To the devil spake the Lord thus:Copies of myself I’m taking;After sun come constellations,After oxen, calves I’m making.After lions with their furiousPaws, I’m making kittens curious,After men come monkeys clever:Thou canst nothing make, however.
To the devil spake the Lord thus:Copies of myself I’m taking;After sun come constellations,After oxen, calves I’m making.After lions with their furiousPaws, I’m making kittens curious,After men come monkeys clever:Thou canst nothing make, however.
To the devil spake the Lord thus:Copies of myself I’m taking;After sun come constellations,After oxen, calves I’m making.
After lions with their furiousPaws, I’m making kittens curious,After men come monkeys clever:Thou canst nothing make, however.
I made for my glory and edificationMen, lions, and oxen, and sunlight splendid;But calves, cats, monkeys, and each constellationFor nought but my own delight I intended.
I made for my glory and edificationMen, lions, and oxen, and sunlight splendid;But calves, cats, monkeys, and each constellationFor nought but my own delight I intended.
I made for my glory and edificationMen, lions, and oxen, and sunlight splendid;But calves, cats, monkeys, and each constellationFor nought but my own delight I intended.
With one short week of preparationThe whole of the world was made by meAnd yet I work’d out the plan of creationFor thousands of years full thoughtfully.Creation itself is a mere act of motionThat’s easily done in a very short time;And yet the plan, the primary notion,—’Tis that that proves the artist sublime.Three hundred long years have I been takingIn solving the question by slow degreesAs to which was the proper manner of makingBoth Doctors of Law and little fleas.
With one short week of preparationThe whole of the world was made by meAnd yet I work’d out the plan of creationFor thousands of years full thoughtfully.Creation itself is a mere act of motionThat’s easily done in a very short time;And yet the plan, the primary notion,—’Tis that that proves the artist sublime.Three hundred long years have I been takingIn solving the question by slow degreesAs to which was the proper manner of makingBoth Doctors of Law and little fleas.
With one short week of preparationThe whole of the world was made by meAnd yet I work’d out the plan of creationFor thousands of years full thoughtfully.
Creation itself is a mere act of motionThat’s easily done in a very short time;And yet the plan, the primary notion,—’Tis that that proves the artist sublime.
Three hundred long years have I been takingIn solving the question by slow degreesAs to which was the proper manner of makingBoth Doctors of Law and little fleas.
On the sixth day spake the Lord thus:I have finish’d finallyAll this vast and fair creation,And that all is good, I see.How the sun’s rays, golden-roselike,O’er the ocean brightly gleam!Every tree is green and glittering,And enamell’d all things seem.On the plain yon lambkins sportingAre like alabaster white;O how natural and perfectNature seemeth to the sight!Earth and heaven alike are teemingWith my glorious majesty,And through long and endless agesMan will praise and worship me.
On the sixth day spake the Lord thus:I have finish’d finallyAll this vast and fair creation,And that all is good, I see.How the sun’s rays, golden-roselike,O’er the ocean brightly gleam!Every tree is green and glittering,And enamell’d all things seem.On the plain yon lambkins sportingAre like alabaster white;O how natural and perfectNature seemeth to the sight!Earth and heaven alike are teemingWith my glorious majesty,And through long and endless agesMan will praise and worship me.
On the sixth day spake the Lord thus:I have finish’d finallyAll this vast and fair creation,And that all is good, I see.
How the sun’s rays, golden-roselike,O’er the ocean brightly gleam!Every tree is green and glittering,And enamell’d all things seem.
On the plain yon lambkins sportingAre like alabaster white;O how natural and perfectNature seemeth to the sight!
Earth and heaven alike are teemingWith my glorious majesty,And through long and endless agesMan will praise and worship me.
The stuff out of which a poem is wroughtIs not to be suck’d from the finger;No God created the world from noughtAny more than an earthly singer.’Twas mud primeval that form’d the sourceWhence the body of man I created,And from the ribs of man in due courseFair woman I separated.The heavens I form’d from out of the earth,And angels from women completed;The raw material first gets its worthFrom being artist’cally treated.
The stuff out of which a poem is wroughtIs not to be suck’d from the finger;No God created the world from noughtAny more than an earthly singer.’Twas mud primeval that form’d the sourceWhence the body of man I created,And from the ribs of man in due courseFair woman I separated.The heavens I form’d from out of the earth,And angels from women completed;The raw material first gets its worthFrom being artist’cally treated.
The stuff out of which a poem is wroughtIs not to be suck’d from the finger;No God created the world from noughtAny more than an earthly singer.
’Twas mud primeval that form’d the sourceWhence the body of man I created,And from the ribs of man in due courseFair woman I separated.
The heavens I form’d from out of the earth,And angels from women completed;The raw material first gets its worthFrom being artist’cally treated.
The chiefest reason why I madeThe earth, I will confess with gladness:Within my soul, like fiery madness,A burning call to do so play’d.Illness was the especial groundOf my creative inclination;I might recover by creation,Creation made me once more sound.
The chiefest reason why I madeThe earth, I will confess with gladness:Within my soul, like fiery madness,A burning call to do so play’d.Illness was the especial groundOf my creative inclination;I might recover by creation,Creation made me once more sound.
The chiefest reason why I madeThe earth, I will confess with gladness:Within my soul, like fiery madness,A burning call to do so play’d.
Illness was the especial groundOf my creative inclination;I might recover by creation,Creation made me once more sound.
From place to place thou’rt wandering still,Thou scarcely knowest why;A gentle word the wind doth fill,—Thou look’st round wond’ringly.My loved one, who was left behind,Is calling softly now:“Return, I love thee, O be kind,My only joy art thou!”But on, still on, no peace, no rest,Thou never still mayst be;What thou of yore didst love the best,Thou ne’er again shalt see.
From place to place thou’rt wandering still,Thou scarcely knowest why;A gentle word the wind doth fill,—Thou look’st round wond’ringly.My loved one, who was left behind,Is calling softly now:“Return, I love thee, O be kind,My only joy art thou!”But on, still on, no peace, no rest,Thou never still mayst be;What thou of yore didst love the best,Thou ne’er again shalt see.
From place to place thou’rt wandering still,Thou scarcely knowest why;A gentle word the wind doth fill,—Thou look’st round wond’ringly.
My loved one, who was left behind,Is calling softly now:“Return, I love thee, O be kind,My only joy art thou!”
But on, still on, no peace, no rest,Thou never still mayst be;What thou of yore didst love the best,Thou ne’er again shalt see.
