From Cologne to Hagen it costs to postFive Prussian dollars, six groschen;The diligence chanced to be full, so I cameIn a chaise, though rough was the motion.’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and greyThe coach in the mud groan’d sadly;Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheekCould bear no other construction;The very dirt in the highway itselfIs my fatherland’s production!The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends,As they went along in a canter;Their very dung appear’d to me fairAs the apples of Atalanta!We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dullAnd busy, the town far from dirty;I last was there in the merry monthOf May, in the year one and thirty.All things then stood in blooming attire,And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;The birds were singing their yearning song,While the men were hoping and thinking.Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights“Will depart from amongst us shortly;“Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks“Of iron, in fashion not courtly!“And freedom shall come with sport and with dance,“With the banner, the white-blue-red one;“Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave“E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”Alas! the knights remain as before;More than one of those fools so deridedWho enter’d the country as thin as a lathAre now with fat bellies provided.The pallid canaille, who used to lookThe pictures of faith, hope, charity,Have got red noses by tippling our wineWith the utmost regularity.And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lostFor springing and raving all power;In Paris itself the tricolour flagLooks mournfully down from each tower.The Emperor truly arose again,Yet the English, fearing a riot,Converted him into a peaceable man,And he let them inter him in quiet.Yes, I myself his funeral saw,The golden carriage so splendid,And victory’s golden goddesses,Who the golden coffin attended.Along the famous Champs Elysées,Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,Across the mist and over the snowThe procession wended sedately.The music was painful and out of tune,And frozen was every musician;The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d downUpon me in woeful condition.In ghostly fashion the men all appear’d,All lost in old recollections,—The wondrous imperial dream revived,Awakening olden affections.I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes,And down my cheeks fast fleeted,When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shoutOf “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.
From Cologne to Hagen it costs to postFive Prussian dollars, six groschen;The diligence chanced to be full, so I cameIn a chaise, though rough was the motion.’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and greyThe coach in the mud groan’d sadly;Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheekCould bear no other construction;The very dirt in the highway itselfIs my fatherland’s production!The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends,As they went along in a canter;Their very dung appear’d to me fairAs the apples of Atalanta!We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dullAnd busy, the town far from dirty;I last was there in the merry monthOf May, in the year one and thirty.All things then stood in blooming attire,And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;The birds were singing their yearning song,While the men were hoping and thinking.Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights“Will depart from amongst us shortly;“Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks“Of iron, in fashion not courtly!“And freedom shall come with sport and with dance,“With the banner, the white-blue-red one;“Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave“E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”Alas! the knights remain as before;More than one of those fools so deridedWho enter’d the country as thin as a lathAre now with fat bellies provided.The pallid canaille, who used to lookThe pictures of faith, hope, charity,Have got red noses by tippling our wineWith the utmost regularity.And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lostFor springing and raving all power;In Paris itself the tricolour flagLooks mournfully down from each tower.The Emperor truly arose again,Yet the English, fearing a riot,Converted him into a peaceable man,And he let them inter him in quiet.Yes, I myself his funeral saw,The golden carriage so splendid,And victory’s golden goddesses,Who the golden coffin attended.Along the famous Champs Elysées,Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,Across the mist and over the snowThe procession wended sedately.The music was painful and out of tune,And frozen was every musician;The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d downUpon me in woeful condition.In ghostly fashion the men all appear’d,All lost in old recollections,—The wondrous imperial dream revived,Awakening olden affections.I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes,And down my cheeks fast fleeted,When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shoutOf “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.
From Cologne to Hagen it costs to postFive Prussian dollars, six groschen;The diligence chanced to be full, so I cameIn a chaise, though rough was the motion.
’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and greyThe coach in the mud groan’d sadly;Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.
’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheekCould bear no other construction;The very dirt in the highway itselfIs my fatherland’s production!
The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends,As they went along in a canter;Their very dung appear’d to me fairAs the apples of Atalanta!
We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dullAnd busy, the town far from dirty;I last was there in the merry monthOf May, in the year one and thirty.
All things then stood in blooming attire,And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;The birds were singing their yearning song,While the men were hoping and thinking.
Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights“Will depart from amongst us shortly;“Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks“Of iron, in fashion not courtly!
“And freedom shall come with sport and with dance,“With the banner, the white-blue-red one;“Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave“E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”
Alas! the knights remain as before;More than one of those fools so deridedWho enter’d the country as thin as a lathAre now with fat bellies provided.
The pallid canaille, who used to lookThe pictures of faith, hope, charity,Have got red noses by tippling our wineWith the utmost regularity.
And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lostFor springing and raving all power;In Paris itself the tricolour flagLooks mournfully down from each tower.
The Emperor truly arose again,Yet the English, fearing a riot,Converted him into a peaceable man,And he let them inter him in quiet.
Yes, I myself his funeral saw,The golden carriage so splendid,And victory’s golden goddesses,Who the golden coffin attended.
Along the famous Champs Elysées,Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,Across the mist and over the snowThe procession wended sedately.
The music was painful and out of tune,And frozen was every musician;The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d downUpon me in woeful condition.
In ghostly fashion the men all appear’d,All lost in old recollections,—The wondrous imperial dream revived,Awakening olden affections.
I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes,And down my cheeks fast fleeted,When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shoutOf “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.
I left Cologne on my onward roadAt a quarter to eight precisely;We got to Hagen at three o’clock,And there had our dinners nicely.The table was cover’d. Here found I allThe old-fashion’d German dishes;All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail,The reward of my utmost wishes!Stuff’d chestnuts all in green cabbages dress’d!My food when I was a baby!All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swimIn the butter as nicely as may be!One’s native country to each fond heartGrows ever dearer and dearer—Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d,Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.How the sausages sang in the spluttering fat.The fieldfares, those very deliciousAnd roasted angels with apple sauce,All warbled a welcome propitious.“Thou’rt welcome, countryman,” warbled they,“Full long hast thou been delaying!“Full long hast thou with foreign birds“In foreign lands been straying!”Upon the table stood also a goose,A silent, kindhearted being;Perchance she loved me in younger days,When our tastes were nearer agreeing.Full of meaning she eyed me, cordial but sad,And fond, like the rest of her gender;She surely possess’d an excellent soul,But her flesh was by no means tender.A boar’s head they also brought in the room,On a pewter dish, for me to guzzle;Theboreswith us are always deck’d outWith laurel leaves round their muzzle.
I left Cologne on my onward roadAt a quarter to eight precisely;We got to Hagen at three o’clock,And there had our dinners nicely.The table was cover’d. Here found I allThe old-fashion’d German dishes;All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail,The reward of my utmost wishes!Stuff’d chestnuts all in green cabbages dress’d!My food when I was a baby!All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swimIn the butter as nicely as may be!One’s native country to each fond heartGrows ever dearer and dearer—Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d,Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.How the sausages sang in the spluttering fat.The fieldfares, those very deliciousAnd roasted angels with apple sauce,All warbled a welcome propitious.“Thou’rt welcome, countryman,” warbled they,“Full long hast thou been delaying!“Full long hast thou with foreign birds“In foreign lands been straying!”Upon the table stood also a goose,A silent, kindhearted being;Perchance she loved me in younger days,When our tastes were nearer agreeing.Full of meaning she eyed me, cordial but sad,And fond, like the rest of her gender;She surely possess’d an excellent soul,But her flesh was by no means tender.A boar’s head they also brought in the room,On a pewter dish, for me to guzzle;Theboreswith us are always deck’d outWith laurel leaves round their muzzle.
