wreck, enters the gray-beard the port.
See how we hate, how we quarrel, how thought and how feeling divide us!But thy locks, friend, like mine, meanwhile are bleachening fast.
Where the pathway begins, eternity seems to lie open,Yet at the narrowest point even the wisest man stops.
Fair bride, attended by our blessing,Glad Hymen's flowery path 'gin pressing!We witnessed with enraptured eyeThe graces of thy soul unfolding,Thy youthful charms their beauty mouldingTo blossom for love's ecstasy.A happy fate now hovers round thee,And friendship yields without a smartTo that sweet god whose might hath bound thee;—He needs must have, he hath thy heart!
To duties dear, to trouble tender,Thy youthful breast must now surrender,Thy garland's summons must obey.Each toying infantine sensation,Each fleeting sport of youth's creation,Forevermore hath passed away;And Hymen's sacred bond now chainethWhere soft and fluttering love was shrined;Yet for a heart, where beauty reigneth,Of flowers alone that bond is twined.
The secret that can keep foreverIn verdant links, that naught can sever,The bridal garland, wouldst thou find?'Tis purity the heart pervading,The blossoms of a grace unfading,And yet with modest shame combined,Which, like the sun's reflection glowing,Makes every heart throb blissfully;—'Tis looks with mildness overflowing,And self-maintaining dignity!
Where will a place of refuge, noble friend,For peace and freedom ever open lie!The century in tempests had its end,The new one now begins with murder's cry.
Each land-connecting bond is torn away,Each ancient custom hastens to decline;Not e'en the ocean can war's tumult stay.Not e'en the Nile-god, not the hoary Rhine.
Two mighty nations strive, with hostile power,For undivided mastery of the world;And, by them, each land's freedom to devour,The trident brandished is—the lightning hurled.
Each country must to them its gold afford,And, Brennus-like, upon the fatal day,The Frank now throws his heavy iron sword,The even scales of justice to o'erweigh.
His merchant-fleets the Briton greedilyExtends, like polyp-limbs, on every side;And the domain of Amphitrite freeAs if his home it were, would fain bestride.
E'en to the south pole's dim, remotest star,His restless course moves onward, unrestrained;Each isle he tracks,—each coast, however far,But paradise alone he ne'er has gained!
Although thine eye may every map explore,Vainly thou'lt seek to find that blissful place,Where freedom's garden smiles for evermore,And where in youth still blooms the human race.
Before thy gaze the world extended lies,The very shipping it can scarce embrace;And yet upon her back, of boundless size,E'en for ten happy men there is not space!
Into thy bosom's holy, silent cells,Thou needs must fly from life's tumultuous throng!Freedom but in the realm of vision dwells,And beauty bears no blossoms but in song.
Speechless to thousands of others, who with deaf hearts would consult him,Talketh the spirit to thee, who art his kinsman and friend.
Work as much as thou wilt, alone thou'lt be standing forever,Till by nature thou'rt joined forcibly on to the whole.
How does nature proceed to unite the high and the lowlyIn mankind? She commands vanity 'tween them to stand!
Doubtless an epoch important has with the century risen;But the moment so great finds but a race of small worth.
Fools we may have in plenty, and simpletons, too, by the dozen;But for comedy these never make use of themselves.
A maiden blush o'er every feature straying,The Muse her gentle harp now lays down here,And stands before thee, for thy judgment praying,—She waits with reverence, but not with fear;Her last farewell for his kind smile delaying.Whom splendor dazzles not who holds truth dear.The hand of him alone whose soaring spiritWorships the beautiful, can crown her merit.
These simple lays are only heard resounding,While feeling hearts are gladdened by their tone,With brighter phantasies their path surrounding,To nobler aims their footsteps guiding on.Yet coming ages ne'er will hear them sounding,They live but for the present hour alone;The passing moment called them into being,And, as the hours dance on, they, too, are fleeing.
The spring returns, and nature then awaking,Bursts into life across the smiling plain;Each shrub its perfume through the air is shaking,And heaven is filled with one sweet choral strain;While young and old, their secret haunts forsaking,With raptured eye and ear rejoice again.The spring then flies,—to seed return the flowers.And naught remains to mark the vanished hours.
