8. HELENA.

Thou beholdest in thy visionFable’s silent flow’rs before thee,And a yearning wild steals o’er theeAt their fragrant scent elysian.But thou from those flow’rs art partedBy a gulf both deep and fearful;Thou becomest sad and tearful,And at last art broken-hearted.How they glitter! how they lure me!Could I but the gulf pass over!How the secret to discover,And a bridge across procure me?

Thou beholdest in thy visionFable’s silent flow’rs before thee,And a yearning wild steals o’er theeAt their fragrant scent elysian.

But thou from those flow’rs art partedBy a gulf both deep and fearful;Thou becomest sad and tearful,And at last art broken-hearted.

How they glitter! how they lure me!Could I but the gulf pass over!How the secret to discover,And a bridge across procure me?

Thou hast call’d me forth from out of the graveBy means of thy magic will now,And fill’d me full of love’s fierce glow—This glow thou never canst still now.O press thy mouth against my mouth,Man’s breath with heaven is scented;Thy very soul I’ll drain to the dregs,The dead are never contented.

Thou hast call’d me forth from out of the graveBy means of thy magic will now,And fill’d me full of love’s fierce glow—This glow thou never canst still now.

O press thy mouth against my mouth,Man’s breath with heaven is scented;Thy very soul I’ll drain to the dregs,The dead are never contented.

The flowerets sweet are crush’d by the feetFull soon, and perish despairing;One passes by, and they must die,The modest as well as the daring.The pearls all sleep in the caves of the deep,Where one finds them, despite wind and weatherA hole is soon bored and they’re strung on a cord,And there fast yoked together.The stars are more wise, and keep in the skies,And hold the earth at a distance;They shed their light in the heavens so bright,In safe and endless existence.

The flowerets sweet are crush’d by the feetFull soon, and perish despairing;One passes by, and they must die,The modest as well as the daring.

The pearls all sleep in the caves of the deep,Where one finds them, despite wind and weatherA hole is soon bored and they’re strung on a cord,And there fast yoked together.

The stars are more wise, and keep in the skies,And hold the earth at a distance;They shed their light in the heavens so bright,In safe and endless existence.

Faithless as Saint Thomas, neverCould I in the heaven believeWhich both Jew and Priest endeavourTo compel men to receive.That the angels, though, are realI have never held in doubt;Spotless, and of grace ideal,On this earth they move about.Still I doubt if such a beingWing’d is, it must be confess’d;I have recently been seeingWingless angels, I protest.With their dear and loving glancesWith their loving hands so whiteMen they guard, and all advancesOf misfortune put to flight.Every one can comfort borrowFrom their favour and regard;Most of all that child of sorrowWhom the people call a bard.

Faithless as Saint Thomas, neverCould I in the heaven believeWhich both Jew and Priest endeavourTo compel men to receive.

That the angels, though, are realI have never held in doubt;Spotless, and of grace ideal,On this earth they move about.

Still I doubt if such a beingWing’d is, it must be confess’d;I have recently been seeingWingless angels, I protest.

With their dear and loving glancesWith their loving hands so whiteMen they guard, and all advancesOf misfortune put to flight.

Every one can comfort borrowFrom their favour and regard;Most of all that child of sorrowWhom the people call a bard.

Quick, beat the drum, and be not afraid,The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss;This is the whole of knowledge, in truth,The deepest book-learning lies in this.Quick, drum the people out of their sleep,And drum the réveille with the ardour of youth,And as you march, continue to drum—This is the whole of knowledge, in truth.All Hegel’s philosophy here is found,The deepest book-learning lies in this;I’ve found it out, because I’m no fool,And also because I drum not amiss.

Quick, beat the drum, and be not afraid,The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss;This is the whole of knowledge, in truth,The deepest book-learning lies in this.

Quick, drum the people out of their sleep,And drum the réveille with the ardour of youth,And as you march, continue to drum—This is the whole of knowledge, in truth.

All Hegel’s philosophy here is found,The deepest book-learning lies in this;I’ve found it out, because I’m no fool,And also because I drum not amiss.

Gendarmes of heaven with flaming swordsThou sent’st in cruel fashion,And drov’st me out of ParadiseWithout the least compassion.In search of another country, IAnd my wife from Eden hasted;Thou canst not alter the fact that thereThe tree of knowledge I tasted.Thou canst not alter the fact that I knowThy weakness and many blunders,However mighty thou seemest to beWhen wielding death and thunders.O heavens, how pitiful is thisConsilium abeundi!I call it a MagnificusOf earth, a Lumen Mundi.I shall not miss the spacious realmsOf Paradise one minute.It is no genuine ParadiseWhen trees forbidden are in it.I claim my full unfetter’d rights!The slightest limitationChanges my Paradise at onceTo hell and desolation.