I left Cologne on my onward roadAt a quarter to eight precisely;We got to Hagen at three o’clock,And there had our dinners nicely.
The table was cover’d. Here found I allThe old-fashion’d German dishes;All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail,The reward of my utmost wishes!
Stuff’d chestnuts all in green cabbages dress’d!My food when I was a baby!All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swimIn the butter as nicely as may be!
One’s native country to each fond heartGrows ever dearer and dearer—Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d,Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.
How the sausages sang in the spluttering fat.The fieldfares, those very deliciousAnd roasted angels with apple sauce,All warbled a welcome propitious.
“Thou’rt welcome, countryman,” warbled they,“Full long hast thou been delaying!“Full long hast thou with foreign birds“In foreign lands been straying!”
Upon the table stood also a goose,A silent, kindhearted being;Perchance she loved me in younger days,When our tastes were nearer agreeing.
Full of meaning she eyed me, cordial but sad,And fond, like the rest of her gender;She surely possess’d an excellent soul,But her flesh was by no means tender.
A boar’s head they also brought in the room,On a pewter dish, for me to guzzle;Theboreswith us are always deck’d outWith laurel leaves round their muzzle.
On leaving Hagen the night came on,And I felt a chilly sensationInside. At the inn at Unna I firstRecover’d my animation.A pretty maiden found I there,Who pour’d out my punch discreetly;Like yellow silk were her comely locks,Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.Her lisping Westphalian accents I heardWith joy, as she utter’d them clearly;The punch with sweet recollections smoked,I thought of my brethren loved dearly;The dear Westphalians, with whom I oft drankAt Göttingen, while we were able,Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks,And also sank under the table.That loveable, worthy, Westphalian race!I ever have loved it extremely;A nation so firm, so faithful, so true,Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.How proudly they stand, with their lion-like hearts,In the noble science of fencing!Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant,With vigorous arm dispensing.Right well they fight, and right well they drink;When they give thee their hand so gentleTo strike up a friendship, they needs must weep,Like oaks turn’d sentimental.May heaven watch over thee, worthy race,On thy seed shower down benefactions,Preserve thee from war and empty renown,From heroes and heroes’ actions!May it evermore grant to thy excellent sonsAn easy examination,And give thy daughters marriages good,—So Amen to my invocation!
On leaving Hagen the night came on,And I felt a chilly sensationInside. At the inn at Unna I firstRecover’d my animation.A pretty maiden found I there,Who pour’d out my punch discreetly;Like yellow silk were her comely locks,Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.Her lisping Westphalian accents I heardWith joy, as she utter’d them clearly;The punch with sweet recollections smoked,I thought of my brethren loved dearly;The dear Westphalians, with whom I oft drankAt Göttingen, while we were able,Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks,And also sank under the table.That loveable, worthy, Westphalian race!I ever have loved it extremely;A nation so firm, so faithful, so true,Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.How proudly they stand, with their lion-like hearts,In the noble science of fencing!Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant,With vigorous arm dispensing.Right well they fight, and right well they drink;When they give thee their hand so gentleTo strike up a friendship, they needs must weep,Like oaks turn’d sentimental.May heaven watch over thee, worthy race,On thy seed shower down benefactions,Preserve thee from war and empty renown,From heroes and heroes’ actions!May it evermore grant to thy excellent sonsAn easy examination,And give thy daughters marriages good,—So Amen to my invocation!
On leaving Hagen the night came on,And I felt a chilly sensationInside. At the inn at Unna I firstRecover’d my animation.
A pretty maiden found I there,Who pour’d out my punch discreetly;Like yellow silk were her comely locks,Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.
Her lisping Westphalian accents I heardWith joy, as she utter’d them clearly;The punch with sweet recollections smoked,I thought of my brethren loved dearly;
The dear Westphalians, with whom I oft drankAt Göttingen, while we were able,Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks,And also sank under the table.
That loveable, worthy, Westphalian race!I ever have loved it extremely;A nation so firm, so faithful, so true,Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.
How proudly they stand, with their lion-like hearts,In the noble science of fencing!Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant,With vigorous arm dispensing.
Right well they fight, and right well they drink;When they give thee their hand so gentleTo strike up a friendship, they needs must weep,Like oaks turn’d sentimental.
May heaven watch over thee, worthy race,On thy seed shower down benefactions,Preserve thee from war and empty renown,From heroes and heroes’ actions!
May it evermore grant to thy excellent sonsAn easy examination,And give thy daughters marriages good,—So Amen to my invocation!
Behold the wood of Teutoburg,Described in Tacitus’ pages;Behold the classical marsh, whereinStuck Varus, in past ages.Here vanquish’d him the Cheruscian prince,The noble giant, named Hermann;[50]’Twas in this mire that triumph’d firstOur nationality German.Had Hermann with his light-hair’d hordesNot triumph’d here over the foeman,Then German freedom had come to an end,We had each been turn’d to a Roman!Nought but Roman language and manners had nowOur native country ruled over,In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’enAs Quirites have flourish’d in clover!An harúspex had Hengstenberg surely been,And groped about in the bowelsOf oxen; Neander[51]an Augur, and basedOn flights of birds his avowals.Birch-Pfeifer[52]had tippled her turpentine,Like the Roman ladies admired.(’Tis said that they, by its frequent use,A pleasing odour acquired).Friend Raumer[53]had been no German scamp,But a regular Roman Scampatius,And Freiligrath written without using rhyme,Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.The clumsy beggar, Father Jahn,[54]Had then been call’d Clumsianus;Me Hercule! Massmann[55]would Latin have talk’d,As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!The friends of truth, instead of with cursIn the papers, would in the arenaHave had to wage a mortal fightWith the lion, jackal, hyena.One single Nero we now should have had,’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;Our veins should we have open’d, and soDefied the bailiffs of slavery.Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away,A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,And we remain’d still Germans!We Germans remain, and German we speak,As we before times have spoken;An ass is an ass, not asinus,The Swabian line is unbroken.Friend Raumer remain’d a German scampIn our northern German climate;And Freiligrath no Horace became,But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes,Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,And drinks no nasty turpentineLike those lovely Roman charmers.O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee!So at Dettmoldt[56]thy friends and extollersA monument proud of late have design’d,And towards it I gave a few dollars.