Most high and mighty Czar of all flesh, ceaseless reducer of empires, unfathomable glutton in the whole realms of nature.
With the most profound flesh-creeping I take the liberty of kissing the rattling leg-bones of your voracious Majesty, and humbly laying this little book at your dried-up feet. My predecessors have always been accustomed, as if on purpose to annoy you, to transport their goods and chattels to the archives of eternity, directly under your nose, forgetting that, by so doing, they only made your mouth water the more, for the proverb—Stolen bread tastes sweetest—is applicable even to you. No! I prefer to dedicate this work to you, feeling assured that you will throw it aside.
But, joking apart! methinks we two know each other better than by mere hearsay. Enrolled in the order of Aesculapius, the first-born of Pandora's box, as old as the fall of man, I have stood at your altar,— have sworn undying hatred to your hereditary foe, Nature, as the son of Hamilcar to the seven hills of Rome,—have sworn to besiege her with a whole army of medicines,—to throw up barricades round the obstinate soul,—to drive from the field the insolents who cut down your fees and cripple your finances,—and on the Archaean battle-plain to plant your midnight standard. In return (for one good turn deserves another), you must prepare for me the precious TALISMAN, which can save me from the gallows and the wheel uninjured, and with a whole skin—
Jusque datum sceleri.
Come then! act the generous Maecenas; for observe, I should be sorry to fare like my foolhardy colleagues and cousins, who, armed with stiletto and pocket-pistol, hold their court in gloomy ravines, or mix in the subterranean laboratory the wondrous polychrest, which, when taken with proper zeal, tickles our political noses, either too little or too much, with throne vacancies or state-fevers. D'Amiens and Ravaillac!—Ho, ho, ho!—'Tis a good thing for straight limbs!
Perhaps you have been whetting your teeth at Easter and Michaelmas?—the great book-epidemic times at Leipzig and Frankfort! Hurrah for the waste-paper!—'twill make a royal feast. Your nimble brokers, Gluttony and Lust, bring you whole cargoes from the fair of life. Even Ambition, your grandpapa—War, Famine, Fire, and Plague, your mighty huntsmen, have provided you with many a jovial man-chase. Avarice and Covetousness, your sturdy butlers, drink to your health whole towns floating in the bubbling cup of the world-ocean. I know a kitchen in Europe where the rarest dishes have been served up in your honor with festive pomp. And yet—who has ever known you to be satisfied, or to complain of indigestion? Your digestive faculties are of iron; your entrails fathomless!
Pooh—I had many other things to say to you, but I am in a hurry to be off. You are an ugly brother-in-law—go! I hear you are calculating on living to see a general collation, where great and small, globes and lexicons, philosophies and knick-knacks, will fly into your jaws—a good appetite to you, should it come to that.—Yet, ravenous wolf that you are! take care that you don't overeat yourself, and have to disgorge to a hair all that you have swallowed, as a certain Athenian (no particular friend of yours, by-the-by) has prophesied.
TOBOLSKO, 2d February.
Tum primum radiis gelidi incaluere Triones.
Flowers in Siberia? Behind this lies a piece of knavery, or the sun must make face against midnight. And yet—if ye were to exert yourselves! 'Tis really so; we have been hunting sables long enough; let us for once in a way try our luck with flowers. Have not enough Europeans come to us stepsons of the sun, and waded through our hundred years' snow, to pluck a modest flower? Shame upon our ancestors—we'll gather them ourselves, and frank a whole basketful to Europe. Do not crush them, ye children of a milder heaven!
But to be serious; to remove the iron weight of prejudice that broods heavily over the north, requires a stronger lever than the enthusiasm of a few individuals, and a firmer Hypomochlion than the shoulders of two or three patriots. Yet if this anthology reconciles you squeamish Europeans to us snow-men as little as—let's suppose the case—our "Muses' Almanac," [61] which we—let's again suppose the case—might have written, it will at least have the merit of helping its companions through the whole of Germany to give the last neck-stab to expiring taste, as we people of Tobolsko like to word it.