Gendarmes of heaven with flaming swordsThou sent’st in cruel fashion,And drov’st me out of ParadiseWithout the least compassion.

In search of another country, IAnd my wife from Eden hasted;Thou canst not alter the fact that thereThe tree of knowledge I tasted.

Thou canst not alter the fact that I knowThy weakness and many blunders,However mighty thou seemest to beWhen wielding death and thunders.

O heavens, how pitiful is thisConsilium abeundi!I call it a MagnificusOf earth, a Lumen Mundi.

I shall not miss the spacious realmsOf Paradise one minute.It is no genuine ParadiseWhen trees forbidden are in it.

I claim my full unfetter’d rights!The slightest limitationChanges my Paradise at onceTo hell and desolation.

Worthy friend, ’twill be perditionBooks like this to think of printing!Wouldst thou money earn or honourThou must bend in meek submission.Never in this manner flightyShouldest thou before the publicThus have spoken of the parsonsAnd of monarchs high and mighty!Friend, thou’lt be by all forsaken!Princes have long arms, the parsonsHave long tongues, and then the publicHave long ears, or I’m mistaken!

Worthy friend, ’twill be perditionBooks like this to think of printing!Wouldst thou money earn or honourThou must bend in meek submission.

Never in this manner flightyShouldest thou before the publicThus have spoken of the parsonsAnd of monarchs high and mighty!

Friend, thou’lt be by all forsaken!Princes have long arms, the parsonsHave long tongues, and then the publicHave long ears, or I’m mistaken!

Hast thou, then, superior risenTo the chilly dream of gloryWhich great Weimar’s poet hoaryWove around thee, like a prison?Are thy old friends bores now voted?—Clara, Gretchen,—names familiar,—Serlo’s chaste maid, and OttiliaIn the “Wahlverwandschaft” noted?Thou’rt with Germany enchanted,Art become a Mignon-hater,And thou seek’st for freedom greaterThan Philina ever granted.Like a Luneburgomaster,Thou dost battle for the nation,Holding up to execrationKings, as causing all disaster.And I hear with pleasure hearty,What a pitch thy praises grow to,And how thou’rt a Mirabeau, too,At each Luneburg tea-party!

Hast thou, then, superior risenTo the chilly dream of gloryWhich great Weimar’s poet hoaryWove around thee, like a prison?

Are thy old friends bores now voted?—Clara, Gretchen,—names familiar,—Serlo’s chaste maid, and OttiliaIn the “Wahlverwandschaft” noted?

Thou’rt with Germany enchanted,Art become a Mignon-hater,And thou seek’st for freedom greaterThan Philina ever granted.

Like a Luneburgomaster,Thou dost battle for the nation,Holding up to execrationKings, as causing all disaster.

And I hear with pleasure hearty,What a pitch thy praises grow to,And how thou’rt a Mirabeau, too,At each Luneburg tea-party!

We sigh not, and the eye’s not moisten’d,We laugh at times, we often smile;In not a look, in not a gestureThe secret comes to light the while.Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden,It lies in silent misery;If in our wild heart it finds language,The mouth’s still closed convulsively.Ask of the suckling in the cradle,Ask of the dead man in the grave;They may perchance disclose the secretTo which I never utt’rance gave.

We sigh not, and the eye’s not moisten’d,We laugh at times, we often smile;In not a look, in not a gestureThe secret comes to light the while.

Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden,It lies in silent misery;If in our wild heart it finds language,The mouth’s still closed convulsively.

Ask of the suckling in the cradle,Ask of the dead man in the grave;They may perchance disclose the secretTo which I never utt’rance gave.

“Good watchman with face so sad and despairing,“Why runnest thou hither with headlong speed?“My dear fellow-countrymen, how are they faring?“My fatherland, is it from tyranny freed?”All’s going on well, and liberty’s blessingIs showering silently on us its stores,And Germany, calmly and safely progressing,Unfolds and develops herself within doors.Unlike France, superficial are none of her blossoms,—Therefreedom but touches the outside of life;’Tis but in the depths of their innermost bosomsThat freedom with Germans is found to be rife.They’ll finish Cologne’s great cathedral, they tell us,The Hohenzollerns[A] have brought this to pass;A Hapsburg[A] has shown himself equally zealous,A Wittelsbach[14]gives it some fine painted glass.That true Magna Charta, a free constitution,They’ve promised, and surely their promise they’ll keep;A king’s word’s a prize, without circumlocution,—Like the Nibelung stone in the Rhine it lies deep.The Brutus of rivers, the free Rhine, they surelyCan never remove him from out of his bed;The Dutchman his feet have fasten’d securely,The Switzers securely are holding his head.God will grant us a fleet, if we prove persevering;Our patriotic exuberant strengthWill find a vent in sailing and steering,The pain of imprisonment ending at length.The seeds cast their shells and the spring’s blooming sweetly,We draw a free breath at this time of the year;If permission to print is denied us completely,The censorship will of itself disappear.