Behold the wood of Teutoburg,Described in Tacitus’ pages;Behold the classical marsh, whereinStuck Varus, in past ages.Here vanquish’d him the Cheruscian prince,The noble giant, named Hermann;[50]’Twas in this mire that triumph’d firstOur nationality German.Had Hermann with his light-hair’d hordesNot triumph’d here over the foeman,Then German freedom had come to an end,We had each been turn’d to a Roman!Nought but Roman language and manners had nowOur native country ruled over,In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’enAs Quirites have flourish’d in clover!An harúspex had Hengstenberg surely been,And groped about in the bowelsOf oxen; Neander[51]an Augur, and basedOn flights of birds his avowals.Birch-Pfeifer[52]had tippled her turpentine,Like the Roman ladies admired.(’Tis said that they, by its frequent use,A pleasing odour acquired).Friend Raumer[53]had been no German scamp,But a regular Roman Scampatius,And Freiligrath written without using rhyme,Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.The clumsy beggar, Father Jahn,[54]Had then been call’d Clumsianus;Me Hercule! Massmann[55]would Latin have talk’d,As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!The friends of truth, instead of with cursIn the papers, would in the arenaHave had to wage a mortal fightWith the lion, jackal, hyena.One single Nero we now should have had,’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;Our veins should we have open’d, and soDefied the bailiffs of slavery.Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away,A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,And we remain’d still Germans!We Germans remain, and German we speak,As we before times have spoken;An ass is an ass, not asinus,The Swabian line is unbroken.Friend Raumer remain’d a German scampIn our northern German climate;And Freiligrath no Horace became,But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes,Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,And drinks no nasty turpentineLike those lovely Roman charmers.O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee!So at Dettmoldt[56]thy friends and extollersA monument proud of late have design’d,And towards it I gave a few dollars.
Behold the wood of Teutoburg,Described in Tacitus’ pages;Behold the classical marsh, whereinStuck Varus, in past ages.
Here vanquish’d him the Cheruscian prince,The noble giant, named Hermann;[50]’Twas in this mire that triumph’d firstOur nationality German.
Had Hermann with his light-hair’d hordesNot triumph’d here over the foeman,Then German freedom had come to an end,We had each been turn’d to a Roman!
Nought but Roman language and manners had nowOur native country ruled over,In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’enAs Quirites have flourish’d in clover!
An harúspex had Hengstenberg surely been,And groped about in the bowelsOf oxen; Neander[51]an Augur, and basedOn flights of birds his avowals.
Birch-Pfeifer[52]had tippled her turpentine,Like the Roman ladies admired.(’Tis said that they, by its frequent use,A pleasing odour acquired).
Friend Raumer[53]had been no German scamp,But a regular Roman Scampatius,And Freiligrath written without using rhyme,Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.
The clumsy beggar, Father Jahn,[54]Had then been call’d Clumsianus;Me Hercule! Massmann[55]would Latin have talk’d,As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!
The friends of truth, instead of with cursIn the papers, would in the arenaHave had to wage a mortal fightWith the lion, jackal, hyena.
One single Nero we now should have had,’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;Our veins should we have open’d, and soDefied the bailiffs of slavery.
Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away,A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,And we remain’d still Germans!
We Germans remain, and German we speak,As we before times have spoken;An ass is an ass, not asinus,The Swabian line is unbroken.
Friend Raumer remain’d a German scampIn our northern German climate;And Freiligrath no Horace became,But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.
Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes,Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,And drinks no nasty turpentineLike those lovely Roman charmers.
O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee!So at Dettmoldt[56]thy friends and extollersA monument proud of late have design’d,And towards it I gave a few dollars.
Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on,When a crash took place, sudden and frightful—A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,An occurrence by no means delightful.The postilion dismounted, and made all hasteTo the village for help, and I found meAt midnight alone in the darksome wood,While a howling I heard all around me.The wolves it was, who wildly howl’dWith half-starv’d voices all wiry;Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’dTheir eyes so fierce and fiery.Of my arrival certainly knewThe beasts, and to honour me, proudlyThey lighted up the forest thus,And sang in chorus loudly.I soon observed ’twas a real serenade,Design’d for my glorification,So threw myself in an attitude fit,And spoke with extreme animation:“Brother wolves! it gives me great pleasure to-day“To tarry awhile ’midst your growling,“Where so many noble spirits have met,“Around me lovingly howling.“My feelings just at the moment I speak“Are truly beyond all measure;“This present hour I ne’er shall forget,“So fraught with exceeding pleasure.“I thank you for the confidence thus“Evinced beyond denial,“And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown“In every period of trial.“Brother wolves! ye ne’er doubted that true I remain’d,“Ye set all the rogues at defiance,“Who falsely asserted that I had of late,“Struck up with the dogs an alliance,“And turn’d an apostate, and e’en in the fold“As a Councillor soon they would show me—“To answer such base assertions as these“I feel to be really below me.“The sheepskin that I for a time had on“As a piece of warm clothing merely,“Believe me, will never make me love“The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.“No sheep am I, and no dog am I,“No Councillor, or such like;“A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth“A wolf’s are very much like.“A wolf am I, and with the wolves“I ever will be a yelper;“Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves,“And God will be your helper!”This was the speech deliver’d by me,Without the least preparation;In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told,It appear’d, though with much mutilation.
Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on,When a crash took place, sudden and frightful—A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,An occurrence by no means delightful.The postilion dismounted, and made all hasteTo the village for help, and I found meAt midnight alone in the darksome wood,While a howling I heard all around me.The wolves it was, who wildly howl’dWith half-starv’d voices all wiry;Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’dTheir eyes so fierce and fiery.Of my arrival certainly knewThe beasts, and to honour me, proudlyThey lighted up the forest thus,And sang in chorus loudly.I soon observed ’twas a real serenade,Design’d for my glorification,So threw myself in an attitude fit,And spoke with extreme animation:“Brother wolves! it gives me great pleasure to-day“To tarry awhile ’midst your growling,“Where so many noble spirits have met,“Around me lovingly howling.“My feelings just at the moment I speak“Are truly beyond all measure;“This present hour I ne’er shall forget,“So fraught with exceeding pleasure.“I thank you for the confidence thus“Evinced beyond denial,“And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown“In every period of trial.“Brother wolves! ye ne’er doubted that true I remain’d,“Ye set all the rogues at defiance,“Who falsely asserted that I had of late,“Struck up with the dogs an alliance,“And turn’d an apostate, and e’en in the fold“As a Councillor soon they would show me—“To answer such base assertions as these“I feel to be really below me.“The sheepskin that I for a time had on“As a piece of warm clothing merely,“Believe me, will never make me love“The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.“No sheep am I, and no dog am I,“No Councillor, or such like;“A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth“A wolf’s are very much like.“A wolf am I, and with the wolves“I ever will be a yelper;“Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves,“And God will be your helper!”This was the speech deliver’d by me,Without the least preparation;In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told,It appear’d, though with much mutilation.
Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on,When a crash took place, sudden and frightful—A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,An occurrence by no means delightful.
The postilion dismounted, and made all hasteTo the village for help, and I found meAt midnight alone in the darksome wood,While a howling I heard all around me.
