“Where in heaven, Master Louis,Did you pick up all this crazyNonsense?”—these the very words werehich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.When he read the well-known poemOf Orlando’s frantic doings,Which politely AriostoTo his Eminence inscribed.Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,Yes, I round thy lips see plainlyHov’ring those exact expressions,By the same sly smile attended.Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,Yet at intervals thy foreheadSolemnly is wrinkled over,And these thoughts then steal across thee:“Sounds it not like those young visionsThat I dreamt once with Chamisso,And Brentano and Fouqué,In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]“Is it not the dear notes risingFrom the long-lost forest chapel?Sound the well-known cap and bells notRoguishly at intervals?“In the nightingale’s sweet chorusBreaks the bear’s deep double-bass,Dull and growling, interchangingIn its turn with spirit-whispers!“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!Dying sighs, which suddenlyInto laughter are converted!”—Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tisFrom the long departed dream-time;Save that modern quavers often’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.Signs of trembling thou’lt discoverHere and there, despite the boasting;I commend this little poemTo thy well-proved gentleness!Ah! perchance it is the last freeForest-song of the Romantic;In the daytime’s wild confusionWill it sadly die away.Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!What a crackling, like the geese’sWho preserved the Capitol!What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.While their claws hold farthing rushlights;Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagleWith the mighty thunderbolt!What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;Sick of love, they now are hating,And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,Draw the chariot of Bellona!What a humming, world-convulsing!’Tis in fact the big cock-chafersOf the springtime of the people,Smitten with a sudden frenzy!Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!They perchance could give me pleasureHad I only other ears!
“Where in heaven, Master Louis,Did you pick up all this crazyNonsense?”—these the very words werehich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.When he read the well-known poemOf Orlando’s frantic doings,Which politely AriostoTo his Eminence inscribed.Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,Yes, I round thy lips see plainlyHov’ring those exact expressions,By the same sly smile attended.Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,Yet at intervals thy foreheadSolemnly is wrinkled over,And these thoughts then steal across thee:“Sounds it not like those young visionsThat I dreamt once with Chamisso,And Brentano and Fouqué,In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]“Is it not the dear notes risingFrom the long-lost forest chapel?Sound the well-known cap and bells notRoguishly at intervals?“In the nightingale’s sweet chorusBreaks the bear’s deep double-bass,Dull and growling, interchangingIn its turn with spirit-whispers!“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!Dying sighs, which suddenlyInto laughter are converted!”—Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tisFrom the long departed dream-time;Save that modern quavers often’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.Signs of trembling thou’lt discoverHere and there, despite the boasting;I commend this little poemTo thy well-proved gentleness!Ah! perchance it is the last freeForest-song of the Romantic;In the daytime’s wild confusionWill it sadly die away.Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!What a crackling, like the geese’sWho preserved the Capitol!What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.While their claws hold farthing rushlights;Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagleWith the mighty thunderbolt!What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;Sick of love, they now are hating,And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,Draw the chariot of Bellona!What a humming, world-convulsing!’Tis in fact the big cock-chafersOf the springtime of the people,Smitten with a sudden frenzy!Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!They perchance could give me pleasureHad I only other ears!
“Where in heaven, Master Louis,Did you pick up all this crazyNonsense?”—these the very words werehich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.
When he read the well-known poemOf Orlando’s frantic doings,Which politely AriostoTo his Eminence inscribed.
Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,Yes, I round thy lips see plainlyHov’ring those exact expressions,By the same sly smile attended.
Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,Yet at intervals thy foreheadSolemnly is wrinkled over,And these thoughts then steal across thee:
“Sounds it not like those young visionsThat I dreamt once with Chamisso,And Brentano and Fouqué,In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]
“Is it not the dear notes risingFrom the long-lost forest chapel?Sound the well-known cap and bells notRoguishly at intervals?
“In the nightingale’s sweet chorusBreaks the bear’s deep double-bass,Dull and growling, interchangingIn its turn with spirit-whispers!