“Good watchman with face so sad and despairing,“Why runnest thou hither with headlong speed?“My dear fellow-countrymen, how are they faring?“My fatherland, is it from tyranny freed?”

All’s going on well, and liberty’s blessingIs showering silently on us its stores,And Germany, calmly and safely progressing,Unfolds and develops herself within doors.

Unlike France, superficial are none of her blossoms,—Therefreedom but touches the outside of life;’Tis but in the depths of their innermost bosomsThat freedom with Germans is found to be rife.

They’ll finish Cologne’s great cathedral, they tell us,The Hohenzollerns[A] have brought this to pass;A Hapsburg[A] has shown himself equally zealous,A Wittelsbach[14]gives it some fine painted glass.

That true Magna Charta, a free constitution,They’ve promised, and surely their promise they’ll keep;A king’s word’s a prize, without circumlocution,—Like the Nibelung stone in the Rhine it lies deep.

The Brutus of rivers, the free Rhine, they surelyCan never remove him from out of his bed;The Dutchman his feet have fasten’d securely,The Switzers securely are holding his head.

God will grant us a fleet, if we prove persevering;Our patriotic exuberant strengthWill find a vent in sailing and steering,The pain of imprisonment ending at length.

The seeds cast their shells and the spring’s blooming sweetly,We draw a free breath at this time of the year;If permission to print is denied us completely,The censorship will of itself disappear.

The old drum-major it is that we see;Poor fellow, he’s pull’d down sadly!In the Emperor’s time a youngster was he,And merrily lived and gladly.He used to balance his ponderous stick,While a smile on his face play’d lightly;The silver-lace on his tunic so thickIn the rays of the sun gleam’d brightly.Whene’er with a mighty roll of the drumHe enter’d a village or city,He caused an echo responsive to comeIn the heart of each girl, plain or pretty.He came and saw and conquer’d tooEach fair one welcomed him in;His black moustache was wetted throughWith tears of German women.Resistance was vain! In every landThat the foreign invaders came to,The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, andThe drum-major each maiden and dame too.Our sorrows full long we patiently boreLike oaks, with no one to heed ’em,Until the Authorities gave us once moreThe signal to battle for freedom.Like buffaloes rushing on to the fray,We toss’d our horns up proudly,The yoke of France we cast away,The songs of Körner sang loudly.O terrible verses! the tyrant’s earAt their awful sound revolted;The Emperor and the drum-major in fearPrecipitately bolted.They both of them reap’d the wages of sin,And came to an end inglorious;The Emperor Napoleon tumbled inThe hands of the Britons victorious.In Saint Helena his time he now pass’dIn martyrdom, banish’d from France, Sir,And, after long suff’ring, died at lastOf that terrible ailment cancer.The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace,And lost his situation;In our hotel he took the placeOf boots,—what degradation!He warms the oven, he scours the pots,And wood and water fetches;His grey head wags as he wheezingly trotsUp the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himselfInclined to jeer and rallyThe comical lanky poor old elfAnd his motions shilly-shally.O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please!The sons of Germany neverShould fallen greatness love to tease,Or to torment endeavour.Such people you ought to regard with prideAnd filial piety rather;Perchance upon the mother’s sideThe old man is your father!

The old drum-major it is that we see;Poor fellow, he’s pull’d down sadly!In the Emperor’s time a youngster was he,And merrily lived and gladly.

He used to balance his ponderous stick,While a smile on his face play’d lightly;The silver-lace on his tunic so thickIn the rays of the sun gleam’d brightly.

Whene’er with a mighty roll of the drumHe enter’d a village or city,He caused an echo responsive to comeIn the heart of each girl, plain or pretty.

He came and saw and conquer’d tooEach fair one welcomed him in;His black moustache was wetted throughWith tears of German women.

Resistance was vain! In every landThat the foreign invaders came to,The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, andThe drum-major each maiden and dame too.

Our sorrows full long we patiently boreLike oaks, with no one to heed ’em,Until the Authorities gave us once moreThe signal to battle for freedom.

Like buffaloes rushing on to the fray,We toss’d our horns up proudly,The yoke of France we cast away,The songs of Körner sang loudly.