The wolves it was, who wildly howl’dWith half-starv’d voices all wiry;Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’dTheir eyes so fierce and fiery.
Of my arrival certainly knewThe beasts, and to honour me, proudlyThey lighted up the forest thus,And sang in chorus loudly.
I soon observed ’twas a real serenade,Design’d for my glorification,So threw myself in an attitude fit,And spoke with extreme animation:
“Brother wolves! it gives me great pleasure to-day“To tarry awhile ’midst your growling,“Where so many noble spirits have met,“Around me lovingly howling.
“My feelings just at the moment I speak“Are truly beyond all measure;“This present hour I ne’er shall forget,“So fraught with exceeding pleasure.
“I thank you for the confidence thus“Evinced beyond denial,“And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown“In every period of trial.
“Brother wolves! ye ne’er doubted that true I remain’d,“Ye set all the rogues at defiance,“Who falsely asserted that I had of late,“Struck up with the dogs an alliance,
“And turn’d an apostate, and e’en in the fold“As a Councillor soon they would show me—“To answer such base assertions as these“I feel to be really below me.
“The sheepskin that I for a time had on“As a piece of warm clothing merely,“Believe me, will never make me love“The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.
“No sheep am I, and no dog am I,“No Councillor, or such like;“A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth“A wolf’s are very much like.
“A wolf am I, and with the wolves“I ever will be a yelper;“Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves,“And God will be your helper!”
This was the speech deliver’d by me,Without the least preparation;In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told,It appear’d, though with much mutilation.
The sun arose near Paderborn,With a look by no means bright’ningIn fact he leads but a sorry life,This wretched earth enlight’ning.As soon as he has lighted one side,And hastens with beams all sparklingTo lighten the other, already the firstIs getting gloomy and darkling.Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down,The Danaids’ bucket neverGets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ballIn vain is the sun’s endeavour.And when the mist of morning dispersed,I saw by the wayside projectingIn the early glow, His figure, who diedOn the cross a death so affecting.I’m filled with dejection every timeThat I see Thee, my poor Relation,Whose mission was to redeem the world,And be mankind’s salvation.A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed,The lords of the Council stately;O why didst Thou speak of Church and StateIn a manner to wound them greatly?To Thy misfortune the printing artTo mortals had then not been given,Or else a book had been written by TheeOn the subjects relating to heaven.The Censor would then have erased whate’erSatirical seem’d in its diction,And so the loving censorshipHave saved Thee from crucifixion.Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mountAnother text Thou hadst taken!Sufficient genius and talent were Thine,And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourgeFrom the temple, in just indignation—Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the crossThou dost suffer a sad expiation.
The sun arose near Paderborn,With a look by no means bright’ningIn fact he leads but a sorry life,This wretched earth enlight’ning.As soon as he has lighted one side,And hastens with beams all sparklingTo lighten the other, already the firstIs getting gloomy and darkling.Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down,The Danaids’ bucket neverGets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ballIn vain is the sun’s endeavour.And when the mist of morning dispersed,I saw by the wayside projectingIn the early glow, His figure, who diedOn the cross a death so affecting.I’m filled with dejection every timeThat I see Thee, my poor Relation,Whose mission was to redeem the world,And be mankind’s salvation.A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed,The lords of the Council stately;O why didst Thou speak of Church and StateIn a manner to wound them greatly?To Thy misfortune the printing artTo mortals had then not been given,Or else a book had been written by TheeOn the subjects relating to heaven.The Censor would then have erased whate’erSatirical seem’d in its diction,And so the loving censorshipHave saved Thee from crucifixion.Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mountAnother text Thou hadst taken!Sufficient genius and talent were Thine,And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourgeFrom the temple, in just indignation—Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the crossThou dost suffer a sad expiation.
The sun arose near Paderborn,With a look by no means bright’ningIn fact he leads but a sorry life,This wretched earth enlight’ning.
As soon as he has lighted one side,And hastens with beams all sparklingTo lighten the other, already the firstIs getting gloomy and darkling.
Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down,The Danaids’ bucket neverGets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ballIn vain is the sun’s endeavour.
And when the mist of morning dispersed,I saw by the wayside projectingIn the early glow, His figure, who diedOn the cross a death so affecting.
I’m filled with dejection every timeThat I see Thee, my poor Relation,Whose mission was to redeem the world,And be mankind’s salvation.
A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed,The lords of the Council stately;O why didst Thou speak of Church and StateIn a manner to wound them greatly?
To Thy misfortune the printing artTo mortals had then not been given,Or else a book had been written by TheeOn the subjects relating to heaven.
The Censor would then have erased whate’erSatirical seem’d in its diction,And so the loving censorshipHave saved Thee from crucifixion.
Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mountAnother text Thou hadst taken!Sufficient genius and talent were Thine,And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.
Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourgeFrom the temple, in just indignation—Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the crossThou dost suffer a sad expiation.