“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!Dying sighs, which suddenlyInto laughter are converted!”—
Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tisFrom the long departed dream-time;Save that modern quavers often’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.
Signs of trembling thou’lt discoverHere and there, despite the boasting;I commend this little poemTo thy well-proved gentleness!
Ah! perchance it is the last freeForest-song of the Romantic;In the daytime’s wild confusionWill it sadly die away.
Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!What a crackling, like the geese’sWho preserved the Capitol!
What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.While their claws hold farthing rushlights;Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagleWith the mighty thunderbolt!
What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;Sick of love, they now are hating,And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,Draw the chariot of Bellona!
What a humming, world-convulsing!’Tis in fact the big cock-chafersOf the springtime of the people,Smitten with a sudden frenzy!
Other times and other birds too!Other birds and other music!They perchance could give me pleasureHad I only other ears!
In the mournful month of November ’twas,The winter days had returnèd,The wind from the trees the foliage tore,When I tow’rds Germany journied.And when at length to the frontier I cameI felt a mightier throbbingWithin my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.And when I the German language heard,Strange feelings each other succeeding,I felt precisely as though my heartRight pleasantly were bleeding.A little maiden sang to the harp;Real feeling her song was conveying,Though false was her voice, and yet I feltDeep moved at hearing her playing.She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes,Of sacrifices, and meetingAgain on high, in yon better worldWhere vanish our sorrows so fleeting.She sang of this earthly valley of tears,Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,Of yonder, where revels the glorified soulIn eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.The song of renunciation she sang,The heavenly eiapopeia,Wherewith the people, the booby throng,Are hush’d when they soothing require.I know the tune, and I know the text,I know the people who wrote it;I know that in secret they drink but wine,And in public a wickedness vote it.A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too,Shall be now for your benefit given!Our object is, that here on earthWe may mount to the realms of heaven.On earth we fain would happy be,Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;The idle stomach shall gorge itselfWith the fruit of hard labour no longer.Bread grows on the earth for every one,Enough, and e’en in redundance,And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,And sugarplums too in abundance.Yes, sugarplums for every one,As soon as the plums are provided;To angels and sparrows we’re quite contentThat heaven should be confided.If after death our pinions should grow,We’ll pay you a visit auspiciousIn regions above, and with you we’ll eatSweet tarts and cakes delicious.A song that’s new, and a better one, too,Resounds like fiddle and flute now;The Miserere’s at last at an end,The funeral bells are mute now.The maiden Europe has been betroth’dTo the handsome Genius Freedom;They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,As their newborn passions lead ’em.The priestly blessing may absent be,But the wedding is still a wedding;So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,And the future fruit of their bedding!An epithalamium is my song,My latest and best creation;Within my soul are shooting the starsThat proclaim its inauguration.Those stars inspired blaze wildly onIn torrents of flame, and with wonderI feel myself full of unearthly strength,I could rend e’en oaks asunder!Since I on Germany’s ground have trod,I’m pervaded by magical juices;The giant has touch’d his mother once more,And the contact new vigour produces.