O terrible verses! the tyrant’s earAt their awful sound revolted;The Emperor and the drum-major in fearPrecipitately bolted.

They both of them reap’d the wages of sin,And came to an end inglorious;The Emperor Napoleon tumbled inThe hands of the Britons victorious.

In Saint Helena his time he now pass’dIn martyrdom, banish’d from France, Sir,And, after long suff’ring, died at lastOf that terrible ailment cancer.

The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace,And lost his situation;In our hotel he took the placeOf boots,—what degradation!

He warms the oven, he scours the pots,And wood and water fetches;His grey head wags as he wheezingly trotsUp the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.

When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himselfInclined to jeer and rallyThe comical lanky poor old elfAnd his motions shilly-shally.

O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please!The sons of Germany neverShould fallen greatness love to tease,Or to torment endeavour.

Such people you ought to regard with prideAnd filial piety rather;Perchance upon the mother’s sideThe old man is your father!

Has Nature’s self been going backward,And human faults assuming, then?The very plants and beasts, I fancy,Now lie as much as mortal men.I trust not in the lily’s chasteness;The colour’d fop, the butterfly,Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters,Till lost is all her purity.The violet’s modesty moreoverI hold full cheap. The little flowerWith the coquettish breezes trifles,In secret pants for fame and power.I doubt if Philomel appreciatesThe time she sings with pompous mien;She overdoes it, sobs, and warblesMethinks from nought but pure routine.Truth from the earth is fast departing,The days of Faith are also o’er;The dogs still wag their tails, smell bullyAnd yet are faithful now no more.

Has Nature’s self been going backward,And human faults assuming, then?The very plants and beasts, I fancy,Now lie as much as mortal men.

I trust not in the lily’s chasteness;The colour’d fop, the butterfly,Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters,Till lost is all her purity.

The violet’s modesty moreoverI hold full cheap. The little flowerWith the coquettish breezes trifles,In secret pants for fame and power.

I doubt if Philomel appreciatesThe time she sings with pompous mien;She overdoes it, sobs, and warblesMethinks from nought but pure routine.

Truth from the earth is fast departing,The days of Faith are also o’er;The dogs still wag their tails, smell bullyAnd yet are faithful now no more.

In Canossa’s castle courtyardStands the German Cæsar Henry,Barefoot, clad in penitentialShirt—the night is cold and rainy.From the window high above himPeep two figures, and the moonlightGregory’s bald head illuminesAnd the bosom of Mathilda.Henry, with his lips all pallid,Murmurs pious paternosters;Yet in his imperial heart heSecretly revolts and speaks thus:“In my distant German country“Upward rise the sturdy mountains;“In the mountain-pits in silence“Grows the iron for the war-axe.“In my distant German country“Upward rise the fine oak-forests;“In the loftiest oak-stem ’mongst them“Grows the handle for the war-axe.“Thou, my dear and faithful country,“Wilt beget the hero also“Who in time will crush the serpent“Of my sorrows with his war-axe.”

In Canossa’s castle courtyardStands the German Cæsar Henry,Barefoot, clad in penitentialShirt—the night is cold and rainy.

From the window high above himPeep two figures, and the moonlightGregory’s bald head illuminesAnd the bosom of Mathilda.

Henry, with his lips all pallid,Murmurs pious paternosters;Yet in his imperial heart heSecretly revolts and speaks thus:

“In my distant German country“Upward rise the sturdy mountains;“In the mountain-pits in silence“Grows the iron for the war-axe.

“In my distant German country“Upward rise the fine oak-forests;“In the loftiest oak-stem ’mongst them“Grows the handle for the war-axe.

“Thou, my dear and faithful country,“Wilt beget the hero also“Who in time will crush the serpent“Of my sorrows with his war-axe.”

What laughter and singing! The sun’s rays crossingEach other gleam brightly; the billows are tossingThe joyous bark, and there I reclinedWith friends beloved and lightsome mind.The bark was presently wreck’d and shatter’d,My friends were poor swimmers, and soon were scatter’d,And all were drown’d, in our fatherland;Iwas thrown by the storm on the Seine’s far strand.Another ship I now ascended,My journey by new companions attended;By strange waves toss’d and rock’d, I depart—How far my home! how heavy my heart!Once more arises that singing and laughter!The wind pipes loud, the planks crack soon after—In heaven is quench’d the last last star—How heavy my heart! My home how far!

What laughter and singing! The sun’s rays crossingEach other gleam brightly; the billows are tossingThe joyous bark, and there I reclinedWith friends beloved and lightsome mind.

The bark was presently wreck’d and shatter’d,My friends were poor swimmers, and soon were scatter’d,And all were drown’d, in our fatherland;Iwas thrown by the storm on the Seine’s far strand.