The wind was humid, and barren the land,The chaise floundered on in the mire,Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”The burden is this of the olden songThat my nurse so often was singing—“O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was thenLike the note of the forest horn ringing.This song of a murderer tells the tale,Who lived a life joyous and splendid;Hung up in the forest at last he was found,From a grey old willow suspended.The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’dOn the willow’s stem, written entire;The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas—O Sun, thou accusing fire!The Sun was accuser,—’twas he who condemn’dThe murderer foul, in his ire.Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”When the song I recall, the remembrance tooOf my dear old nurse never ceasesI see once more her swarthy face,With all its wrinkles and creases.In the district of Münster she was born,And knew, in all their glory,Many popular songs and wondrous tales,And many a wild ghost-story.How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told howThe king’s daughter, in days now olden,Sat all alone on the desert heath,While glisten’d her tresses so golden.Her business was to tend the geeseAs a goosegirl, and when at nightfallShe drove the geese home again through the gate,Her tears would in piteous plight fall.For nail’d up on high, above the gate,She saw a horse’s head o’er her;The head it was of the dear old horseWho to foreign countries bore her.The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O Falada! hangest thou yonder?”The horse’s head from above replied:“Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O would that my mother knew it!”The horse’s head from above replied:“Full sorely she would rue it!”With gasping breath I used to attendWhen my nurse, with a voice soft and serious,Of Barbarossa began to speak,Our Emperor so mysterious.She assured me that he was not dead, as to thinkBy learned men we were bidden,But with his comrades in arms still livedIn a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.Kyffhauser is the mountain’s name,With a cave in its depths benighted;By lamps its high and vaulted roomsIn ghostly fashion are lighted.The first of the halls is a stable vast,Where in glittering harness the strangerWho enters may see many thousand steeds,Each standing at his manger.They all are saddled, and bridled all,Yet amongst these thousands of creatures,No single one neighs, no single one stamps,Like statues of iron their features.Upon the straw in the second hallThe soldiers are seen in their places;Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race,With warlike and insolent faces.They all are full arm’d from top to toe,Yet out of this countless number,Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs,They all are wrapp’d in slumber.In the third of the halls in lofty pilesSwords, spears, and axes are lying,And armour and helmets of silver and steel,With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.The cannons are few, but yet are enoughTo build up a trophy olden.A standard projects from out of the heap,Its colour is black-red-golden.In the fourth of the halls the Emperor lives,For many a century dosingOn a seat made of stone near a table of stone,His head on his arm reposing.His beard, which has grown right down to the ground,Is red as a fiery ocean;At times his eye to blink may be seen,And his eyebrows are ever in motion.But whether he sleeps or whether he thinksFor the present we cannot discover;Yet when the proper hour has come,He’ll shake himself all over.His trusty banner he then will seize,And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly;His cavalry straight will awake and springFrom the earth, all rattling loudly.Each man will forthwith leap on his horse,Each stamping his hoofs and neighing;They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world,While their trumpets are merrily playing.Right well they ride, and right well they fight,No longer they slumber supinely;In terrible judgment the Emperor sits,To punish the murd’rers condignly,—The murderers foul, who murder’d erstHer whose beauty such awe did inspire,The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,—O Sun, thou accusing fire!Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid,And sat in their castles cheerful,Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,And the cord of vengeance fearful.My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring,How dear are the thoughts they inspire!My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
The wind was humid, and barren the land,The chaise floundered on in the mire,Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”The burden is this of the olden songThat my nurse so often was singing—“O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was thenLike the note of the forest horn ringing.This song of a murderer tells the tale,Who lived a life joyous and splendid;Hung up in the forest at last he was found,From a grey old willow suspended.The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’dOn the willow’s stem, written entire;The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas—O Sun, thou accusing fire!The Sun was accuser,—’twas he who condemn’dThe murderer foul, in his ire.Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”When the song I recall, the remembrance tooOf my dear old nurse never ceasesI see once more her swarthy face,With all its wrinkles and creases.In the district of Münster she was born,And knew, in all their glory,Many popular songs and wondrous tales,And many a wild ghost-story.How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told howThe king’s daughter, in days now olden,Sat all alone on the desert heath,While glisten’d her tresses so golden.Her business was to tend the geeseAs a goosegirl, and when at nightfallShe drove the geese home again through the gate,Her tears would in piteous plight fall.For nail’d up on high, above the gate,She saw a horse’s head o’er her;The head it was of the dear old horseWho to foreign countries bore her.The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O Falada! hangest thou yonder?”The horse’s head from above replied:“Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O would that my mother knew it!”The horse’s head from above replied:“Full sorely she would rue it!”With gasping breath I used to attendWhen my nurse, with a voice soft and serious,Of Barbarossa began to speak,Our Emperor so mysterious.She assured me that he was not dead, as to thinkBy learned men we were bidden,But with his comrades in arms still livedIn a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.Kyffhauser is the mountain’s name,With a cave in its depths benighted;By lamps its high and vaulted roomsIn ghostly fashion are lighted.The first of the halls is a stable vast,Where in glittering harness the strangerWho enters may see many thousand steeds,Each standing at his manger.They all are saddled, and bridled all,Yet amongst these thousands of creatures,No single one neighs, no single one stamps,Like statues of iron their features.Upon the straw in the second hallThe soldiers are seen in their places;Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race,With warlike and insolent faces.They all are full arm’d from top to toe,Yet out of this countless number,Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs,They all are wrapp’d in slumber.In the third of the halls in lofty pilesSwords, spears, and axes are lying,And armour and helmets of silver and steel,With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.The cannons are few, but yet are enoughTo build up a trophy olden.A standard projects from out of the heap,Its colour is black-red-golden.In the fourth of the halls the Emperor lives,For many a century dosingOn a seat made of stone near a table of stone,His head on his arm reposing.His beard, which has grown right down to the ground,Is red as a fiery ocean;At times his eye to blink may be seen,And his eyebrows are ever in motion.But whether he sleeps or whether he thinksFor the present we cannot discover;Yet when the proper hour has come,He’ll shake himself all over.His trusty banner he then will seize,And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly;His cavalry straight will awake and springFrom the earth, all rattling loudly.Each man will forthwith leap on his horse,Each stamping his hoofs and neighing;They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world,While their trumpets are merrily playing.Right well they ride, and right well they fight,No longer they slumber supinely;In terrible judgment the Emperor sits,To punish the murd’rers condignly,—The murderers foul, who murder’d erstHer whose beauty such awe did inspire,The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,—O Sun, thou accusing fire!Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid,And sat in their castles cheerful,Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,And the cord of vengeance fearful.My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring,How dear are the thoughts they inspire!My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
The wind was humid, and barren the land,The chaise floundered on in the mire,Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
The burden is this of the olden songThat my nurse so often was singing—“O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was thenLike the note of the forest horn ringing.
This song of a murderer tells the tale,Who lived a life joyous and splendid;Hung up in the forest at last he was found,From a grey old willow suspended.
The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’dOn the willow’s stem, written entire;The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas—O Sun, thou accusing fire!
The Sun was accuser,—’twas he who condemn’dThe murderer foul, in his ire.Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
When the song I recall, the remembrance tooOf my dear old nurse never ceasesI see once more her swarthy face,With all its wrinkles and creases.
In the district of Münster she was born,And knew, in all their glory,Many popular songs and wondrous tales,And many a wild ghost-story.
How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told howThe king’s daughter, in days now olden,Sat all alone on the desert heath,While glisten’d her tresses so golden.
Her business was to tend the geeseAs a goosegirl, and when at nightfallShe drove the geese home again through the gate,Her tears would in piteous plight fall.
For nail’d up on high, above the gate,She saw a horse’s head o’er her;The head it was of the dear old horseWho to foreign countries bore her.
The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O Falada! hangest thou yonder?”The horse’s head from above replied:“Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”
The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:“O would that my mother knew it!”The horse’s head from above replied:“Full sorely she would rue it!”
With gasping breath I used to attendWhen my nurse, with a voice soft and serious,Of Barbarossa began to speak,Our Emperor so mysterious.
She assured me that he was not dead, as to thinkBy learned men we were bidden,But with his comrades in arms still livedIn a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.
Kyffhauser is the mountain’s name,With a cave in its depths benighted;By lamps its high and vaulted roomsIn ghostly fashion are lighted.
The first of the halls is a stable vast,Where in glittering harness the strangerWho enters may see many thousand steeds,Each standing at his manger.
They all are saddled, and bridled all,Yet amongst these thousands of creatures,No single one neighs, no single one stamps,Like statues of iron their features.
Upon the straw in the second hallThe soldiers are seen in their places;Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race,With warlike and insolent faces.
They all are full arm’d from top to toe,Yet out of this countless number,Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs,They all are wrapp’d in slumber.
In the third of the halls in lofty pilesSwords, spears, and axes are lying,And armour and helmets of silver and steel,With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.
The cannons are few, but yet are enoughTo build up a trophy olden.A standard projects from out of the heap,Its colour is black-red-golden.