If your Homers talk in their sleep, and your Herculeses kill flies with their clubs—if every one who knows how to give vent to his portion of sorrow in dreary Alexandrines, interprets that as a call to Helicon, shall we northerns be blamed for tinkling the Muses' lyre?—Your matadors claim to have coined silver when they have stamped their effigy on wretched pewter; and at Tobolsko coiners are hanged. 'Tis true that you may often find paper-money amongst us instead of Russian roubles, but war and hard times are an excuse for anything.
Go forth then, Siberian anthology! Go! Thou wilt make many a coxcomb happy, wilt be placed by him on the toilet-table of his sweetheart, and in reward wilt obtain her alabaster, lily-white hand for his tender kiss. Go! thou wilt fill up many a weary gulf of ennui in assemblies and city-visits, and may be relieve a Circassienne, who has confessed herself weary amidst a shower of calumnies. Go! thou wilt be consulted in the kitchens of many critics; they will fly thy light, and like the screech-owl, retreat into thy shadow. Ho, ho, ho! Already I hear the ear-cracking howls in the inhospitable forest, and anxiously conceal myself in my sable.
I chanced the other eve,—But how I ne'er will tell,—The paper to receive.That's published down in hell.
In general one may guess,I little care to seeThis free-corps of the pressGot up so easily;
But suddenly my eyesA side-note chanced to meet,And fancy my surpriseAt reading in the sheet:—
"For twenty weary springs"(The post from Erebus,Remark me, always bringsUnpleasant news to us)—
"Through want of water, weHave well-nigh lost our breath;In great perplexityHell came and asked for Death;
"'They can wade through the Styx,Catch crabs in Lethe's flood;Old Charon's in a fix,His boat lies in the mud,
"'The dead leap over there,The young and old as well;The boatman gets no fare,And loudly curses hell.'
"King Minos bade his spiesIn all directions go;The devils needs must rise,And bring him news below.
"Hurrah! The secret's toldThey've caught the robber's nest;A merry feast let's hold!Come, hell, and join the rest!
"An author's countless band,Stalked round Cocytus' brink,Each bearing in his handA glass for holding ink.
"And into casks they drewThe water, strange to say,As boys suck sweet wine throughAn elder-reed in play.
"Quick! o'er them cast the net,Ere they have time to flee!Warm welcome ye will get,So come to Sans-souci!
"Smelt by the king ere long,He sharpened up his tooth,And thus addressed the throng(Full angrily, in truth):
"'The robbers is't we see?What trade? What land, perchance?'—'German news-writers we!'—Enough to make us dance!
"'A wish I long have knownTo bid ye stop and dine,Ere ye by Death were mown,That brother-in-law of mine.
"'Yet now by Styx I swear,Whose flood ye would imbibe,That torments and despairShall fill your vermin-tribe!
"'The pitcher seeks the well,Till broken 'tis one day;They who for ink would smell,The penalty must pay.
"'So seize them by their thumbs,And loosen straight my beastE'en now he licks his gums,Impatient for the feast.'—
"How quivered every limbBeneath the bull-dog's jawsTheir honors baited him,And he allowed no pause.
"Convulsively they swear,Still writhe the rabble rout,Engaged with anxious careIn pumping Lethe out."
Ye Christians, good and meek,This vision bear in mind;If journalists ye seek,Attempt their thumbs to find.
Defects they often hide,As folks whose hairs are goneWe see with wigs suppliedProbatum! I have done!
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumbDeaf and dumb,Twirl the cane so troublesome!Sprigs of fashion by the dozenThou dost bring to book, good cousin.Cousin, thou art not in clover;Many a head that's filled with smokeThou hast twirled and well-nigh broke,Many a clever one perplexed,Many a stomach sorely vexed,Turning it completely over;Many a hat put on awry,Many a lamb chased cruelly,Made streets, houses, edges, trees,Dance around us fools with ease.Therefore thou are not in clover,Therefore thou, like other folk,Hast thy head filled full of smoke,Therefore thou, too, art perplexed,And thy stomach's sorely vexed,For 'tis turned completely over;Therefore thou art not in clover.