Another ship I now ascended,My journey by new companions attended;By strange waves toss’d and rock’d, I depart—How far my home! how heavy my heart!

Once more arises that singing and laughter!The wind pipes loud, the planks crack soon after—In heaven is quench’d the last last star—How heavy my heart! My home how far!

A hospital for Jews who’re sick and needy,For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow,Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunesOf poverty, disease, and Judaism.The worst by far of all the three the last is,That family misfortune, thousand years old,That plague which had its birth in Nile’s far valley,The old Egyptian and unsound religion.Incurable deep pain! ’gainst which avail notNor douche nor vapour-bath, the apparatusOf surgery, nor all the means of healingWhich this house offers to its sickly inmates.Will Time, eternal goddess, e’er extinguishThis glowing ill, descending from the fatherUpon the son,—and will the grandson everBe cured, and rational become and happy?I cannot tell! Yet in the meantime let usExtol that heart which lovingly and wiselySought to alleviate pain as far as may be,Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring.Dear worthy man! He here has built a refugeFor sorrows which by the physician’s science(Or else by death’s!) are curable, providingCushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and nurses.A man of deeds, he did his very utmost,Devoted to good works his hard-earned savingsIn his life’s evening, kindly and humanely,Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy.He gave with open hand—but gifts still richer,His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling,Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploringHis brethren’s great, incurable misfortune.

A hospital for Jews who’re sick and needy,For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow,Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunesOf poverty, disease, and Judaism.

The worst by far of all the three the last is,That family misfortune, thousand years old,That plague which had its birth in Nile’s far valley,The old Egyptian and unsound religion.

Incurable deep pain! ’gainst which avail notNor douche nor vapour-bath, the apparatusOf surgery, nor all the means of healingWhich this house offers to its sickly inmates.

Will Time, eternal goddess, e’er extinguishThis glowing ill, descending from the fatherUpon the son,—and will the grandson everBe cured, and rational become and happy?

I cannot tell! Yet in the meantime let usExtol that heart which lovingly and wiselySought to alleviate pain as far as may be,Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring.

Dear worthy man! He here has built a refugeFor sorrows which by the physician’s science(Or else by death’s!) are curable, providingCushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and nurses.

A man of deeds, he did his very utmost,Devoted to good works his hard-earned savingsIn his life’s evening, kindly and humanely,Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy.

He gave with open hand—but gifts still richer,His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling,Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploringHis brethren’s great, incurable misfortune.

When Germany first drank her fill,You then were her obedient vassal,Believing in each pipe-bowl still,And in its black-red-golden tassel.But when the fond delirium ceased,Good friend, how great your consternation!The public seem’d a very beast,After its sweet intoxication!Pelted by vile abusive swarmsWith rotten apples, in disorder,Under an escort of gendarmesYou reach’d at length the German border.There you stood still. A tear you wipedAway, the well-known posts on spyingWhich like the zebra’s back are striped,With heavy heart as follows sighing:—“Aranjuez, in lightsome mood“Once stay’d I in thy halls so splendid,“When I before King Philip stood,“By all his proud grandees attended.“He gave me an approving smile“When I the Marquis Posa acted;“My prose he could not relish, while“My verses his applause attracted.”[17]

When Germany first drank her fill,You then were her obedient vassal,Believing in each pipe-bowl still,And in its black-red-golden tassel.

But when the fond delirium ceased,Good friend, how great your consternation!The public seem’d a very beast,After its sweet intoxication!

Pelted by vile abusive swarmsWith rotten apples, in disorder,Under an escort of gendarmesYou reach’d at length the German border.

There you stood still. A tear you wipedAway, the well-known posts on spyingWhich like the zebra’s back are striped,With heavy heart as follows sighing:—

“Aranjuez, in lightsome mood“Once stay’d I in thy halls so splendid,“When I before King Philip stood,“By all his proud grandees attended.

“He gave me an approving smile“When I the Marquis Posa acted;“My prose he could not relish, while“My verses his applause attracted.”[17]

German bard! extol our gloriousGerman freedom, that thy layMay possess our souls, and fire us,And to mighty deeds inspire us,Like the Marseillaise notorious.Be no more, like Werther, tender,Who for Lotte sigh’d all day;Thou shouldst tell the people proudlyWhat the bells proclaim so loudly,—Speak of dirks, swords, no surrender.Gentle flutes no more resemble,Be not so idyllic, pray!Fire the mortars, beat to quarters,Crash, kill, thunder, make them tremble.Crash, kill, thunder like a devilTill the last foe flies away;To this cause devote thy singing,Thy poetic efforts bringingTo the common public’s level.