Thou art to-day of sadder seemingThan thou hast been for long before;Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming,Thy sighs wax louder more and more.Of thy far home long vanish’d is itThat thou art thinking, full of pain?Wouldst thou not joyfully revisitThy much-loved fatherland again?Art thinking now of her who sweetlyWith tiny rage enchanted thee?Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completelyWere reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.Art thinking of the friends whom yearningImpell’d to fall upon thy breast?Within the heart the thoughts were burning,And yet the lips remain’d at rest.Or of the sister and the motherArt thinking, who approved thy suit?Methinks within thy breast, good brother,Wild passions fast are growing mute.Of the fair garden art thou thinking,Its birds and trees, where love’s young dreamOfttimes sustain’d thy spirits sinking,And hope shone forth with trembling beam?’Tis late. The snow has fallen thickly,Bright night illumes the humid mass;I now must go, and hasten quicklyTo dress for company,—Alas!
Thou art to-day of sadder seemingThan thou hast been for long before;Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming,Thy sighs wax louder more and more.Of thy far home long vanish’d is itThat thou art thinking, full of pain?Wouldst thou not joyfully revisitThy much-loved fatherland again?Art thinking now of her who sweetlyWith tiny rage enchanted thee?Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completelyWere reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.Art thinking of the friends whom yearningImpell’d to fall upon thy breast?Within the heart the thoughts were burning,And yet the lips remain’d at rest.Or of the sister and the motherArt thinking, who approved thy suit?Methinks within thy breast, good brother,Wild passions fast are growing mute.Of the fair garden art thou thinking,Its birds and trees, where love’s young dreamOfttimes sustain’d thy spirits sinking,And hope shone forth with trembling beam?’Tis late. The snow has fallen thickly,Bright night illumes the humid mass;I now must go, and hasten quicklyTo dress for company,—Alas!
Thou art to-day of sadder seemingThan thou hast been for long before;Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming,Thy sighs wax louder more and more.
Of thy far home long vanish’d is itThat thou art thinking, full of pain?Wouldst thou not joyfully revisitThy much-loved fatherland again?
Art thinking now of her who sweetlyWith tiny rage enchanted thee?Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completelyWere reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.
Art thinking of the friends whom yearningImpell’d to fall upon thy breast?Within the heart the thoughts were burning,And yet the lips remain’d at rest.
Or of the sister and the motherArt thinking, who approved thy suit?Methinks within thy breast, good brother,Wild passions fast are growing mute.
Of the fair garden art thou thinking,Its birds and trees, where love’s young dreamOfttimes sustain’d thy spirits sinking,And hope shone forth with trembling beam?
’Tis late. The snow has fallen thickly,Bright night illumes the humid mass;I now must go, and hasten quicklyTo dress for company,—Alas!
Of my fair fatherland I once was proud;Beside the streamThe oak soar’d high, the violets gently bow’d;It was a dream.German the kisses were, in German too(Sweet then did seemThe sound) they spake the words: “Yes, I love you!”—It was a dream.
Of my fair fatherland I once was proud;Beside the streamThe oak soar’d high, the violets gently bow’d;It was a dream.German the kisses were, in German too(Sweet then did seemThe sound) they spake the words: “Yes, I love you!”—It was a dream.
Of my fair fatherland I once was proud;Beside the streamThe oak soar’d high, the violets gently bow’d;It was a dream.
German the kisses were, in German too(Sweet then did seemThe sound) they spake the words: “Yes, I love you!”—It was a dream.
O fly with me, and be my wife,And to my heart for comfort come!Far, far away hence be my heart,Thy fatherland and father’s home.If thou’lt not go, I here will die,And all alone abandon thee;And if thou in thy father’s homeDost stay, thou’lt seem abroad to be.
O fly with me, and be my wife,And to my heart for comfort come!Far, far away hence be my heart,Thy fatherland and father’s home.If thou’lt not go, I here will die,And all alone abandon thee;And if thou in thy father’s homeDost stay, thou’lt seem abroad to be.
O fly with me, and be my wife,And to my heart for comfort come!Far, far away hence be my heart,Thy fatherland and father’s home.
If thou’lt not go, I here will die,And all alone abandon thee;And if thou in thy father’s homeDost stay, thou’lt seem abroad to be.
A genuine national song, heard by Heine on the Rhine.
There fell a frost in a night of spring,It fell on the tender flowerets blue,They all soon wither’d and faded.A youth once loved a maiden full well,They secretly fled away from the house,Unknown to father and mother.They wander’d here and they wander’d there,And neither joy nor star could they find,And so they droop’d and they perish’d.
There fell a frost in a night of spring,It fell on the tender flowerets blue,They all soon wither’d and faded.A youth once loved a maiden full well,They secretly fled away from the house,Unknown to father and mother.They wander’d here and they wander’d there,And neither joy nor star could they find,And so they droop’d and they perish’d.
There fell a frost in a night of spring,It fell on the tender flowerets blue,They all soon wither’d and faded.
A youth once loved a maiden full well,They secretly fled away from the house,Unknown to father and mother.
They wander’d here and they wander’d there,And neither joy nor star could they find,And so they droop’d and they perish’d.
Upon her grave a linden is springing,Where birds and the evening breeze are singing,And on the green sward under itThe miller’s boy and his sweetheart sit.The winds are blowing so softly and fleetly,The birds are singing so sadly and sweetly,The prattling lovers are mute by-and-by,They weep and they know not the reason why.
Upon her grave a linden is springing,Where birds and the evening breeze are singing,And on the green sward under itThe miller’s boy and his sweetheart sit.The winds are blowing so softly and fleetly,The birds are singing so sadly and sweetly,The prattling lovers are mute by-and-by,They weep and they know not the reason why.
Upon her grave a linden is springing,Where birds and the evening breeze are singing,And on the green sward under itThe miller’s boy and his sweetheart sit.
The winds are blowing so softly and fleetly,The birds are singing so sadly and sweetly,The prattling lovers are mute by-and-by,They weep and they know not the reason why.
(Written in 1836.)
O all good Christians, be on your guard,Lest Satan’s wiles ensnare you!I’ll sing you the song of the Tannhauser bold,That ye may duly beware you.The noble Tannhauser, a valiant knight,For love and pleasure yearning,To the Venus’ mount travell’d, and there he dweltSeven years without returning.“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, farewell!“Though much thou mayst enchant me,“No longer will I tarry with thee,“Permission to leave now grant me.”“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“To-day you have kept from kissing;“So kiss me quickly and tell me true,“What is there in me you find missing?“Have I each day the sweetest wine“Not pour’d out for you gaily?“And have I not always crown’d your head“With fragrant roses daily?”—“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“My soul no longer finds pleasing“These endless kisses and luscious wine,—“I long for something that’s teasing.“Too much have we jested, too much have we laugh’d,“My heart for tears has long panted;“Each rose on my head I fain would see“By pointed thorns supplanted.”—“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You fain would vex and grieve me;“An oath you have sworn a thousand times“That you would never leave me.“Come, let us into the chamber go,“To taste of love’s rapture and gladness,“And there my fair and lily-white form“Shall drive away thy sadness.”—“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, thy charms“Will bloom for ever and ever;“As many already have glow’d for thee,“So men will forget thee never!“But when I think of the heroes and gods“Who erst have taken their pleasure“In clasping thy fair and lily-white form“My anger knows no measure.“Thy fair and lily-white figure with dread“Is filling me even this minute,“When thinking how many in after times“Will still take pleasure in it!”—“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You should not utter such treason;“’T’were better to beat me, as you have before“Oft done for many a season.“’T’were better to beat me, than such harsh words“Of insult thus to have spoken,“Whereby, O Christian ungrateful and cold,“The pride in my bosom is broken.“Because I love you so much, I forgive“Your evil words, thankless mortal;“Farewell, I grant you permission to leave,“I’ll open myself the portal.”