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumbDeaf and dumb,Twirl the carle so troublesome!Seest thou how our tongues and witsThou hast shivered into bits—Seest thou this, licentious wight?How we're fastened to a string,Whirled around in giddy ring,Making all like night appear,Filling with strange sounds our ear?Learn it in the stocks aright!When our ears wild noises shook,On the sky we cast no look,Neither stock nor stone reviewed,But were punished as we stood.Seest thou now, licentious wight?That, to us, yon flaring sunIs the Heidelbergers' tun;Castles, mountains, trees, and towers,Seem like chopin-cups of ours.Learn'st thou now, licentious wight?Learn it in the stocks aright!
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb,Deaf and dumb,Twirl the carle so troublesome!Kinsman, once so full of glee,Kinsman, where's thy drollery,Where thy tricks, thou cunning one?All thy tricks are spent and past,To the devil gone at lastLike a silly fop thou'lt prate,Like a washerwoman rate.Thou art but a simpleton.Now thou mayest—more shame to thee—Run away, because of me;Cupid, that young rogue, may gloryLearning wisdom from thy story;Haste, thou sluggard, hence to fleeAs from glass is cut our wit,So, like lightning, 'twill be split;If thou won't be chased away,Let each folly also staySeest my meaning? Think of me!Idle one, away with thee!
A mighty oak here ruined lies,Its top was wont to kiss the skies,Why is it now o'erthrown?—The peasants needed, so they said,Its wood wherewith to build a shed,And so they've cut it down.
Not in the crowd of masqueraders gay,Where coxcombs' wit with wondrous splendor flares,And, easier than the Indian's net the prey,The virtue of young beauties snares;—
Not at the toilet-table of the fair,Where vanity, as if before an idol, bows,And often breathes a warmer prayerThan when to heaven it pays its vows;
And not behind the curtain's cunning veil,Where the world's eye is hid by cheating night,And glowing flames the hearts assail,That seemed but chilly in the light,—
Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip,While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks,Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip,And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks—
To ye—to ye, O lonely sister-band,Daughters of destiny, ascend,When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand,These strains, where bliss and sadness blend.
You only has no sonnet ever wooed,To win your gold no usurer e'er sighedNo coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued,For you, Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died.
Your gentle fingers ye forever ply,Life's nervous thread with care to twist,Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlesslyThe tender web would then resist.
Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun,Thy hand, O Clotho, I now kiss!Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun,Receive this nosegay, Lachesis!
Full often thorns upon the thread,But oftener roses, thou hast strung;For thorns and roses there outspread,Clotho, to thee this lay be sung!
Oft did tempestuous passions rise,And threat to break the thread by force;Oft projects of gigantic sizeHave checked its free, unfettered course.
Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss,Too fine appeared the thread to me;Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss,Too firm its fabric seemed to be.
Clotho, for this and other lies,Thy pardon I with tears implore;Henceforth I'll take whatever prizeSage Clotho gives, and asks no more.
But never let the shears cut off a rose—Only the thorns,—yet as thou will'st!Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close,If thou this single prayer fulfill'st!
Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath,My spirit from its shell breaks free,Betraying when, upon the gates of death,My youthful life hangs giddily,
Let to infinity the thread extend,'Twill wander through the realms of bliss,—Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend!Then let them fall, O Lachesis!
Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;I try to think in vain, to whom or howBeneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.—I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!
The moon—she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,By eating stolen bread her living gets,—Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.
The moon—for this may Herod give her thanks!—Reserves her best till night may have returned;Our lady swallows up by day the francsThat she at night-time may have earned.
The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,As surely as the month comes round;With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween—But she to need more time is found!
The moon to love her silver-horns is said,But makes a sorry show;She likes them on her husband's head,—She's right to have it so
In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,The man upon the right I'll love forever,For 'twas he first that wrote for me.For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly,And so we all should love him dearly;Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!
Once the nine all weeping cameTo the god of song"Oh, papa!" they there exclaim—"Hear our tale of wrong!
"Young ink-lickers swarm aboutOur dear Helicon;There they fight, manoeuvre, shout,Even to thy throne.
"On their steeds they galop hardTo the spring to drink,Each one calls himself a bard—Minstrels—only think!
"There they—how the thing to name!Would our persons treat—This, without a blush of shame,We can ne'er repeat;
"One, in front of all, then cries,'I the army lead!'Both his fists he wildly plies,Like a bear indeed!
"Others wakes he in a triceWith his whistlings rude;But none follow, though he twiceHas those sounds renewed.