In the fourth of the halls the Emperor lives,For many a century dosingOn a seat made of stone near a table of stone,His head on his arm reposing.
His beard, which has grown right down to the ground,Is red as a fiery ocean;At times his eye to blink may be seen,And his eyebrows are ever in motion.
But whether he sleeps or whether he thinksFor the present we cannot discover;Yet when the proper hour has come,He’ll shake himself all over.
His trusty banner he then will seize,And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly;His cavalry straight will awake and springFrom the earth, all rattling loudly.
Each man will forthwith leap on his horse,Each stamping his hoofs and neighing;They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world,While their trumpets are merrily playing.
Right well they ride, and right well they fight,No longer they slumber supinely;In terrible judgment the Emperor sits,To punish the murd’rers condignly,—
The murderers foul, who murder’d erstHer whose beauty such awe did inspire,The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,—O Sun, thou accusing fire!
Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid,And sat in their castles cheerful,Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,And the cord of vengeance fearful.
My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring,How dear are the thoughts they inspire!My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
A fine and prickly rain now descends,Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;The horses mournfully waggle their tails,And wade through the mud with sweating.Upon his horn the postilion blowsThe old tune loved so dearly:“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”—Its memory crosses me clearly.I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep,And as for my dream, this is it:To the Emperor Barbarossa IIn the wondrous mount paid a visit.On his stony seat by the table of stoneLike an image no longer I saw him,Nor had he that very respectable lookWith which for the most part they draw him.He waddled about with me round the hallsDiscoursing with much affection,Like an antiquarian pointing outThe gems of his precious collection.In the hall of armour he show’d with a clubHow the strength of a blow to determine,And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swordsWith his own imperial ermine.He took in his hand a peacock’s fan,And clean’d full many a dustyOld piece of armour, and many a helm,And many a morion rusty.The standard he carefully dusted too,And said, “My greatest pride is,“That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk,“And not e’en one insect inside is.”And when we came to the second hall,Where asleep on the ground were lyingMany thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said,Their forms with contentment eyeing:“We must take care, while here, not to waken the men,“And make no noise in the gallery;“A hundred years have again passed away,“And to-day I must pay them their salary.”And see! the Emperor softly approach’d,While he held in his hand a ducat,And quietly into the pocket of eachOf the sleeping soldiery stuck it.And then he remark’d with a simpering face,When I observ’d him with wonder:“I give them a ducat apiece as their pay,“At periods a century asunder.”In the hall wherein the horses were ranged,And drawn out in rows long and silent,Together the Emperor rubb’d his handsWhile his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.He counted the horses, one by one,And poked their ribs approving;He counted and counted, and all the whileHis lips were eagerly moving.“The proper number is not complete,”—Thus angrily he discourses:“Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough,“But still am deficient in horses.“Horse-jockeys I’ve sent to every place“In all the world, to supply me“With the very best horses that they can find“And now I’ve a good number by me.“I only wait till the number’s complete,“Then, making a regular clearance,“I’ll free my country, my German folk,“Who trustingly wait my appearance.”—Thus spake the Emperor, while I cried:“Old fellow! seize time as it passes;“Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough,“Then fill up their places with asses.”Then Barbarossa smiling replied:“For the battle there need be no hurry;“Rome certainly never was built in one day,“Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.“Who comes not to-day, to-morrow will come,“The oak’s slow growth might shame us;“Chi va piano va sanowisely says“The Roman proverb famous.”
A fine and prickly rain now descends,Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;The horses mournfully waggle their tails,And wade through the mud with sweating.Upon his horn the postilion blowsThe old tune loved so dearly:“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”—Its memory crosses me clearly.I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep,And as for my dream, this is it:To the Emperor Barbarossa IIn the wondrous mount paid a visit.On his stony seat by the table of stoneLike an image no longer I saw him,Nor had he that very respectable lookWith which for the most part they draw him.He waddled about with me round the hallsDiscoursing with much affection,Like an antiquarian pointing outThe gems of his precious collection.In the hall of armour he show’d with a clubHow the strength of a blow to determine,And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swordsWith his own imperial ermine.He took in his hand a peacock’s fan,And clean’d full many a dustyOld piece of armour, and many a helm,And many a morion rusty.The standard he carefully dusted too,And said, “My greatest pride is,“That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk,“And not e’en one insect inside is.”And when we came to the second hall,Where asleep on the ground were lyingMany thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said,Their forms with contentment eyeing:“We must take care, while here, not to waken the men,“And make no noise in the gallery;“A hundred years have again passed away,“And to-day I must pay them their salary.”And see! the Emperor softly approach’d,While he held in his hand a ducat,And quietly into the pocket of eachOf the sleeping soldiery stuck it.And then he remark’d with a simpering face,When I observ’d him with wonder:“I give them a ducat apiece as their pay,“At periods a century asunder.”In the hall wherein the horses were ranged,And drawn out in rows long and silent,Together the Emperor rubb’d his handsWhile his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.He counted the horses, one by one,And poked their ribs approving;He counted and counted, and all the whileHis lips were eagerly moving.“The proper number is not complete,”—Thus angrily he discourses:“Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough,“But still am deficient in horses.“Horse-jockeys I’ve sent to every place“In all the world, to supply me“With the very best horses that they can find“And now I’ve a good number by me.“I only wait till the number’s complete,“Then, making a regular clearance,“I’ll free my country, my German folk,“Who trustingly wait my appearance.”—Thus spake the Emperor, while I cried:“Old fellow! seize time as it passes;“Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough,“Then fill up their places with asses.”Then Barbarossa smiling replied:“For the battle there need be no hurry;“Rome certainly never was built in one day,“Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.“Who comes not to-day, to-morrow will come,“The oak’s slow growth might shame us;“Chi va piano va sanowisely says“The Roman proverb famous.”
A fine and prickly rain now descends,Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;The horses mournfully waggle their tails,And wade through the mud with sweating.
Upon his horn the postilion blowsThe old tune loved so dearly:“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”—Its memory crosses me clearly.
I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep,And as for my dream, this is it:To the Emperor Barbarossa IIn the wondrous mount paid a visit.
On his stony seat by the table of stoneLike an image no longer I saw him,Nor had he that very respectable lookWith which for the most part they draw him.
He waddled about with me round the hallsDiscoursing with much affection,Like an antiquarian pointing outThe gems of his precious collection.
In the hall of armour he show’d with a clubHow the strength of a blow to determine,And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swordsWith his own imperial ermine.
He took in his hand a peacock’s fan,And clean’d full many a dustyOld piece of armour, and many a helm,And many a morion rusty.
The standard he carefully dusted too,And said, “My greatest pride is,“That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk,“And not e’en one insect inside is.”
And when we came to the second hall,Where asleep on the ground were lyingMany thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said,Their forms with contentment eyeing:
“We must take care, while here, not to waken the men,“And make no noise in the gallery;“A hundred years have again passed away,“And to-day I must pay them their salary.”