German bard! extol our gloriousGerman freedom, that thy layMay possess our souls, and fire us,And to mighty deeds inspire us,Like the Marseillaise notorious.

Be no more, like Werther, tender,Who for Lotte sigh’d all day;Thou shouldst tell the people proudlyWhat the bells proclaim so loudly,—Speak of dirks, swords, no surrender.

Gentle flutes no more resemble,Be not so idyllic, pray!Fire the mortars, beat to quarters,Crash, kill, thunder, make them tremble.

Crash, kill, thunder like a devilTill the last foe flies away;To this cause devote thy singing,Thy poetic efforts bringingTo the common public’s level.

The good their gifts in dream enjoy,How did it fare with thee?Scarce feeling it, you’ve got a boy,Poor virgin Germany!This boy an urchin frolicsomeEre long shall we behold;A first-rate archer he’ll become,As Cupid was of old.He’ll pierce the soaring eagle through;And, proudly though he fly,The double-headed eagle tooStruck by his bolt, shall die.But that blind heathen God of loveWill he resemble notIn wearing neither clothes nor glove,Nor be a sans-culotte.The seasons in our land combineWith morals and policeTo make both old and young inclineTo wear their clothes in peace.

The good their gifts in dream enjoy,How did it fare with thee?Scarce feeling it, you’ve got a boy,Poor virgin Germany!

This boy an urchin frolicsomeEre long shall we behold;A first-rate archer he’ll become,As Cupid was of old.

He’ll pierce the soaring eagle through;And, proudly though he fly,The double-headed eagle tooStruck by his bolt, shall die.

But that blind heathen God of loveWill he resemble notIn wearing neither clothes nor glove,Nor be a sans-culotte.

The seasons in our land combineWith morals and policeTo make both old and young inclineTo wear their clothes in peace.

You no more shall barefoot crawl soThrough the dirt, poor German freedom!Stockings (as you find you need ’em)You shall have, and stout boots also.As respects your head, upon itTo protect your ears from freezin’In the chilly winter-seasonYou shall have a nice warm bonnet.You shall have, too, savoury messes—Grand the future that’s before you!Let no Satyr, I implore you,Lure you onward to excesses!Do not haste on fast and faster!Render, as becomes inferiors,Due respect to your superiorsAnd the worthy burgomaster.

You no more shall barefoot crawl soThrough the dirt, poor German freedom!Stockings (as you find you need ’em)You shall have, and stout boots also.

As respects your head, upon itTo protect your ears from freezin’In the chilly winter-seasonYou shall have a nice warm bonnet.

You shall have, too, savoury messes—Grand the future that’s before you!Let no Satyr, I implore you,Lure you onward to excesses!

Do not haste on fast and faster!Render, as becomes inferiors,Due respect to your superiorsAnd the worthy burgomaster.

A child with monstrous pumpkin head,Grey pigtail, and moustache light red,With lanky arms and yet stupendous,No bowels, yet with maw tremendous,—A changeling which a CorporalInto our cradle had let fallOn stealing from it our own baby—This monster, falsehood’s child, (or may be’Twas in reality the sonOf his own favourite dog alone)—What need to say how much we spurn it?For heaven’s sake, drown it or else burn it!

My father was a dreadful bore,A good-for-nothing dandy;But I’m a mighty Emperor,And love a bumper of brandy.These glorious draughts all others surpassIn this, their magical power:As soon as I have drain’d my glass,All China bursts into flower.The Middle Kingdom bursts into life,A blossoming meadow seeming;A man I wellnigh become, and my wifeSoon gives me signs of teeming.On every side abundance reigns,The sick no longer need potions;Confucius, Court-philosopher, gainsDistinct and positive notions.The ryebread the soldiers used to eatOf almond cakes is made now;The very vagabonds in the streetIn silk and satin parade now.The knightly Order of Mandarins,Those weak old invalids, dailyAre gaining strength and filling their skins,And shaking their pigtails gaily.The great pagoda, faith’s symbol prized,Is ready for those who’re believing;The last of the Jews are here baptized,The Dragon’s order receiving.The noble Manchoos exclaim, when freedFrom the presence of revolution:“The bastinado is all that we need,“We want no constitution!”The pupils of Æsculapius perhapsMay tell me that drink’s dissipation;But I continue to drink my Schnaps,To benefit the nation.And so in drinking I persevere;It tastes like very manna!My people are happy, and drink their beerAnd join in shouting Hosanna!

My father was a dreadful bore,A good-for-nothing dandy;But I’m a mighty Emperor,And love a bumper of brandy.

These glorious draughts all others surpassIn this, their magical power:As soon as I have drain’d my glass,All China bursts into flower.