"He'll return, he threats, ere long,And he'll come no doubt!Father, friend to lyric song,Please to show him out!"
Father Phoebus laughing hearsThe complaint they've brought;"Don't be frightened, pray, my dears,We'll soon cut them short!
"One must hasten to hell-fire,Go, Melpomene!Let a fury borrow lyre,Notes, and dress, of thee.
"Let her meet, in this array,One of these vile crews,As though she had lost her way,Soon as night ensues.
"Then with kisses dark, I trust,They'll the dear child greet,Satisfying their wild lustJust as it is meet!"—
Said and done!—Then one from hellSoon was dressed aright.Scarcely had the prey, they tell,Caught the fellow's sight,
Than, as kites a pigeon follow,They attacked her straight—Part, not all, though, I can swallowOf what folks relate.
If fair boys were 'mongst the band,How came they to be—This I cannot understand,—In such company?. . . . .The goddess a miscarriage had, good lack!And was delivered of an—Almanac!
The sullen mayor who reigns in hell,By mortals Pluto hight,Who thrashes all his subjects well,Both morn and eve, as stories tell,And rules the realms of night,All pleasure lost in cursing once,All joy in flogging, for the nonce.
The sedentary life he ledUpon his brazen chairMade his hindquarters very red,While pricks, as from a nettle-bed,He felt both here and there:A burning sun, too, chanced to shine,And boiled down all his blood to brine.
'Tis true he drank full many a draughtOf Phlegethon's black flood;By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft,And venesection, fore and aft,They took from him much blood.Full many a clyster was applied,And purging, too, was also tried.
His doctor, versed in sciences,With wig beneath his hat,Argued and showed with wondrous ease,From Celsus and Hippocrates,When he in judgment sat,—"Right worshipful the mayor of hell,The liver's wrong, I see full well."
"He's but a booby," Pluto said,"With all his trash and pills!A man like me—pray where's his head?A young man yet—his wits have fled!While youth my veins yet fills!Unless electuaries he'll bring,Full in his face my club I'll fling!"
Or right or wrong,—'twas a hard caseTo weather such a trial;(Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)He's straight saluted in the faceBy every splint and phial.He very wisely made no fuss;This hint he learnt of Cerberus.
"Go! fetch the barber of the skies,Apollo, to me soon!"An airy courier straightway fliesUpon his beast, and onward hies,And skims past poles and moon;As he went off, the clock struck four,At five his charger reached the door.
Just then Apollo happened—"Heigh-ho!A sonnet to have made?"Oh, dear me, no!—upon Miss Io(Such is the tale I heard from Clio)The midwife to have played.The boy, as if stamped out of wax,Might Zeus as father fairly tax.
He read the letter half asleep,Then started in dismay:"The road is long, and hell is deep,Your rocks I know are rough and steep . . .Yet like a king he'll pay!"He dons his cap of mist and furs,Then through the air the charger spurs.
With locks all frizzled a la mode,And ruffles smooth and nice,In gala dress, that brightly glowed(A gift Aurora had bestowed),With watch-chains of high price,With toes turned out, and chapeau bas,He stood before hell's mighty czar.
The grumbler, in his usual tone,Received him with a curse:"To Pomerania straight begone!Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne!Why, brimstone isn't worse.He'd best be off to heaven again,Or he'll infect hell's wide domain."
The god of pills, in sore surprise,A spring then backwards took:"Is this his highness' usual guise?'Tis in the brain, I see, that liesThe mischief—what a look!See how his eyes in frenzy roll!The case is bad, upon my soul!
"A journey to ElysiumThe infectus would dissolve,Making the saps less tough become,As through the CapitoliumAnd stomach they revolve.Provisionally be it so:Let's start then—but incognito!"
"Ay, worthy sir, no doubt well meant!If, in these regions hazy,As with you folk, so charged with scent,You dapper ones who heaven frequent,'Twere proper to be lazy,If hell a master needed not,Why, then I'd follow on the spot!
"Ha! if the cat once turned her back,Pray where would be the mice?They'd sally forth from every crack,My very mufti would attack,Spoil all things in a trice!Oddsbodikins! 'tis pretty cool!I'll let him see I'm no such fool!