O all good Christians, be on your guard,Lest Satan’s wiles ensnare you!I’ll sing you the song of the Tannhauser bold,That ye may duly beware you.The noble Tannhauser, a valiant knight,For love and pleasure yearning,To the Venus’ mount travell’d, and there he dweltSeven years without returning.“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, farewell!“Though much thou mayst enchant me,“No longer will I tarry with thee,“Permission to leave now grant me.”“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“To-day you have kept from kissing;“So kiss me quickly and tell me true,“What is there in me you find missing?“Have I each day the sweetest wine“Not pour’d out for you gaily?“And have I not always crown’d your head“With fragrant roses daily?”—“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“My soul no longer finds pleasing“These endless kisses and luscious wine,—“I long for something that’s teasing.“Too much have we jested, too much have we laugh’d,“My heart for tears has long panted;“Each rose on my head I fain would see“By pointed thorns supplanted.”—“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You fain would vex and grieve me;“An oath you have sworn a thousand times“That you would never leave me.“Come, let us into the chamber go,“To taste of love’s rapture and gladness,“And there my fair and lily-white form“Shall drive away thy sadness.”—“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, thy charms“Will bloom for ever and ever;“As many already have glow’d for thee,“So men will forget thee never!“But when I think of the heroes and gods“Who erst have taken their pleasure“In clasping thy fair and lily-white form“My anger knows no measure.“Thy fair and lily-white figure with dread“Is filling me even this minute,“When thinking how many in after times“Will still take pleasure in it!”—“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You should not utter such treason;“’T’were better to beat me, as you have before“Oft done for many a season.“’T’were better to beat me, than such harsh words“Of insult thus to have spoken,“Whereby, O Christian ungrateful and cold,“The pride in my bosom is broken.“Because I love you so much, I forgive“Your evil words, thankless mortal;“Farewell, I grant you permission to leave,“I’ll open myself the portal.”
O all good Christians, be on your guard,Lest Satan’s wiles ensnare you!I’ll sing you the song of the Tannhauser bold,That ye may duly beware you.
The noble Tannhauser, a valiant knight,For love and pleasure yearning,To the Venus’ mount travell’d, and there he dweltSeven years without returning.
“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, farewell!“Though much thou mayst enchant me,“No longer will I tarry with thee,“Permission to leave now grant me.”
“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“To-day you have kept from kissing;“So kiss me quickly and tell me true,“What is there in me you find missing?
“Have I each day the sweetest wine“Not pour’d out for you gaily?“And have I not always crown’d your head“With fragrant roses daily?”—
“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“My soul no longer finds pleasing“These endless kisses and luscious wine,—“I long for something that’s teasing.
“Too much have we jested, too much have we laugh’d,“My heart for tears has long panted;“Each rose on my head I fain would see“By pointed thorns supplanted.”—
“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You fain would vex and grieve me;“An oath you have sworn a thousand times“That you would never leave me.
“Come, let us into the chamber go,“To taste of love’s rapture and gladness,“And there my fair and lily-white form“Shall drive away thy sadness.”—
“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, thy charms“Will bloom for ever and ever;“As many already have glow’d for thee,“So men will forget thee never!
“But when I think of the heroes and gods“Who erst have taken their pleasure“In clasping thy fair and lily-white form“My anger knows no measure.
“Thy fair and lily-white figure with dread“Is filling me even this minute,“When thinking how many in after times“Will still take pleasure in it!”—
“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“You should not utter such treason;“’T’were better to beat me, as you have before“Oft done for many a season.
“’T’were better to beat me, than such harsh words“Of insult thus to have spoken,“Whereby, O Christian ungrateful and cold,“The pride in my bosom is broken.
“Because I love you so much, I forgive“Your evil words, thankless mortal;“Farewell, I grant you permission to leave,“I’ll open myself the portal.”
In Rome, in the holy city of Rome,With singing and ringing and blowingA grand procession is moving on,The Pope in the middle is going.The pious Pope Urban is his name,The triple crown he is wearing,He wears a red and purple robe,And Barons his train are bearing.“O holy Father, Pope Urban, stay!“I will not move from my station,“Until thou hast saved my soul from hell,“And heard my supplication!”—The ghostly songs are suddenly mute,The people fall backwards dumbly;O who is the pilgrim pale and wildWho bends to the Pope so humbly?“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!“By name, I’m the noble Tannhauser call’d;“For love and pleasure yearning,“To the Venus’ mount I travell’d and dwelt“Seven years there without returning.“This Venus is a woman fair“With charms of dazzling splendour;Like light of sun and flowers’ sweet scent“Her voice is gentle and tender.“As a butterfly flutters around a flower“And from its calyx sips too,So flutters my soul for evermore“Around her rosy lips too.“Around her noble features entwine“Her blooming black locks wildly;Thy breath would be gone if once her great eyes“Were fix’d upon thee mildly.“If her great eyes upon thee were fix’d“They surely would harass thee greatly;’Twas with the greatest trouble that I“Escaped from the mountain lately.“From out of the mountain I made my escape“And yet for ever pursue me“The looks of the beautiful woman, which seem“To say ‘O hasten back to me!’“A wretched spectre by day I’ve become,“At night I vainly would hide me“In sleep, for I dream that my mistress dear“Is sitting and laughing beside me.“How clearly, how sweetly, how madly she laughs“Her white teeth all the while showing!“Whenever I think of that laugh, in streams“The tears from my eyes begin flowing.“I love her indeed with a boundless love“That scorches me up to a cinder;“’Tis like a wild waterfall, whose fierce flood“No barrier ever can hinder.“It nimbly leaps from rock to rock“With noisy foaming and boiling;“Its neck it may break a thousand times,“Yet on, still on, it keeps toiling.“If all the expanse of the heavens were mine,“To Venus the whole I’d surrender;“I’d give her the sun, I’d give her the moon,“I’d give her the stars in their splendour.“I love her indeed with a boundless love,“Whose flame within me rages;“O say can this be the fire of hell,“The glow that will last through all ages?“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!—”His hands the Pope raised sadly on high,And sigh’d till these words he had spoken:“Tannhauser, most unhappy knight,“The charm can never be broken.“The Devil whom they Venus call“Is mighty for hurting and harming;“I’m powerless quite to rescue thee“From out of his talons so charming.“And so thy soul must expiate nowThy fleshly lusts infernal;Yes, thou art rejected, yes, thou art condemn’dTo suffer hell’s torments eternal.”