The Middle Kingdom bursts into life,A blossoming meadow seeming;A man I wellnigh become, and my wifeSoon gives me signs of teeming.

On every side abundance reigns,The sick no longer need potions;Confucius, Court-philosopher, gainsDistinct and positive notions.

The ryebread the soldiers used to eatOf almond cakes is made now;The very vagabonds in the streetIn silk and satin parade now.

The knightly Order of Mandarins,Those weak old invalids, dailyAre gaining strength and filling their skins,And shaking their pigtails gaily.

The great pagoda, faith’s symbol prized,Is ready for those who’re believing;The last of the Jews are here baptized,The Dragon’s order receiving.

The noble Manchoos exclaim, when freedFrom the presence of revolution:“The bastinado is all that we need,“We want no constitution!”

The pupils of Æsculapius perhapsMay tell me that drink’s dissipation;But I continue to drink my Schnaps,To benefit the nation.

And so in drinking I persevere;It tastes like very manna!My people are happy, and drink their beerAnd join in shouting Hosanna!

Good Sir Paulus,[19]noble robber,All the gods are on thee gazingWith their brows in anger knitted,Furious at the theft amazingThou hast practised in Olympus—Sorry for it they will make thee!Fear the fate of poor PrometheusIf Jove’s bailiffs overtake thee!Worse indeed his theft, because heStole the light in heaven dwellingTo enlighten us weak mortals—Thoudidst steal the works of Schelling,Just the opposite of light,—nay,Darkness we can feel and handleLike the old Egyptian darkness,—Not one solitary candle!

If heart and style remain still true,I’ll not object, whatever you do.My friend, I never will mistake you,E’en though a Counsellor they make you.They now are raising a terrible dinBecause you’ve been sworn as a Counsellor in;From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason,For months they’ve declaim’d thus against your sad treason:His progress onward is changed of lateTo progress backward; O, answer us straight—On Swabian crabs are you really riding?Is’t only court-ladies you now take pride in?Perchance you are tired, and long for rest;All night on your horn you’ve been blowing your bestAnd now on a nail you quietly stow it;No longer for Germany’s hobby you’ll blow it.You lie down in bed, and straightway closeYour eyes, but vainly you seek for repose;Before the window the mockers salute us:Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus?Ah, bawlers like these can never know whyThe best of watchmen ceases to cry;These young braggadocios cannot discoverWhy man his exertions at length gives over.You ask me how matters are going on here?No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere’s clear;The weathercocks all are perplex’d, not discerningThe proper direction in which to be turning.

If heart and style remain still true,I’ll not object, whatever you do.My friend, I never will mistake you,E’en though a Counsellor they make you.

They now are raising a terrible dinBecause you’ve been sworn as a Counsellor in;From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason,For months they’ve declaim’d thus against your sad treason:

His progress onward is changed of lateTo progress backward; O, answer us straight—On Swabian crabs are you really riding?Is’t only court-ladies you now take pride in?

Perchance you are tired, and long for rest;All night on your horn you’ve been blowing your bestAnd now on a nail you quietly stow it;No longer for Germany’s hobby you’ll blow it.

You lie down in bed, and straightway closeYour eyes, but vainly you seek for repose;Before the window the mockers salute us:Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus?

Ah, bawlers like these can never know whyThe best of watchmen ceases to cry;These young braggadocios cannot discoverWhy man his exertions at length gives over.

You ask me how matters are going on here?No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere’s clear;The weathercocks all are perplex’d, not discerningThe proper direction in which to be turning.

We sleep as Brutus slept of yore,—And yet he awoke, and ventured to boreIn Cæsar’s bosom his chilly dagger!The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.—No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke,Each nation its favourite taste can invoke;Each nation its special merit possesses—The finest dumplings Swabia dresses.But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave,We sleep as soundly as though in the grave;And when we awake, our thirst is excessive,But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive.’Tis our great pride to be as trueAs heart of oak and linden too;The land which oaks and lindens gives birth toCan never produce a Brutus of worth too.And e’en if amongst us a Brutus were found,No Cæsar exists in the country round;Despite all his search, he would find him never,—We make good gingerbread however.We’ve six-and-thirty masters and lords,(Not one too many!) who wear their swordsAnd stars on their regal breasts to protect them;The Ides of March can never affect them.We call them Father, and FatherlandWe call the country they commandBy right of descent, and love to call so—We love sour-crout and sausages also.And when our Father walks in the streetWe take off our hats with reverence meet;Our guileless Germany, injuring no man,Is not a den of murderers Roman.