"A pleasant uproar happened erst,When they assailed my tower!No fault of mine 'twas, at the worst,That from their desks and chains to burstPhilosophers had power.What, has there e'er escaped a poet?Help, heaven! what misery to know it!
"When days are long, folks talk more stuff!Upon your seats, no doubt,With all your cards and music rough,And scribblings too, 'tis hard enoughThe moments to eke out.Idleness, like a flea will gnawOn velvet cushions,—as on straw.
"My brother no attempt omitsTo drive away ennui;His lightning round about him flits,The target with his storms he hits(Those howls prove that to me),Till Rhea's trembling shoulders ache,And force me e'en for hell to quake.
"Were I grandfather Coelus, though,You wouldn't soon escape!Into my belly straight you'd go,And in your swaddling-clothes cry 'oh!'And through five windows gape!First o'er my stream you'd have to come,And then, perhaps, to Elysium!
"Your steed you mounted, I dare say,In hopes to catch a goose;If it is worth the trouble, prayTell what you've heard from me to-day,At shaving time, to Zeus.Just leave him then to swallow it;I don't care what he thinks a bit;
"You'd better now go homeward straight!Your servant! there's the door!For all your pains—one moment wait!I'll give you—liberal is the rate—A piece of ruby-ore.In heaven such things are rareties;We use them for base purposes."
The god at once, then, said farewell,At small politeness striving;When sudden through the crowds of hellA flying courier rushed pell-mell,From Tellus' bounds arriving."Monarch! a doctor follows me!Behold this wondrous prodigy!"
"Place for the doctor!" each one said—He comes with spurs and whip,To every one he nods his head,As if he had been born and bredIn Tartarus—the rip!As jaunty, fearless, full of nousAs Britons in the Lower House.
"Good morrow, worthy sirs!—Ahem!I'm glad to see that here(Where all they of Prometheus' stemMust come, whene'er the Fates condemn)One meets with such good cheer!Why for Elysium care a rush?I'd rather see hell's fountains gush!"
"Stop! stop! his impudence, I vow,Its due reward shall meet;By Charles's wain, I swear it now!He must—no questions I'll allow,—Prescribe me a receipt.All hell is mine, I'm Pluto hight!Make haste to bring your wares to light!"
The doctor, with a knowing look,The swarthy king surveyed;He neither felt his pulse, nor tookThe usual steps,—(see Galen's book),—No difference 'twould have madeAs piercing as electric fireHe eyed him to his heart's desire.
"Monarch! I'll tell thee in a triceThe thing that's needed here;Though desperate may seem the advice—The case itself is very nice—And children dragons fear.Devil must devil eat!—no more!—Either a wife,—or hellebore!
"Whether she scold, or sportive play,('Tween these, no medium's known),She'll drive the incubus awayThat has assailed thee many a dayUpon thine iron throne.She'll make the nimble spirits fleetUp towards the head, down towards the feet."
Long may the doctor honored beWho let this saying fall!He ought to have his effigyBy Phidias sculptured, so that heMay be discerned by all;A monument forever thriving,Boerhaave, Hippocrates, surviving!
Maiden, stay!—oh, whither wouldst thou go?Do I still or pride or grandeur show?Maiden, was it right?Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more,Scattered'st far the mountains that of yoreClimbed to glory's sunny height.
Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay,All the phantoms bright hast blown away,Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust;All my plans that proudly raised their headThou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread,Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.
To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew,—Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view,Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly;Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave,Death and life receiving like a slave—Life and death from out one beaming eye!
Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance,On the iron plain of glory dance,Starting from their mistress' breast,—From Aurora's rosy bed upspringsGod's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings,And to make the young world blest!
Toward the hero doth this heart still strain?Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rainOf thine eye, that burneth to destroy?In the glances that destructive gleam,Laura's love I see with sweetness beam,—Weep to see it—like a boy!
My repose, like yonder image bright,Dancing in the waters—cloudless, light,Maiden, hath been slain by thee!On the dizzy height now totter I—Laura—if from me—my Laura fly!Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!
Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff,Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh,Jests within the golden wine have birth,Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind,I have left each youthful sport behind,Friendless roam I o'er the earth.
Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone?Doth the laurel still allure me on?Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius?In my breast no echoes now arise,Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies,—And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?
Shall I still be, as a woman, tame?Do my pulses, at my country's name,Proudly burst their prison-thralls?Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing?Do I long with Roman blood to spring,When my Hermann calls?
Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divineSweet to quaff the incense at that shrine!Prouder, bolder, swells the breast.That which once set every sense on fire,That which once could every nerve inspire,Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!
That Orion might receive my fame,On the time-flood's heaving waves my nameRocked in glory in the mighty tide;So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered,When against my monument is quivered,Towering toward the firmament in pride.
Smil'st thou?—No? to me naught's perished now!Star and laurel I'll to fools allow,To the dead their marble cell;—Love hath granted all as my reward,High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared,So I love him well!
MATTHEW.Gossip, you'll like to hear, no doubt!A learned work has just come out—Messias is the name 'twill bear;The man has travelled through the air,And on the sun-beplastered roadsHas lost shoe-leather by whole loads,—Has seen the heavens lie open wide,And hell has traversed with whole hide.The thought has just occurred to meThat one so skilled as he must beMay tell us how our flax and wheat arise.What say you?—Shall I try to ascertain?
LUKE.You fool, to think that any one so wiseAbout mere flax and corn would rack his brain.
Thy wife is destined to deceive thee!She'll seek another's arms and leave thee,And horns upon thy head will shortly sprout!How dreadful that when bathing thou shouldst see me(No ether-bath can wash the stigma out),And then, in perfect innocence, shouldst flee me!
I am a man!—Let every oneWho is a man, too, springWith joy beneath God's shining sun,And leap on high, and sing!
To God's own image fair on earthIts stamp I've power to show;Down to the front, where heaven has birthWith boldness I dare go.
'Tis well that I both dare and can!When I a maiden see,A voice exclaims: thou art a man!I kiss her tenderly.
And redder then the maiden grows,Her bodice seems too tight—That I'm a man the maiden knows,Her bodice therefore's tight.
Will she, perchance, for pity cry,If unawares she's caught?She finds that I'm a man—then, whyBy her is pity sought?
I am a man; and if aloneShe sees me drawing near,I make the emperor's daughter run,Though ragged I appear.
This golden watchword wins the smileOf many a princess fair;They call—ye'd best look out the while,Ye gold-laced fellows there!
That I'm a man is fully shownWhene'er my lyre I sweep;It thunders out a glorious tone—It otherwise would creep.
The spirit that my veins now hold,My manhood calls its brother!And both command, like lions bold,And fondly greet each other.
From out this same creative floodFrom which we men have birth,Both godlike strength and genius bud,And everything of worth.
My talisman all tyrants hates,And strikes them to the ground;Or guides us gladly through life's gatesTo where the dead are found.
E'en Pompey, at Pharsalia's fight,My talisman o'erthrew;On German sand it hurled with mightRome's sensual children, too.
Didst see the Roman, proud and stern,Sitting on Afric's shore?His eyes like Hecla seem to burn,And fiery flames outpour.
Then comes a frank and merry knave,And spreads it through the land:"Tell them that thou on Carthage's graveHast seen great Marius stand!"
Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride,Still mighty in his fall;He is a man, and naught beside,—Before him tremble all.
His grandsons afterwards beganTheir portions to o'erthrow,And thought it well that every manShould learn with grace to crow.
For shame, for shame,—once more for shame!The wretched ones?—they've evenSquandered the tokens of their fame,The choicest gifts of heaven.
God's counterfeit has sinfullyDisgraced his form divine,And in his vile humanityHas wallowed like the swine.
The face of earth each vainly treads,Like gourds, that boys in sportHave hollowed out to human heads,With skulls, whose brains are—naught.
Like wine that by a chemist's artIs through retorts refined,Their spirits to the deuce depart,The phlegma's left behind.
From every woman's face they fly,Its very aspect dread,—And if they dared—and could not—why,'Twere better they were dead.
They shun all worthies when they can,Grief at their joy they prove—The man who cannot make a man,A man can never love!
The world I proudly wander o'er,And plume myself and singI am a man!—Whoe'er is more?Then leap on high, and spring!