In Rome, in the holy city of Rome,With singing and ringing and blowingA grand procession is moving on,The Pope in the middle is going.The pious Pope Urban is his name,The triple crown he is wearing,He wears a red and purple robe,And Barons his train are bearing.“O holy Father, Pope Urban, stay!“I will not move from my station,“Until thou hast saved my soul from hell,“And heard my supplication!”—The ghostly songs are suddenly mute,The people fall backwards dumbly;O who is the pilgrim pale and wildWho bends to the Pope so humbly?“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!“By name, I’m the noble Tannhauser call’d;“For love and pleasure yearning,“To the Venus’ mount I travell’d and dwelt“Seven years there without returning.“This Venus is a woman fair“With charms of dazzling splendour;Like light of sun and flowers’ sweet scent“Her voice is gentle and tender.“As a butterfly flutters around a flower“And from its calyx sips too,So flutters my soul for evermore“Around her rosy lips too.“Around her noble features entwine“Her blooming black locks wildly;Thy breath would be gone if once her great eyes“Were fix’d upon thee mildly.“If her great eyes upon thee were fix’d“They surely would harass thee greatly;’Twas with the greatest trouble that I“Escaped from the mountain lately.“From out of the mountain I made my escape“And yet for ever pursue me“The looks of the beautiful woman, which seem“To say ‘O hasten back to me!’“A wretched spectre by day I’ve become,“At night I vainly would hide me“In sleep, for I dream that my mistress dear“Is sitting and laughing beside me.“How clearly, how sweetly, how madly she laughs“Her white teeth all the while showing!“Whenever I think of that laugh, in streams“The tears from my eyes begin flowing.“I love her indeed with a boundless love“That scorches me up to a cinder;“’Tis like a wild waterfall, whose fierce flood“No barrier ever can hinder.“It nimbly leaps from rock to rock“With noisy foaming and boiling;“Its neck it may break a thousand times,“Yet on, still on, it keeps toiling.“If all the expanse of the heavens were mine,“To Venus the whole I’d surrender;“I’d give her the sun, I’d give her the moon,“I’d give her the stars in their splendour.“I love her indeed with a boundless love,“Whose flame within me rages;“O say can this be the fire of hell,“The glow that will last through all ages?“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!—”His hands the Pope raised sadly on high,And sigh’d till these words he had spoken:“Tannhauser, most unhappy knight,“The charm can never be broken.“The Devil whom they Venus call“Is mighty for hurting and harming;“I’m powerless quite to rescue thee“From out of his talons so charming.“And so thy soul must expiate nowThy fleshly lusts infernal;Yes, thou art rejected, yes, thou art condemn’dTo suffer hell’s torments eternal.”
In Rome, in the holy city of Rome,With singing and ringing and blowingA grand procession is moving on,The Pope in the middle is going.
The pious Pope Urban is his name,The triple crown he is wearing,He wears a red and purple robe,And Barons his train are bearing.
“O holy Father, Pope Urban, stay!“I will not move from my station,“Until thou hast saved my soul from hell,“And heard my supplication!”—
The ghostly songs are suddenly mute,The people fall backwards dumbly;O who is the pilgrim pale and wildWho bends to the Pope so humbly?
“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!
“By name, I’m the noble Tannhauser call’d;“For love and pleasure yearning,“To the Venus’ mount I travell’d and dwelt“Seven years there without returning.
“This Venus is a woman fair“With charms of dazzling splendour;Like light of sun and flowers’ sweet scent“Her voice is gentle and tender.
“As a butterfly flutters around a flower“And from its calyx sips too,So flutters my soul for evermore“Around her rosy lips too.
“Around her noble features entwine“Her blooming black locks wildly;Thy breath would be gone if once her great eyes“Were fix’d upon thee mildly.
“If her great eyes upon thee were fix’d“They surely would harass thee greatly;’Twas with the greatest trouble that I“Escaped from the mountain lately.
“From out of the mountain I made my escape“And yet for ever pursue me“The looks of the beautiful woman, which seem“To say ‘O hasten back to me!’
“A wretched spectre by day I’ve become,“At night I vainly would hide me“In sleep, for I dream that my mistress dear“Is sitting and laughing beside me.
“How clearly, how sweetly, how madly she laughs“Her white teeth all the while showing!“Whenever I think of that laugh, in streams“The tears from my eyes begin flowing.
“I love her indeed with a boundless love“That scorches me up to a cinder;“’Tis like a wild waterfall, whose fierce flood“No barrier ever can hinder.
“It nimbly leaps from rock to rock“With noisy foaming and boiling;“Its neck it may break a thousand times,“Yet on, still on, it keeps toiling.
“If all the expanse of the heavens were mine,“To Venus the whole I’d surrender;“I’d give her the sun, I’d give her the moon,“I’d give her the stars in their splendour.
“I love her indeed with a boundless love,“Whose flame within me rages;“O say can this be the fire of hell,“The glow that will last through all ages?
“O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom“To bind and to loose not too much is,“O save me from the pangs of hell,“And out of the Evil One’s clutches!—”
His hands the Pope raised sadly on high,And sigh’d till these words he had spoken:“Tannhauser, most unhappy knight,“The charm can never be broken.
“The Devil whom they Venus call“Is mighty for hurting and harming;“I’m powerless quite to rescue thee“From out of his talons so charming.
“And so thy soul must expiate nowThy fleshly lusts infernal;Yes, thou art rejected, yes, thou art condemn’dTo suffer hell’s torments eternal.”