In the mournful month of November ’twas,The winter days had returnèd,The wind from the trees the foliage tore,When I tow’rds Germany journied.And when at length to the frontier I cameI felt a mightier throbbingWithin my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.And when I the German language heard,Strange feelings each other succeeding,I felt precisely as though my heartRight pleasantly were bleeding.A little maiden sang to the harp;Real feeling her song was conveying,Though false was her voice, and yet I feltDeep moved at hearing her playing.She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes,Of sacrifices, and meetingAgain on high, in yon better worldWhere vanish our sorrows so fleeting.She sang of this earthly valley of tears,Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,Of yonder, where revels the glorified soulIn eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.The song of renunciation she sang,The heavenly eiapopeia,Wherewith the people, the booby throng,Are hush’d when they soothing require.I know the tune, and I know the text,I know the people who wrote it;I know that in secret they drink but wine,And in public a wickedness vote it.A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too,Shall be now for your benefit given!Our object is, that here on earthWe may mount to the realms of heaven.On earth we fain would happy be,Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;The idle stomach shall gorge itselfWith the fruit of hard labour no longer.Bread grows on the earth for every one,Enough, and e’en in redundance,And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,And sugarplums too in abundance.Yes, sugarplums for every one,As soon as the plums are provided;To angels and sparrows we’re quite contentThat heaven should be confided.If after death our pinions should grow,We’ll pay you a visit auspiciousIn regions above, and with you we’ll eatSweet tarts and cakes delicious.A song that’s new, and a better one, too,Resounds like fiddle and flute now;The Miserere’s at last at an end,The funeral bells are mute now.The maiden Europe has been betroth’dTo the handsome Genius Freedom;They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,As their newborn passions lead ’em.The priestly blessing may absent be,But the wedding is still a wedding;So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,And the future fruit of their bedding!An epithalamium is my song,My latest and best creation;Within my soul are shooting the starsThat proclaim its inauguration.Those stars inspired blaze wildly onIn torrents of flame, and with wonderI feel myself full of unearthly strength,I could rend e’en oaks asunder!Since I on Germany’s ground have trod,I’m pervaded by magical juices;The giant has touch’d his mother once more,And the contact new vigour produces.
In the mournful month of November ’twas,The winter days had returnèd,The wind from the trees the foliage tore,When I tow’rds Germany journied.
And when at length to the frontier I cameI felt a mightier throbbingWithin my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.
And when I the German language heard,Strange feelings each other succeeding,I felt precisely as though my heartRight pleasantly were bleeding.
A little maiden sang to the harp;Real feeling her song was conveying,Though false was her voice, and yet I feltDeep moved at hearing her playing.
She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes,Of sacrifices, and meetingAgain on high, in yon better worldWhere vanish our sorrows so fleeting.
She sang of this earthly valley of tears,Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,Of yonder, where revels the glorified soulIn eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.
The song of renunciation she sang,The heavenly eiapopeia,Wherewith the people, the booby throng,Are hush’d when they soothing require.
I know the tune, and I know the text,I know the people who wrote it;I know that in secret they drink but wine,And in public a wickedness vote it.
A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too,Shall be now for your benefit given!Our object is, that here on earthWe may mount to the realms of heaven.
On earth we fain would happy be,Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;The idle stomach shall gorge itselfWith the fruit of hard labour no longer.
Bread grows on the earth for every one,Enough, and e’en in redundance,And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,And sugarplums too in abundance.
Yes, sugarplums for every one,As soon as the plums are provided;To angels and sparrows we’re quite contentThat heaven should be confided.
If after death our pinions should grow,We’ll pay you a visit auspiciousIn regions above, and with you we’ll eatSweet tarts and cakes delicious.
A song that’s new, and a better one, too,Resounds like fiddle and flute now;The Miserere’s at last at an end,The funeral bells are mute now.
The maiden Europe has been betroth’dTo the handsome Genius Freedom;They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,As their newborn passions lead ’em.
The priestly blessing may absent be,But the wedding is still a wedding;So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,And the future fruit of their bedding!
An epithalamium is my song,My latest and best creation;Within my soul are shooting the starsThat proclaim its inauguration.
Those stars inspired blaze wildly onIn torrents of flame, and with wonderI feel myself full of unearthly strength,I could rend e’en oaks asunder!
Since I on Germany’s ground have trod,I’m pervaded by magical juices;The giant has touch’d his mother once more,And the contact new vigour produces.
Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thusAnd sung by the little maiden,The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk,As soon as the coach was unladen.They poked their noses in every thing,Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking;They sought for jewels, prohibited books,And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk!Ye will find in it really nothing;My contraband goods I carry aboutIn my head, not hid in my clothing.Point lace is there, that’s finer farThan Brussels or Mechlin laces;If once I unpack my point, ’twill prickAnd cruelly scratch your faces.In my head I carry my jewelry all,The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid,The new god’s temple-ornaments rich,The god as yet not comprehended.And many books also you’d see in my head,If the top were only off it!My head is a twittering bird’s nest, fullOf books that they gladly would forfeit.Believe me that matters are no worse offIn the library e’en of the devil;E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41]ne’er wroteAny works that were half so evil.A passenger who stood by my sideRemark’d that we now had before usThe famous Prussian Zollverein,The customhouses’ vast chorus.“The Zollverein”—thus he observed,—“Will found our nationality,“And join our scatter’d fatherland“In bonds of cordiality.“’Twill give us external unity,—“That kind that’s material and real:“The censorship gives us the other kind,“That’s ghostly and ideal.“It gives us internal unity,“In thought as well as in feelings;“A united Germany need we to rule“Our outward and inward dealings.”
Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thusAnd sung by the little maiden,The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk,As soon as the coach was unladen.They poked their noses in every thing,Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking;They sought for jewels, prohibited books,And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk!Ye will find in it really nothing;My contraband goods I carry aboutIn my head, not hid in my clothing.Point lace is there, that’s finer farThan Brussels or Mechlin laces;If once I unpack my point, ’twill prickAnd cruelly scratch your faces.In my head I carry my jewelry all,The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid,The new god’s temple-ornaments rich,The god as yet not comprehended.And many books also you’d see in my head,If the top were only off it!My head is a twittering bird’s nest, fullOf books that they gladly would forfeit.Believe me that matters are no worse offIn the library e’en of the devil;E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41]ne’er wroteAny works that were half so evil.A passenger who stood by my sideRemark’d that we now had before usThe famous Prussian Zollverein,The customhouses’ vast chorus.“The Zollverein”—thus he observed,—“Will found our nationality,“And join our scatter’d fatherland“In bonds of cordiality.“’Twill give us external unity,—“That kind that’s material and real:“The censorship gives us the other kind,“That’s ghostly and ideal.“It gives us internal unity,“In thought as well as in feelings;“A united Germany need we to rule“Our outward and inward dealings.”
Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thusAnd sung by the little maiden,The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk,As soon as the coach was unladen.
They poked their noses in every thing,Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking;They sought for jewels, prohibited books,And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.
Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk!Ye will find in it really nothing;My contraband goods I carry aboutIn my head, not hid in my clothing.
Point lace is there, that’s finer farThan Brussels or Mechlin laces;If once I unpack my point, ’twill prickAnd cruelly scratch your faces.
In my head I carry my jewelry all,The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid,The new god’s temple-ornaments rich,The god as yet not comprehended.
And many books also you’d see in my head,If the top were only off it!My head is a twittering bird’s nest, fullOf books that they gladly would forfeit.
Believe me that matters are no worse offIn the library e’en of the devil;E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41]ne’er wroteAny works that were half so evil.
A passenger who stood by my sideRemark’d that we now had before usThe famous Prussian Zollverein,The customhouses’ vast chorus.
“The Zollverein”—thus he observed,—“Will found our nationality,“And join our scatter’d fatherland“In bonds of cordiality.
“’Twill give us external unity,—“That kind that’s material and real:“The censorship gives us the other kind,“That’s ghostly and ideal.
“It gives us internal unity,“In thought as well as in feelings;“A united Germany need we to rule“Our outward and inward dealings.”