And see! the Emperor softly approach’d,While he held in his hand a ducat,And quietly into the pocket of eachOf the sleeping soldiery stuck it.
And then he remark’d with a simpering face,When I observ’d him with wonder:“I give them a ducat apiece as their pay,“At periods a century asunder.”
In the hall wherein the horses were ranged,And drawn out in rows long and silent,Together the Emperor rubb’d his handsWhile his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.
He counted the horses, one by one,And poked their ribs approving;He counted and counted, and all the whileHis lips were eagerly moving.
“The proper number is not complete,”—Thus angrily he discourses:“Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough,“But still am deficient in horses.
“Horse-jockeys I’ve sent to every place“In all the world, to supply me“With the very best horses that they can find“And now I’ve a good number by me.
“I only wait till the number’s complete,“Then, making a regular clearance,“I’ll free my country, my German folk,“Who trustingly wait my appearance.”—
Thus spake the Emperor, while I cried:“Old fellow! seize time as it passes;“Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough,“Then fill up their places with asses.”
Then Barbarossa smiling replied:“For the battle there need be no hurry;“Rome certainly never was built in one day,“Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.
“Who comes not to-day, to-morrow will come,“The oak’s slow growth might shame us;“Chi va piano va sanowisely says“The Roman proverb famous.”
The carriage’s jolting woke me upFrom my dream, yet vainly sought ITo keep awake, so I slumber’d again,And of Barbarossa thought I.Again we went through the echoing halls,And talked of great and small things;He ask’d me this, and he ask’d me that,And wish’d to know about all things.He told me that not one mortal wordFrom the world above had descendedFor many a year,—in fact not sinceThe Seven-years’ war had ended.With interest he for Karschin[57]ask’d,For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail,The Countess Du Barry notorious.“O Emperor,” cried I, “how backward thou art!Old Moses is dead and forgotten,With his Rebecca; and Abraham too,The son, is dead and rotten.“This Abraham and Leah, his wife, gave birth“To Felix[58], who proved very steady;“His fame through Christendom far has spread,“He’s a Chapel-master already.“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead,“And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;“Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,“Still lives—at least she is said to.“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat,“For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her“As long as he lived, but when she was old“They cruelly guillotined her.“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed,“By the doctors attended and seen to;“But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,“And Antoinette the Queen too.“The Queen the greatest courage display’d,“And died like a monarch, proudly;“But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined,“Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”—The Emperor suddenly came to a stand,And stared, as if doubting my meaning,And said: “For the sake of heaven explain“What is meant by that word guillotining?”“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied,“Is a method newly constructed,“By means of which people of every rank“From life to death are conducted.“For this purpose, a new machine is employ’d”—“I continued, while closely he listen’d;“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,“And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.“You first are fasten’d to a board;“’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you“Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs“A triangular axe just above you.“They pull a string, and downward shoots“The axe, quite lively and merry;“And so your head falls into a bag,“And nothing remains but to bury.”The Emperor here interrupted my speech:“Be silent! May heaven confuse it,“That foul machine! and God forbid“That I should ever use it!“The King and Queen! What? To a board“Both fasten’d! What a position!“’Tis contrary to all respect,“And etiquette in addition!“And who art thou, that darest to speak“So coolly and so much, man?“Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip“Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!“My inmost bile is deeply stirr’d“At words so out of season;“Thy very breath is full of crime“And guilty of high treason!”When in his zeal the old man rail’d,And treated me thus cavalierly,Surpassing all bounds,—I sharply replied,And told him my mind quite clearly.“Barbarossa!” I cried, “thou’rt just as absurd“As an old woman’s silly fable;“Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid“To free ourselves we are able.“The republicans all would scoff and jeer,“And shake their sides with laughter“To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown“Act as leader, while we went after.“Thy standard, too, no more I respect;“My love for the black-red-golden“Has been quench’d by the fools of theBurschenschaft,“With their rage for the so-call’d olden.“In Old Kyffhauser ’twere better that thou“Shouldst pass thy days morosely;“In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now,“When I view the matter closely.”
The carriage’s jolting woke me upFrom my dream, yet vainly sought ITo keep awake, so I slumber’d again,And of Barbarossa thought I.Again we went through the echoing halls,And talked of great and small things;He ask’d me this, and he ask’d me that,And wish’d to know about all things.He told me that not one mortal wordFrom the world above had descendedFor many a year,—in fact not sinceThe Seven-years’ war had ended.With interest he for Karschin[57]ask’d,For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail,The Countess Du Barry notorious.“O Emperor,” cried I, “how backward thou art!Old Moses is dead and forgotten,With his Rebecca; and Abraham too,The son, is dead and rotten.“This Abraham and Leah, his wife, gave birth“To Felix[58], who proved very steady;“His fame through Christendom far has spread,“He’s a Chapel-master already.“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead,“And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;“Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,“Still lives—at least she is said to.“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat,“For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her“As long as he lived, but when she was old“They cruelly guillotined her.“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed,“By the doctors attended and seen to;“But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,“And Antoinette the Queen too.“The Queen the greatest courage display’d,“And died like a monarch, proudly;“But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined,“Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”—The Emperor suddenly came to a stand,And stared, as if doubting my meaning,And said: “For the sake of heaven explain“What is meant by that word guillotining?”“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied,“Is a method newly constructed,“By means of which people of every rank“From life to death are conducted.“For this purpose, a new machine is employ’d”—“I continued, while closely he listen’d;“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,“And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.“You first are fasten’d to a board;“’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you“Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs“A triangular axe just above you.“They pull a string, and downward shoots“The axe, quite lively and merry;“And so your head falls into a bag,“And nothing remains but to bury.”The Emperor here interrupted my speech:“Be silent! May heaven confuse it,“That foul machine! and God forbid“That I should ever use it!“The King and Queen! What? To a board“Both fasten’d! What a position!“’Tis contrary to all respect,“And etiquette in addition!“And who art thou, that darest to speak“So coolly and so much, man?“Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip“Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!“My inmost bile is deeply stirr’d“At words so out of season;“Thy very breath is full of crime“And guilty of high treason!”When in his zeal the old man rail’d,And treated me thus cavalierly,Surpassing all bounds,—I sharply replied,And told him my mind quite clearly.“Barbarossa!” I cried, “thou’rt just as absurd“As an old woman’s silly fable;“Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid“To free ourselves we are able.“The republicans all would scoff and jeer,“And shake their sides with laughter“To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown“Act as leader, while we went after.“Thy standard, too, no more I respect;“My love for the black-red-golden“Has been quench’d by the fools of theBurschenschaft,“With their rage for the so-call’d olden.“In Old Kyffhauser ’twere better that thou“Shouldst pass thy days morosely;“In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now,“When I view the matter closely.”
The carriage’s jolting woke me upFrom my dream, yet vainly sought ITo keep awake, so I slumber’d again,And of Barbarossa thought I.
Again we went through the echoing halls,And talked of great and small things;He ask’d me this, and he ask’d me that,And wish’d to know about all things.