The knight Tannhauser roam’d on till his feetWere sore with his wanderings dreary.At midnight’s hour he came at lengthTo the Venus’ mountain, full weary.Fair Venus awoke from out of her sleep,And out of her bed sprang lightly,And clasp’d her fair and lily-white armsAround her beloved one tightly.From out of her nose the blood fell fast,The tears from her eyes descended;She cover’d the face of her darling knightWith blood and tears closely blended.The knight lay quietly down in the bed,And not one word has he spoken;While Venus went to the kitchen, to makeSome soup, that his fast might be broken.She gave him soup, and she gave him bread,She wash’d his wounded feet, too;She comb’d his rough and matted hair,And laugh’d with a laugh full sweet, too.“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“Full long hast thou been wandering;“O say in what lands hast thou thy time“So far from hence been squandering?”“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“In Italy I have been staying;“I’ve had some bus’ness in Rome, and now“Return without further delaying.“Rome stands on the Tiber, just at the spot“Where seven hills are meeting;“In Rome I also beheld the Pope,—“The Pope he sends thee his greeting.“And Florence I saw, when on my return,“And then through Milan I hasted,“And next through Switzerland scrambled fast,“And not one moment wasted.“And when I travell’d over the Alps,“The snow already was falling;“The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled,“The eagles were circling and calling.“And when on the Mount St. Gothard I stood,“Below me snored Germany loudly;“Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings“It slumber’d calmly and proudly.“In Swabia I saw the poetical school“Of dear little simpleton creatures;“They sat together all ranged in a row,“With very diminutive features.“In Dresden I saw a certain dog,“A sprig of the aristocracy;“His teeth he had lost, and bark’d and yell’d“Like one of the vulgar democracy.“At Weimar, the Muses’ widow’d seat,“I heard them their sentiments giving;“They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead,“And Eckermann still ’mongst the living!“At Potsdam I heard a very loud cry,—“I said in amaze: ‘What’s the matter?’—“’Tis Gans[11]at Berlin, who last century’s tale“Is reading and making this clatter.’“At Göttingen knowledge was blossoming still,“But bringing no fruit to perfection;“’Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night,“No light was in any direction.“In the bridewell at Zell Hanoverians alone“Were confined; at our next Reformation“A national bridewell and one common lash“We must have for the whole German nation.“At Hamburg, in that excellent town,“Many terrible rascals dwell still;“And when I wander’d about the Exchange,“I fancied myself in Zell still!“At Hamburg I Altona saw; ’tis a spot“In a charming situation;“And all my adventures that there I met“I’ll tell on another occasion.”[12]
The knight Tannhauser roam’d on till his feetWere sore with his wanderings dreary.At midnight’s hour he came at lengthTo the Venus’ mountain, full weary.Fair Venus awoke from out of her sleep,And out of her bed sprang lightly,And clasp’d her fair and lily-white armsAround her beloved one tightly.From out of her nose the blood fell fast,The tears from her eyes descended;She cover’d the face of her darling knightWith blood and tears closely blended.The knight lay quietly down in the bed,And not one word has he spoken;While Venus went to the kitchen, to makeSome soup, that his fast might be broken.She gave him soup, and she gave him bread,She wash’d his wounded feet, too;She comb’d his rough and matted hair,And laugh’d with a laugh full sweet, too.“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“Full long hast thou been wandering;“O say in what lands hast thou thy time“So far from hence been squandering?”“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“In Italy I have been staying;“I’ve had some bus’ness in Rome, and now“Return without further delaying.“Rome stands on the Tiber, just at the spot“Where seven hills are meeting;“In Rome I also beheld the Pope,—“The Pope he sends thee his greeting.“And Florence I saw, when on my return,“And then through Milan I hasted,“And next through Switzerland scrambled fast,“And not one moment wasted.“And when I travell’d over the Alps,“The snow already was falling;“The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled,“The eagles were circling and calling.“And when on the Mount St. Gothard I stood,“Below me snored Germany loudly;“Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings“It slumber’d calmly and proudly.“In Swabia I saw the poetical school“Of dear little simpleton creatures;“They sat together all ranged in a row,“With very diminutive features.“In Dresden I saw a certain dog,“A sprig of the aristocracy;“His teeth he had lost, and bark’d and yell’d“Like one of the vulgar democracy.“At Weimar, the Muses’ widow’d seat,“I heard them their sentiments giving;“They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead,“And Eckermann still ’mongst the living!“At Potsdam I heard a very loud cry,—“I said in amaze: ‘What’s the matter?’—“’Tis Gans[11]at Berlin, who last century’s tale“Is reading and making this clatter.’“At Göttingen knowledge was blossoming still,“But bringing no fruit to perfection;“’Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night,“No light was in any direction.“In the bridewell at Zell Hanoverians alone“Were confined; at our next Reformation“A national bridewell and one common lash“We must have for the whole German nation.“At Hamburg, in that excellent town,“Many terrible rascals dwell still;“And when I wander’d about the Exchange,“I fancied myself in Zell still!“At Hamburg I Altona saw; ’tis a spot“In a charming situation;“And all my adventures that there I met“I’ll tell on another occasion.”[12]
The knight Tannhauser roam’d on till his feetWere sore with his wanderings dreary.At midnight’s hour he came at lengthTo the Venus’ mountain, full weary.
Fair Venus awoke from out of her sleep,And out of her bed sprang lightly,And clasp’d her fair and lily-white armsAround her beloved one tightly.
From out of her nose the blood fell fast,The tears from her eyes descended;She cover’d the face of her darling knightWith blood and tears closely blended.
The knight lay quietly down in the bed,And not one word has he spoken;While Venus went to the kitchen, to makeSome soup, that his fast might be broken.
She gave him soup, and she gave him bread,She wash’d his wounded feet, too;She comb’d his rough and matted hair,And laugh’d with a laugh full sweet, too.
“Tannhauser, dear and noble knight,“Full long hast thou been wandering;“O say in what lands hast thou thy time“So far from hence been squandering?”
“Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth“In Italy I have been staying;“I’ve had some bus’ness in Rome, and now“Return without further delaying.
“Rome stands on the Tiber, just at the spot“Where seven hills are meeting;“In Rome I also beheld the Pope,—“The Pope he sends thee his greeting.
“And Florence I saw, when on my return,“And then through Milan I hasted,“And next through Switzerland scrambled fast,“And not one moment wasted.
“And when I travell’d over the Alps,“The snow already was falling;“The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled,“The eagles were circling and calling.
“And when on the Mount St. Gothard I stood,“Below me snored Germany loudly;“Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings“It slumber’d calmly and proudly.
“In Swabia I saw the poetical school“Of dear little simpleton creatures;“They sat together all ranged in a row,“With very diminutive features.
“In Dresden I saw a certain dog,“A sprig of the aristocracy;“His teeth he had lost, and bark’d and yell’d“Like one of the vulgar democracy.
“At Weimar, the Muses’ widow’d seat,“I heard them their sentiments giving;“They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead,“And Eckermann still ’mongst the living!
“At Potsdam I heard a very loud cry,—“I said in amaze: ‘What’s the matter?’—“’Tis Gans[11]at Berlin, who last century’s tale“Is reading and making this clatter.’
“At Göttingen knowledge was blossoming still,“But bringing no fruit to perfection;“’Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night,“No light was in any direction.
“In the bridewell at Zell Hanoverians alone“Were confined; at our next Reformation“A national bridewell and one common lash“We must have for the whole German nation.
“At Hamburg, in that excellent town,“Many terrible rascals dwell still;“And when I wander’d about the Exchange,“I fancied myself in Zell still!