In the old cathedral at Aix-la-ChapelleLie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes;(Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born,Who the writer of so much trash is!)As the smallest of poets I’d sooner liveAt Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river,Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle,And so be extinguish’d for ever.In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogsAre ennui’d, and humbly implore us:“O stranger, prythee give us a kick,And to life for a time thus restore us.”I saunter’d along in this tedious placeFor an hour, with great perseverance,And saw that the Prussian soldieryAre not the least changed in appearance.The high red collar still they wear,With the same grey mantle below it—(The Red betokens the blood of the French,Sang Körner the youthful poet).They are still the wooden pedantic race,In every motion displayingThe same right angle, and every faceA frigid conceit still betraying.They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts,Stuck up as straight as a needle,Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stickOnce used as the best means to wheedle.Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod,They carry it now inside them;FamiliarDuwill recall the oldErWherein they were wont to pride them.The long mustachio nothing moreThan the pigtail of old disclosesThe tail that formerly hung behindIs hanging right under their noses.I was not displeased with the new costumeOf the cavalry, I must confess it;And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in factWith the steel point above it, to dress it.It seems so knightly, and takes one backTo the sweet romance of past ages,To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon,Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.The middle ages it calls to mind,With their squires and noble inferiors,Who in their bosoms fidelity bore,And escutcheons upon their posteriors.Crusades and tourneys it brings back too,And love, and respect at a distance,And times of faith, ere printing was known,When newspapers had no existence.Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it showsAn intellect truly enchanting!Right royal indeed the invention was,Thepointis really not wanting!If a storm should arise, a peak like this(The thought is terribly fright’ning)On your romantic head might attractThe heavens’ most modern lightning!At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms,I saw the bird detestedYet once again. With poisonous glareHis eyes upon me rested.Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fallIn my hands, thou creature perfidious,I would tear thy feathers from off thy back,And hack off thy talons so hideous!And then I would stick thee high up on a poleIn the air, thou wicked freebooter,And then to the joyful shooting matchInvite each Rhenish sharpshooter.As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down,The crown and sceptre shall proudlyReward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow,“Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
In the old cathedral at Aix-la-ChapelleLie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes;(Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born,Who the writer of so much trash is!)As the smallest of poets I’d sooner liveAt Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river,Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle,And so be extinguish’d for ever.In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogsAre ennui’d, and humbly implore us:“O stranger, prythee give us a kick,And to life for a time thus restore us.”I saunter’d along in this tedious placeFor an hour, with great perseverance,And saw that the Prussian soldieryAre not the least changed in appearance.The high red collar still they wear,With the same grey mantle below it—(The Red betokens the blood of the French,Sang Körner the youthful poet).They are still the wooden pedantic race,In every motion displayingThe same right angle, and every faceA frigid conceit still betraying.They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts,Stuck up as straight as a needle,Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stickOnce used as the best means to wheedle.Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod,They carry it now inside them;FamiliarDuwill recall the oldErWherein they were wont to pride them.The long mustachio nothing moreThan the pigtail of old disclosesThe tail that formerly hung behindIs hanging right under their noses.I was not displeased with the new costumeOf the cavalry, I must confess it;And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in factWith the steel point above it, to dress it.It seems so knightly, and takes one backTo the sweet romance of past ages,To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon,Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.The middle ages it calls to mind,With their squires and noble inferiors,Who in their bosoms fidelity bore,And escutcheons upon their posteriors.Crusades and tourneys it brings back too,And love, and respect at a distance,And times of faith, ere printing was known,When newspapers had no existence.Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it showsAn intellect truly enchanting!Right royal indeed the invention was,Thepointis really not wanting!If a storm should arise, a peak like this(The thought is terribly fright’ning)On your romantic head might attractThe heavens’ most modern lightning!At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms,I saw the bird detestedYet once again. With poisonous glareHis eyes upon me rested.Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fallIn my hands, thou creature perfidious,I would tear thy feathers from off thy back,And hack off thy talons so hideous!And then I would stick thee high up on a poleIn the air, thou wicked freebooter,And then to the joyful shooting matchInvite each Rhenish sharpshooter.As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down,The crown and sceptre shall proudlyReward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow,“Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
In the old cathedral at Aix-la-ChapelleLie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes;(Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born,Who the writer of so much trash is!)
As the smallest of poets I’d sooner liveAt Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river,Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle,And so be extinguish’d for ever.
In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogsAre ennui’d, and humbly implore us:“O stranger, prythee give us a kick,And to life for a time thus restore us.”
I saunter’d along in this tedious placeFor an hour, with great perseverance,And saw that the Prussian soldieryAre not the least changed in appearance.