He told me that not one mortal wordFrom the world above had descendedFor many a year,—in fact not sinceThe Seven-years’ war had ended.
With interest he for Karschin[57]ask’d,For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail,The Countess Du Barry notorious.
“O Emperor,” cried I, “how backward thou art!Old Moses is dead and forgotten,With his Rebecca; and Abraham too,The son, is dead and rotten.
“This Abraham and Leah, his wife, gave birth“To Felix[58], who proved very steady;“His fame through Christendom far has spread,“He’s a Chapel-master already.
“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead,“And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;“Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,“Still lives—at least she is said to.
“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat,“For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her“As long as he lived, but when she was old“They cruelly guillotined her.
“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed,“By the doctors attended and seen to;“But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,“And Antoinette the Queen too.
“The Queen the greatest courage display’d,“And died like a monarch, proudly;“But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined,“Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”—
The Emperor suddenly came to a stand,And stared, as if doubting my meaning,And said: “For the sake of heaven explain“What is meant by that word guillotining?”
“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied,“Is a method newly constructed,“By means of which people of every rank“From life to death are conducted.
“For this purpose, a new machine is employ’d”—“I continued, while closely he listen’d;“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,“And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.
“You first are fasten’d to a board;“’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you“Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs“A triangular axe just above you.
“They pull a string, and downward shoots“The axe, quite lively and merry;“And so your head falls into a bag,“And nothing remains but to bury.”
The Emperor here interrupted my speech:“Be silent! May heaven confuse it,“That foul machine! and God forbid“That I should ever use it!
“The King and Queen! What? To a board“Both fasten’d! What a position!“’Tis contrary to all respect,“And etiquette in addition!
“And who art thou, that darest to speak“So coolly and so much, man?“Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip“Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!
“My inmost bile is deeply stirr’d“At words so out of season;“Thy very breath is full of crime“And guilty of high treason!”
When in his zeal the old man rail’d,And treated me thus cavalierly,Surpassing all bounds,—I sharply replied,And told him my mind quite clearly.
“Barbarossa!” I cried, “thou’rt just as absurd“As an old woman’s silly fable;“Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid“To free ourselves we are able.
“The republicans all would scoff and jeer,“And shake their sides with laughter“To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown“Act as leader, while we went after.
“Thy standard, too, no more I respect;“My love for the black-red-golden“Has been quench’d by the fools of theBurschenschaft,“With their rage for the so-call’d olden.
“In Old Kyffhauser ’twere better that thou“Shouldst pass thy days morosely;“In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now,“When I view the matter closely.”
I wrangled in dream with the Emperor thus,—In dream,—I say it advisedly;In waking hours we never dare talkTo princes so undisguisedly.The Germans only venture to speakWhen asleep, in a dream ideal,The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts,So German and yet so real.When I awoke, I was passing a wood,And the sight of the trees in such numbers,And their naked wooden reality,Soon scared away my slumbers.The oaks with solemnity shook their heads;The twigs of the birch-trees, in tokenOf warning, nodded,—and I exclaim’d:“Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!“Forgive, Barbarossa, my headstrong speech,“I know that thou art far wiser“Than I, for impatient by nature I am—“Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!“If guillotining contents thee not,“Retain the old plan for the present:“The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope“For the townsman and vulgar peasant.“But frequently change the order, and let“The nobles be hang’d, beheading“The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike“For all who life’s pathways are treading.“Restore again the Criminal Court“That Charles the Fifth invented;“With orders, corporations, and guilds“Let the people again be contented.“To the sacred old Roman Empire again“In all its integrity yoke us;“Its musty frippery give us once more,“And all its hocus-pocus.“The middle ages, if you like,“The genuine middle ages“I’ll gladly endure,—but free us, I pray,“From the nonsense that now all the rage is,—“From all that mongrel chivalry“That such a nauseous dish is“Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit,“And neither flesh nor fish is.“The troops of Comedians drive away,“And close the theatres sickly,“Wherein they parody former times,—“O Emperor, come thou quickly!”
I wrangled in dream with the Emperor thus,—In dream,—I say it advisedly;In waking hours we never dare talkTo princes so undisguisedly.The Germans only venture to speakWhen asleep, in a dream ideal,The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts,So German and yet so real.When I awoke, I was passing a wood,And the sight of the trees in such numbers,And their naked wooden reality,Soon scared away my slumbers.The oaks with solemnity shook their heads;The twigs of the birch-trees, in tokenOf warning, nodded,—and I exclaim’d:“Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!“Forgive, Barbarossa, my headstrong speech,“I know that thou art far wiser“Than I, for impatient by nature I am—“Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!“If guillotining contents thee not,“Retain the old plan for the present:“The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope“For the townsman and vulgar peasant.“But frequently change the order, and let“The nobles be hang’d, beheading“The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike“For all who life’s pathways are treading.“Restore again the Criminal Court“That Charles the Fifth invented;“With orders, corporations, and guilds“Let the people again be contented.“To the sacred old Roman Empire again“In all its integrity yoke us;“Its musty frippery give us once more,“And all its hocus-pocus.“The middle ages, if you like,“The genuine middle ages“I’ll gladly endure,—but free us, I pray,“From the nonsense that now all the rage is,—“From all that mongrel chivalry“That such a nauseous dish is“Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit,“And neither flesh nor fish is.“The troops of Comedians drive away,“And close the theatres sickly,“Wherein they parody former times,—“O Emperor, come thou quickly!”
I wrangled in dream with the Emperor thus,—In dream,—I say it advisedly;In waking hours we never dare talkTo princes so undisguisedly.
The Germans only venture to speakWhen asleep, in a dream ideal,The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts,So German and yet so real.
When I awoke, I was passing a wood,And the sight of the trees in such numbers,And their naked wooden reality,Soon scared away my slumbers.
The oaks with solemnity shook their heads;The twigs of the birch-trees, in tokenOf warning, nodded,—and I exclaim’d:“Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!
“Forgive, Barbarossa, my headstrong speech,“I know that thou art far wiser“Than I, for impatient by nature I am—“Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!
“If guillotining contents thee not,“Retain the old plan for the present:“The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope“For the townsman and vulgar peasant.
“But frequently change the order, and let“The nobles be hang’d, beheading“The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike“For all who life’s pathways are treading.
“Restore again the Criminal Court“That Charles the Fifth invented;“With orders, corporations, and guilds“Let the people again be contented.
“To the sacred old Roman Empire again“In all its integrity yoke us;“Its musty frippery give us once more,“And all its hocus-pocus.
“The middle ages, if you like,“The genuine middle ages“I’ll gladly endure,—but free us, I pray,“From the nonsense that now all the rage is,—
“From all that mongrel chivalry“That such a nauseous dish is“Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit,“And neither flesh nor fish is.
“The troops of Comedians drive away,“And close the theatres sickly,“Wherein they parody former times,—“O Emperor, come thou quickly!”