“At Hamburg I Altona saw; ’tis a spot“In a charming situation;“And all my adventures that there I met“I’ll tell on another occasion.”[12]
They loved each other beyond belief,The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief;At each piece of knavery, dailyShe fell on the bed, laughing gaily.In joy and pleasure they pass’d the day,Upon his bosom all night she lay;When they carried him off to Old Bailey,At the window she stood, laughing gaily.He sent her this message: O come to me,I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee;I want thee, I pine, and look palely,—Her head she but shook, laughing gaily.At six in the morning they hang’d the knave,At seven they laid him down in his grave;At eight on her ears this fell stalely,And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily.
They loved each other beyond belief,The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief;At each piece of knavery, dailyShe fell on the bed, laughing gaily.In joy and pleasure they pass’d the day,Upon his bosom all night she lay;When they carried him off to Old Bailey,At the window she stood, laughing gaily.He sent her this message: O come to me,I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee;I want thee, I pine, and look palely,—Her head she but shook, laughing gaily.At six in the morning they hang’d the knave,At seven they laid him down in his grave;At eight on her ears this fell stalely,And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily.
They loved each other beyond belief,The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief;At each piece of knavery, dailyShe fell on the bed, laughing gaily.
In joy and pleasure they pass’d the day,Upon his bosom all night she lay;When they carried him off to Old Bailey,At the window she stood, laughing gaily.
He sent her this message: O come to me,I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee;I want thee, I pine, and look palely,—Her head she but shook, laughing gaily.
At six in the morning they hang’d the knave,At seven they laid him down in his grave;At eight on her ears this fell stalely,And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily.
O list to this spring time’s terrible jest!In savage troops the maidens fairAre rushing along with fluttering hair,And howls of anguish and naked breast:—Adonis! Adonis!The night falls fast. By torchlight clearThey sadly explore each forest track,Which mournful answers is echoing backOf laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear:—Adonis! Adonis!That youthful figure, so wondrous fair,Now lies on the ground all pale and dead;His blood has dyed each floweret red,And mournful sighs resound through the air:—Adonis! Adonis!
O list to this spring time’s terrible jest!In savage troops the maidens fairAre rushing along with fluttering hair,And howls of anguish and naked breast:—Adonis! Adonis!The night falls fast. By torchlight clearThey sadly explore each forest track,Which mournful answers is echoing backOf laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear:—Adonis! Adonis!That youthful figure, so wondrous fair,Now lies on the ground all pale and dead;His blood has dyed each floweret red,And mournful sighs resound through the air:—Adonis! Adonis!
O list to this spring time’s terrible jest!In savage troops the maidens fairAre rushing along with fluttering hair,And howls of anguish and naked breast:—Adonis! Adonis!
The night falls fast. By torchlight clearThey sadly explore each forest track,Which mournful answers is echoing backOf laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear:—Adonis! Adonis!
That youthful figure, so wondrous fair,Now lies on the ground all pale and dead;His blood has dyed each floweret red,And mournful sighs resound through the air:—Adonis! Adonis!
Slow and weary, moves a drearyStout black bark the stream along;Visors wearing, all-uncaring,Funeral mutes the benches throng.’Mongst them dumbly, with his comelyFace upturn’d, the dead bard lies;Living seeming, toward the beamingLight of heaven still turn his eyes.From the water, like a daughterOf the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,And with wailing unavailing’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.
Slow and weary, moves a drearyStout black bark the stream along;Visors wearing, all-uncaring,Funeral mutes the benches throng.’Mongst them dumbly, with his comelyFace upturn’d, the dead bard lies;Living seeming, toward the beamingLight of heaven still turn his eyes.From the water, like a daughterOf the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,And with wailing unavailing’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.
Slow and weary, moves a drearyStout black bark the stream along;Visors wearing, all-uncaring,Funeral mutes the benches throng.
’Mongst them dumbly, with his comelyFace upturn’d, the dead bard lies;Living seeming, toward the beamingLight of heaven still turn his eyes.
From the water, like a daughterOf the stream’s voice, comes a sigh,And with wailing unavailing’Gainst the bark the waves dash high.
The young Franciscan friar sitsIn his cloister silent and lonely;He reads a magical book, which speaksOf exorcisms only.And when the hour of midnight knell’d,An impulse resistless came o’er him;The underground spirits with pallid lipsHe summon’d to rise up before him:“Ye spirits! Go, fetch me from out of the graveThe corpse of my mistress cherish’d;For this one night restore her to life,Rekindling joys long perish’d.”The fearful exorcising wordHe breathes, and his wish is granted;The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes whiteAppears to his vision enchanted.Her look is mournful; her ice-cold breastHer sighs of grief cannot smother;The dead one sits herself down by the monk,In silence they gaze on each other.
The young Franciscan friar sitsIn his cloister silent and lonely;He reads a magical book, which speaksOf exorcisms only.And when the hour of midnight knell’d,An impulse resistless came o’er him;The underground spirits with pallid lipsHe summon’d to rise up before him:“Ye spirits! Go, fetch me from out of the graveThe corpse of my mistress cherish’d;For this one night restore her to life,Rekindling joys long perish’d.”The fearful exorcising wordHe breathes, and his wish is granted;The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes whiteAppears to his vision enchanted.Her look is mournful; her ice-cold breastHer sighs of grief cannot smother;The dead one sits herself down by the monk,In silence they gaze on each other.
The young Franciscan friar sitsIn his cloister silent and lonely;He reads a magical book, which speaksOf exorcisms only.
And when the hour of midnight knell’d,An impulse resistless came o’er him;The underground spirits with pallid lipsHe summon’d to rise up before him:
“Ye spirits! Go, fetch me from out of the graveThe corpse of my mistress cherish’d;For this one night restore her to life,Rekindling joys long perish’d.”
The fearful exorcising wordHe breathes, and his wish is granted;The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes whiteAppears to his vision enchanted.
Her look is mournful; her ice-cold breastHer sighs of grief cannot smother;The dead one sits herself down by the monk,In silence they gaze on each other.
(The Sun speaks.)What matter all my looks to thee?It is the well-known right of the sunTo shed down his rays on ev’ry one;I beam because ’tis proper for me.What matter all my looks to thee?Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf;Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself,And so a German worthy be!I beam because ’tis proper for me.I wander up and down in the sky,From mereennuiI peep from on high—What matter all my looks to thee?(The Poet speaks.)It is in truth my special meritThat I can bear thy radiant light,Pledge of an endless youthful spirit,Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright.But now mine eyes are growing weary,On my poor eyelids fast are falling,Like a black covering, the drearyDark shades of night with gloom appalling.(Chorus of Monkeys.)We monkeys, we monkeys,Like impudent flunkies,Stare at the sun,Who can’t prevent its being done.(Chorus of Frogs.)The water is better,But also much wetterThan ’tis in the air,And merrily thereWe love to gazeOn the sun’s bright rays.(Chorus of Moles.)How foolish people are to chatterOf beams and sunny rays bewitchingWith us, they but produce an itchingWe scratch it and so end the matter.(A Glow-worm speaks.)How boastingly the sun displaysHis very fleeting daily rays!But I’m not so immodest quite,And yet I’m an important light,—I mean by night, I mean by night!