The high red collar still they wear,With the same grey mantle below it—(The Red betokens the blood of the French,Sang Körner the youthful poet).
They are still the wooden pedantic race,In every motion displayingThe same right angle, and every faceA frigid conceit still betraying.
They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts,Stuck up as straight as a needle,Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stickOnce used as the best means to wheedle.
Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod,They carry it now inside them;FamiliarDuwill recall the oldErWherein they were wont to pride them.
The long mustachio nothing moreThan the pigtail of old disclosesThe tail that formerly hung behindIs hanging right under their noses.
I was not displeased with the new costumeOf the cavalry, I must confess it;And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in factWith the steel point above it, to dress it.
It seems so knightly, and takes one backTo the sweet romance of past ages,To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon,Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.
The middle ages it calls to mind,With their squires and noble inferiors,Who in their bosoms fidelity bore,And escutcheons upon their posteriors.
Crusades and tourneys it brings back too,And love, and respect at a distance,And times of faith, ere printing was known,When newspapers had no existence.
Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it showsAn intellect truly enchanting!Right royal indeed the invention was,Thepointis really not wanting!
If a storm should arise, a peak like this(The thought is terribly fright’ning)On your romantic head might attractThe heavens’ most modern lightning!
At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms,I saw the bird detestedYet once again. With poisonous glareHis eyes upon me rested.
Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fallIn my hands, thou creature perfidious,I would tear thy feathers from off thy back,And hack off thy talons so hideous!
And then I would stick thee high up on a poleIn the air, thou wicked freebooter,And then to the joyful shooting matchInvite each Rhenish sharpshooter.
As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down,The crown and sceptre shall proudlyReward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow,“Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne,The Rhine was past me rushing,The air of Germany on me breath’d,And I felt its influence gushingUpon my appetite. I ateSome omelets, together with bacon;And as they were salt, some Rhenish wineWas by me also taken.The Rhenish wine gleams like very gold,When quaff’d from out a green rummer;If thou drink’st a few pints in excess, ’twill giveThy nose the colour of summer.So sweet a tickling attacks the nose,One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder;It drove me out in the darkening night,Through the echoing streets to wander.The houses of stone upon me gazed,As if wishing to tell me the mysteriesAnd legends of times that have long gone by,—The town of Cologne’s old histories.Yes, here it was that the clergy of yoreDragg’d on their pious existence;Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preservedBy Ulrich von Hutten’s[43]assistance.’Twas here that the nuns and monks once dancedIn mediæval gyrations,Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44]by name,Wrote his bitter denunciations.’Twas here that the flames of the funeral pileBoth books and men once swallow’d;The bells rang merrily all the while,And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.Stupidity here and spitefulnessLike dogs in the street coquetted;In religious hatred the brood still exists,Though greatly to be regretted,But see, where the moonlight yonder gleams,A form of a monstrous sort is!As black as the devil it rears its head,—Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.’Twas meant a bastile of the spirit to be,And the cunning papists bethought them:“In this prison gigantic shall pine awayGerman intellects, when we have caught them.”Then Luther appear’d, and soon by his mouthA thundering “Halt!” was spoken.Since then the Cathedral no progress has madeIn building, the charm being broken.It never was finish’d, and this is as well,For its very non-terminationA monument makes it of German strengthAnd Protestant reformation.Ye Cathedral-Society’s members vain,With powerless hands have ye risenTo continue the work that so long has been stopp’d,And complete the ancient prison.O foolish delusion! In vain will ye shakeThe money-boxes so bootless,And beg of the Jews and heretics too,—Your labour is idle and fruitless.In vain will Liszt on behalf of the fundMake concerts all the fashion,And all in vain will a talented kingDeclaim with impetuous passion.Cologne Cathedral will finish’d be ne’er,Although the Swabian SolonsHave sent a shipload full of stonesTo help it, nolens volens.’Twill ne’er be completed, despite all the criesOf the ravens and owls without number,Who, full of antiquarian lore,In high church-steeples slumber.Indeed, the time will by-and-by come,When instead of completing it rightly,The inner space as a stable will serveFor horses,—a change but unsightly.