We sleep as Brutus slept of yore,—And yet he awoke, and ventured to boreIn Cæsar’s bosom his chilly dagger!The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.—

No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke,Each nation its favourite taste can invoke;Each nation its special merit possesses—The finest dumplings Swabia dresses.

But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave,We sleep as soundly as though in the grave;And when we awake, our thirst is excessive,But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive.

’Tis our great pride to be as trueAs heart of oak and linden too;The land which oaks and lindens gives birth toCan never produce a Brutus of worth too.

And e’en if amongst us a Brutus were found,No Cæsar exists in the country round;Despite all his search, he would find him never,—We make good gingerbread however.

We’ve six-and-thirty masters and lords,(Not one too many!) who wear their swordsAnd stars on their regal breasts to protect them;The Ides of March can never affect them.

We call them Father, and FatherlandWe call the country they commandBy right of descent, and love to call so—We love sour-crout and sausages also.

And when our Father walks in the streetWe take off our hats with reverence meet;Our guileless Germany, injuring no man,Is not a den of murderers Roman.

The world is topsy-turvy turn’d,We walk feet-upwards in it;The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down,A dozen in a minute.The calves are seen to roast the cook,On men are riding the horses;On freedom of teaching and laws of lightThe Catholic owl discourses.The herring is a sans-culotte,The truth is told by Bettina,And puss-in-boots brings SophoclesOn the stage, with learned demeanour.An ape for German heroes has builtA Pantheon, for glory zealous;[20]And Massmann has lately been using a comb,As German papers tell us.The German bears, I grieve to say,Are atheists unbelieving,And in their place the parrots of FranceThe Christian faith are receiving.The Moniteur of UckermarkWith equal frenzy seems smitten;The dead have on the living thereThe vilest epitaph written.[21]Then let us not swim against the stream,Good friends! ’twould serve us but badly;But let us ascend the Templehof hill,[22]“Long life to the king!” shouting gladly.

The world is topsy-turvy turn’d,We walk feet-upwards in it;The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down,A dozen in a minute.

The calves are seen to roast the cook,On men are riding the horses;On freedom of teaching and laws of lightThe Catholic owl discourses.

The herring is a sans-culotte,The truth is told by Bettina,And puss-in-boots brings SophoclesOn the stage, with learned demeanour.

An ape for German heroes has builtA Pantheon, for glory zealous;[20]And Massmann has lately been using a comb,As German papers tell us.

The German bears, I grieve to say,Are atheists unbelieving,And in their place the parrots of FranceThe Christian faith are receiving.

The Moniteur of UckermarkWith equal frenzy seems smitten;The dead have on the living thereThe vilest epitaph written.[21]

Then let us not swim against the stream,Good friends! ’twould serve us but badly;But let us ascend the Templehof hill,[22]“Long life to the king!” shouting gladly.

Have the scales that dimm’d thy visionFallen, Michael? Canst thou seeHow they’re stealing in derisionAll the choicest food from thee?In return, divine enjoymentPromise they in realms above,Where the angels’ sole employmentIs to cook us fleshless love.Michael, hath thy faith grown weaker,Or thy appetite more strong?Thou dost grasp life’s sparkling beaker,And thou sing’st a hero-song.Fear not, Michael! take thy pleasureWhile on earth, and eat what’s good;When thou’rt dead, thou’lt have full leisureTo digest in peace thy food.

Have the scales that dimm’d thy visionFallen, Michael? Canst thou seeHow they’re stealing in derisionAll the choicest food from thee?

In return, divine enjoymentPromise they in realms above,Where the angels’ sole employmentIs to cook us fleshless love.

Michael, hath thy faith grown weaker,Or thy appetite more strong?Thou dost grasp life’s sparkling beaker,And thou sing’st a hero-song.

Fear not, Michael! take thy pleasureWhile on earth, and eat what’s good;When thou’rt dead, thou’lt have full leisureTo digest in peace thy food.

Because my lightnings are so striking,You think that I can’t thunder too!You’re wrong, for I’ve a special likingFor thunder, as I’ll prove to you.This will be seen with awful clearnessWhen the right moment is at hand;You’ll hear my voice in startling nearness,—The word of thunder and command.The raging storm will surely shiverFull many an oak upon that day;Each palace to its base shall quiver,And many a steeple proud give way.

Because my lightnings are so striking,You think that I can’t thunder too!You’re wrong, for I’ve a special likingFor thunder, as I’ll prove to you.

This will be seen with awful clearnessWhen the right moment is at hand;You’ll hear my voice in startling nearness,—The word of thunder and command.

The raging storm will surely shiverFull many an oak upon that day;Each palace to its base shall quiver,And many a steeple proud give way.

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