(The Sun speaks.)What matter all my looks to thee?It is the well-known right of the sunTo shed down his rays on ev’ry one;I beam because ’tis proper for me.What matter all my looks to thee?Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf;Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself,And so a German worthy be!I beam because ’tis proper for me.I wander up and down in the sky,From mereennuiI peep from on high—What matter all my looks to thee?(The Poet speaks.)It is in truth my special meritThat I can bear thy radiant light,Pledge of an endless youthful spirit,Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright.But now mine eyes are growing weary,On my poor eyelids fast are falling,Like a black covering, the drearyDark shades of night with gloom appalling.(Chorus of Monkeys.)We monkeys, we monkeys,Like impudent flunkies,Stare at the sun,Who can’t prevent its being done.(Chorus of Frogs.)The water is better,But also much wetterThan ’tis in the air,And merrily thereWe love to gazeOn the sun’s bright rays.(Chorus of Moles.)How foolish people are to chatterOf beams and sunny rays bewitchingWith us, they but produce an itchingWe scratch it and so end the matter.(A Glow-worm speaks.)How boastingly the sun displaysHis very fleeting daily rays!But I’m not so immodest quite,And yet I’m an important light,—I mean by night, I mean by night!
(The Sun speaks.)
What matter all my looks to thee?It is the well-known right of the sunTo shed down his rays on ev’ry one;I beam because ’tis proper for me.
What matter all my looks to thee?Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf;Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself,And so a German worthy be!
I beam because ’tis proper for me.I wander up and down in the sky,From mereennuiI peep from on high—What matter all my looks to thee?
(The Poet speaks.)
It is in truth my special meritThat I can bear thy radiant light,Pledge of an endless youthful spirit,Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright.
But now mine eyes are growing weary,On my poor eyelids fast are falling,Like a black covering, the drearyDark shades of night with gloom appalling.
(Chorus of Monkeys.)
We monkeys, we monkeys,Like impudent flunkies,Stare at the sun,Who can’t prevent its being done.
(Chorus of Frogs.)
The water is better,But also much wetterThan ’tis in the air,And merrily thereWe love to gazeOn the sun’s bright rays.
(Chorus of Moles.)
How foolish people are to chatterOf beams and sunny rays bewitchingWith us, they but produce an itchingWe scratch it and so end the matter.
(A Glow-worm speaks.)
How boastingly the sun displaysHis very fleeting daily rays!But I’m not so immodest quite,And yet I’m an important light,—I mean by night, I mean by night!
The star, after beaming so brightly,From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,What is the love by poets sung?A star amid a heap of dung.Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying,Beneath all this filth it is lying;Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,And wallows in the fearful slough.In the garden O had I descended,By fair flowerets lovingly tended,Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!
The star, after beaming so brightly,From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,What is the love by poets sung?A star amid a heap of dung.Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying,Beneath all this filth it is lying;Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,And wallows in the fearful slough.In the garden O had I descended,By fair flowerets lovingly tended,Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!
The star, after beaming so brightly,From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,What is the love by poets sung?A star amid a heap of dung.
Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying,Beneath all this filth it is lying;Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,And wallows in the fearful slough.
In the garden O had I descended,By fair flowerets lovingly tended,Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!
Give me a wide and noble fieldWhere I may perish decently!O let me in this narrow worldOf shops be not condemned to die!They eat full well, they drink full well,And revel in their mole-like bliss;Their magnanimity’s as greatAs any poor-box opening is.Cigars they carry in their mouths,Their hands we in their breeches view,And their digestive powers are great,—O could we but digest them too!They trade in every spice that growsUpon the earth, yet we can trace,Despite their spices, in the airThe odour of a grovelling race.Could I some great transgressions, yes,Colossal bloody crimes but see,—Aught but this virtue flat and tame,This solvent strict morality!Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence,To some far spot without delay!To Lapland or to Africa,To Pomerania e’en—away!O bear me hence!—They hearken not—The clouds on high so prudent are!They fly above this town, to seekWith trembling haste some region far.
Give me a wide and noble fieldWhere I may perish decently!O let me in this narrow worldOf shops be not condemned to die!They eat full well, they drink full well,And revel in their mole-like bliss;Their magnanimity’s as greatAs any poor-box opening is.Cigars they carry in their mouths,Their hands we in their breeches view,And their digestive powers are great,—O could we but digest them too!They trade in every spice that growsUpon the earth, yet we can trace,Despite their spices, in the airThe odour of a grovelling race.Could I some great transgressions, yes,Colossal bloody crimes but see,—Aught but this virtue flat and tame,This solvent strict morality!Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence,To some far spot without delay!To Lapland or to Africa,To Pomerania e’en—away!O bear me hence!—They hearken not—The clouds on high so prudent are!They fly above this town, to seekWith trembling haste some region far.
Give me a wide and noble fieldWhere I may perish decently!O let me in this narrow worldOf shops be not condemned to die!
They eat full well, they drink full well,And revel in their mole-like bliss;Their magnanimity’s as greatAs any poor-box opening is.
Cigars they carry in their mouths,Their hands we in their breeches view,And their digestive powers are great,—O could we but digest them too!
They trade in every spice that growsUpon the earth, yet we can trace,Despite their spices, in the airThe odour of a grovelling race.
Could I some great transgressions, yes,Colossal bloody crimes but see,—Aught but this virtue flat and tame,This solvent strict morality!
Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence,To some far spot without delay!To Lapland or to Africa,To Pomerania e’en—away!
O bear me hence!—They hearken not—The clouds on high so prudent are!They fly above this town, to seekWith trembling haste some region far.
Dear distant Germany, how oftenI weep when I remember thee!Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,Her merry race gives pain to me.In Paris, in this witty region,’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;O bells of folly and religion,How sweetly sound at home your strains!Courteous the men! Their salutationI yet return with feelings sad;The rudeness shown in every stationIn my own country made me glad!Smiling the women! but their clatter,Like millwheels, never seems to cease;The Germans (not to mince the matter)Prefer I, who lie down in peace.And all things here with restless passionKeep whirling, like some madden’d dream;With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,And well-nigh void of motion seem.Methinks I hear the distant ringingOf the soft bugle’s notes serene;The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,With Philomel’s sweet strains between.At home the bard, a happy vagrantIn Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;From moonbeams fair and violets fragrantMy tender verses there I wove.
Dear distant Germany, how oftenI weep when I remember thee!Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,Her merry race gives pain to me.In Paris, in this witty region,’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;O bells of folly and religion,How sweetly sound at home your strains!Courteous the men! Their salutationI yet return with feelings sad;The rudeness shown in every stationIn my own country made me glad!Smiling the women! but their clatter,Like millwheels, never seems to cease;The Germans (not to mince the matter)Prefer I, who lie down in peace.And all things here with restless passionKeep whirling, like some madden’d dream;With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,And well-nigh void of motion seem.Methinks I hear the distant ringingOf the soft bugle’s notes serene;The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,With Philomel’s sweet strains between.At home the bard, a happy vagrantIn Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;From moonbeams fair and violets fragrantMy tender verses there I wove.