“And if the cathedral a stable becomes,“Pray tell us how they will then tackle“The three holy kings who rest there now,“Within the tabernacle?”Thus ask they. But why should we, in these days,Stand up as their supporters?The three holy kings from the Eastern landMust find some other quarters.Take my advice, and place them allIn those three iron cagesThat high upon St. Lambert’s towerAt Münster have hung for ages.If one of the three should missing be,Select in his stead some other;Replace the king of the Eastern landBy some regal Western brother.[45]The king of the tailors[46]sat thereinWith his two advisers by him;But we will employ the cages nowFor monarchs who greatly outvie him.On the right Balthasar shall have his place,On the left shall be Melchior’s station,In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not whatWhen alive, was their right situation.The Holy Alliance from out of the East,Now canonised so duly,Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’dQuite properly and truly.Balthasar perchance and Melchior tooWere men of but weak resolution,Who promised, when sorely press’d from without,Their kingdom a constitution,And afterwards broke their word.—PerchanceKing Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen,Rewarded with black ingratitudeHis foolish fond subjects, the poor men!
’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne,The Rhine was past me rushing,The air of Germany on me breath’d,And I felt its influence gushingUpon my appetite. I ateSome omelets, together with bacon;And as they were salt, some Rhenish wineWas by me also taken.The Rhenish wine gleams like very gold,When quaff’d from out a green rummer;If thou drink’st a few pints in excess, ’twill giveThy nose the colour of summer.So sweet a tickling attacks the nose,One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder;It drove me out in the darkening night,Through the echoing streets to wander.The houses of stone upon me gazed,As if wishing to tell me the mysteriesAnd legends of times that have long gone by,—The town of Cologne’s old histories.Yes, here it was that the clergy of yoreDragg’d on their pious existence;Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preservedBy Ulrich von Hutten’s[43]assistance.’Twas here that the nuns and monks once dancedIn mediæval gyrations,Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44]by name,Wrote his bitter denunciations.’Twas here that the flames of the funeral pileBoth books and men once swallow’d;The bells rang merrily all the while,And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.Stupidity here and spitefulnessLike dogs in the street coquetted;In religious hatred the brood still exists,Though greatly to be regretted,But see, where the moonlight yonder gleams,A form of a monstrous sort is!As black as the devil it rears its head,—Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.’Twas meant a bastile of the spirit to be,And the cunning papists bethought them:“In this prison gigantic shall pine awayGerman intellects, when we have caught them.”Then Luther appear’d, and soon by his mouthA thundering “Halt!” was spoken.Since then the Cathedral no progress has madeIn building, the charm being broken.It never was finish’d, and this is as well,For its very non-terminationA monument makes it of German strengthAnd Protestant reformation.Ye Cathedral-Society’s members vain,With powerless hands have ye risenTo continue the work that so long has been stopp’d,And complete the ancient prison.O foolish delusion! In vain will ye shakeThe money-boxes so bootless,And beg of the Jews and heretics too,—Your labour is idle and fruitless.In vain will Liszt on behalf of the fundMake concerts all the fashion,And all in vain will a talented kingDeclaim with impetuous passion.Cologne Cathedral will finish’d be ne’er,Although the Swabian SolonsHave sent a shipload full of stonesTo help it, nolens volens.’Twill ne’er be completed, despite all the criesOf the ravens and owls without number,Who, full of antiquarian lore,In high church-steeples slumber.Indeed, the time will by-and-by come,When instead of completing it rightly,The inner space as a stable will serveFor horses,—a change but unsightly.“And if the cathedral a stable becomes,“Pray tell us how they will then tackle“The three holy kings who rest there now,“Within the tabernacle?”Thus ask they. But why should we, in these days,Stand up as their supporters?The three holy kings from the Eastern landMust find some other quarters.Take my advice, and place them allIn those three iron cagesThat high upon St. Lambert’s towerAt Münster have hung for ages.If one of the three should missing be,Select in his stead some other;Replace the king of the Eastern landBy some regal Western brother.[45]The king of the tailors[46]sat thereinWith his two advisers by him;But we will employ the cages nowFor monarchs who greatly outvie him.On the right Balthasar shall have his place,On the left shall be Melchior’s station,In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not whatWhen alive, was their right situation.The Holy Alliance from out of the East,Now canonised so duly,Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’dQuite properly and truly.Balthasar perchance and Melchior tooWere men of but weak resolution,Who promised, when sorely press’d from without,Their kingdom a constitution,And afterwards broke their word.—PerchanceKing Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen,Rewarded with black ingratitudeHis foolish fond subjects, the poor men!