Dear distant Germany, how oftenI weep when I remember thee!Gay France my sorrow cannot soften,Her merry race gives pain to me.
In Paris, in this witty region,’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns;O bells of folly and religion,How sweetly sound at home your strains!
Courteous the men! Their salutationI yet return with feelings sad;The rudeness shown in every stationIn my own country made me glad!
Smiling the women! but their clatter,Like millwheels, never seems to cease;The Germans (not to mince the matter)Prefer I, who lie down in peace.
And all things here with restless passionKeep whirling, like some madden’d dream;With us, they move in jog-trot fashion,And well-nigh void of motion seem.
Methinks I hear the distant ringingOf the soft bugle’s notes serene;The watchman’s songs I hear them singing,With Philomel’s sweet strains between.
At home the bard, a happy vagrantIn Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove;From moonbeams fair and violets fragrantMy tender verses there I wove.
On the Faubourg Saint MarçeauLay the mist this very morning,Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,And a white-hued night resembling.Wandering through this white-hued night,I beheld before me glidingAn enchanting female formWhich the moon’s sweet light resembled.Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,Lightly floating, tender, graceful;Such a slender shape of limbsI had here in France ne’er witness’d.Was it Luna’s self perchance,Who with some young dear and handsomeFond Endymion had to-dayIn th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?On my way home thus I thought:Wherefore fled she when she saw me?Did the Goddess think that IWas perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?
On the Faubourg Saint MarçeauLay the mist this very morning,Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,And a white-hued night resembling.Wandering through this white-hued night,I beheld before me glidingAn enchanting female formWhich the moon’s sweet light resembled.Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,Lightly floating, tender, graceful;Such a slender shape of limbsI had here in France ne’er witness’d.Was it Luna’s self perchance,Who with some young dear and handsomeFond Endymion had to-dayIn th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?On my way home thus I thought:Wherefore fled she when she saw me?Did the Goddess think that IWas perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?
On the Faubourg Saint MarçeauLay the mist this very morning,Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,And a white-hued night resembling.
Wandering through this white-hued night,I beheld before me glidingAn enchanting female formWhich the moon’s sweet light resembled.
Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,Lightly floating, tender, graceful;Such a slender shape of limbsI had here in France ne’er witness’d.
Was it Luna’s self perchance,Who with some young dear and handsomeFond Endymion had to-dayIn th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?
On my way home thus I thought:Wherefore fled she when she saw me?Did the Goddess think that IWas perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?
At the door of the cathedralStand two men, both wearing red coats,And the first one is the monarch,And the headsman is the other.To the headsman spake the monarch:“By the priest’s song I can gather“That the wedding is now finish’d—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”To the sound of bells and organFrom the church the people issueIn a motley throng, and ’mongst themMove the gay-dress’d bridal couple.Pale as death and sad and mournfulLooks the monarch’s lovely daughter;Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,And his ruddy lips are smiling.And with smiling ruddy lips heThus the gloomy king addresses:“Father of my wife, good morning!“Forfeited to-day my head is.“I to-day must die,—O suffer,“Suffer me to live till midnight,“That I may with feast and torch-dance“Celebrate my happy wedding!“Let me live, O let me live, sire,“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,“Till the final dance is finish’d—“Suffer me to live till midnight!”To the headsman spake the monarch:“To our son-in-law a respite“Of his life we grant till midnight—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”
At the door of the cathedralStand two men, both wearing red coats,And the first one is the monarch,And the headsman is the other.To the headsman spake the monarch:“By the priest’s song I can gather“That the wedding is now finish’d—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”To the sound of bells and organFrom the church the people issueIn a motley throng, and ’mongst themMove the gay-dress’d bridal couple.Pale as death and sad and mournfulLooks the monarch’s lovely daughter;Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,And his ruddy lips are smiling.And with smiling ruddy lips heThus the gloomy king addresses:“Father of my wife, good morning!“Forfeited to-day my head is.“I to-day must die,—O suffer,“Suffer me to live till midnight,“That I may with feast and torch-dance“Celebrate my happy wedding!“Let me live, O let me live, sire,“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,“Till the final dance is finish’d—“Suffer me to live till midnight!”To the headsman spake the monarch:“To our son-in-law a respite“Of his life we grant till midnight—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”
At the door of the cathedralStand two men, both wearing red coats,And the first one is the monarch,And the headsman is the other.
To the headsman spake the monarch:“By the priest’s song I can gather“That the wedding is now finish’d—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”
To the sound of bells and organFrom the church the people issueIn a motley throng, and ’mongst themMove the gay-dress’d bridal couple.
Pale as death and sad and mournfulLooks the monarch’s lovely daughter;Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave,And his ruddy lips are smiling.
And with smiling ruddy lips heThus the gloomy king addresses:“Father of my wife, good morning!“Forfeited to-day my head is.
“I to-day must die,—O suffer,“Suffer me to live till midnight,“That I may with feast and torch-dance“Celebrate my happy wedding!
“Let me live, O let me live, sire,“Till I’ve drain’d the final goblet,“Till the final dance is finish’d—“Suffer me to live till midnight!”
To the headsman spake the monarch:“To our son-in-law a respite“Of his life we grant till midnight—“Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!”
Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast,And every goblet is drained at last;Upon his shoulder reclinesHis wife and pines—At the door the headsman is standing.The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes holdOf his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’dThey dance by the torches’ glowTheir last dance below—At the door the headsman is standing.The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad,The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;Whoever their dancing then sawWas filled with awe—At the door the headsman is standing.And as they dance in the echoing hall,To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:“My love will be ne’er known to thee—“The grave yawns for me—”At the door the headsman is standing.
Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast,And every goblet is drained at last;Upon his shoulder reclinesHis wife and pines—At the door the headsman is standing.The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes holdOf his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’dThey dance by the torches’ glowTheir last dance below—At the door the headsman is standing.The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad,The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;Whoever their dancing then sawWas filled with awe—At the door the headsman is standing.And as they dance in the echoing hall,To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:“My love will be ne’er known to thee—“The grave yawns for me—”At the door the headsman is standing.
Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast,And every goblet is drained at last;Upon his shoulder reclinesHis wife and pines—At the door the headsman is standing.
The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes holdOf his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll’dThey dance by the torches’ glowTheir last dance below—At the door the headsman is standing.
The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad,The flutes they sound so mournful and sad;Whoever their dancing then sawWas filled with awe—At the door the headsman is standing.
And as they dance in the echoing hall,To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all:“My love will be ne’er known to thee—“The grave yawns for me—”At the door the headsman is standing.