’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne,The Rhine was past me rushing,The air of Germany on me breath’d,And I felt its influence gushing
Upon my appetite. I ateSome omelets, together with bacon;And as they were salt, some Rhenish wineWas by me also taken.
The Rhenish wine gleams like very gold,When quaff’d from out a green rummer;If thou drink’st a few pints in excess, ’twill giveThy nose the colour of summer.
So sweet a tickling attacks the nose,One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder;It drove me out in the darkening night,Through the echoing streets to wander.
The houses of stone upon me gazed,As if wishing to tell me the mysteriesAnd legends of times that have long gone by,—The town of Cologne’s old histories.
Yes, here it was that the clergy of yoreDragg’d on their pious existence;Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preservedBy Ulrich von Hutten’s[43]assistance.
’Twas here that the nuns and monks once dancedIn mediæval gyrations,Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44]by name,Wrote his bitter denunciations.
’Twas here that the flames of the funeral pileBoth books and men once swallow’d;The bells rang merrily all the while,And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.
Stupidity here and spitefulnessLike dogs in the street coquetted;In religious hatred the brood still exists,Though greatly to be regretted,
But see, where the moonlight yonder gleams,A form of a monstrous sort is!As black as the devil it rears its head,—Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.
’Twas meant a bastile of the spirit to be,And the cunning papists bethought them:“In this prison gigantic shall pine awayGerman intellects, when we have caught them.”
Then Luther appear’d, and soon by his mouthA thundering “Halt!” was spoken.Since then the Cathedral no progress has madeIn building, the charm being broken.
It never was finish’d, and this is as well,For its very non-terminationA monument makes it of German strengthAnd Protestant reformation.
Ye Cathedral-Society’s members vain,With powerless hands have ye risenTo continue the work that so long has been stopp’d,And complete the ancient prison.
O foolish delusion! In vain will ye shakeThe money-boxes so bootless,And beg of the Jews and heretics too,—Your labour is idle and fruitless.
In vain will Liszt on behalf of the fundMake concerts all the fashion,And all in vain will a talented kingDeclaim with impetuous passion.
Cologne Cathedral will finish’d be ne’er,Although the Swabian SolonsHave sent a shipload full of stonesTo help it, nolens volens.
’Twill ne’er be completed, despite all the criesOf the ravens and owls without number,Who, full of antiquarian lore,In high church-steeples slumber.
Indeed, the time will by-and-by come,When instead of completing it rightly,The inner space as a stable will serveFor horses,—a change but unsightly.
“And if the cathedral a stable becomes,“Pray tell us how they will then tackle“The three holy kings who rest there now,“Within the tabernacle?”
Thus ask they. But why should we, in these days,Stand up as their supporters?The three holy kings from the Eastern landMust find some other quarters.
Take my advice, and place them allIn those three iron cagesThat high upon St. Lambert’s towerAt Münster have hung for ages.
If one of the three should missing be,Select in his stead some other;Replace the king of the Eastern landBy some regal Western brother.[45]
The king of the tailors[46]sat thereinWith his two advisers by him;But we will employ the cages nowFor monarchs who greatly outvie him.
On the right Balthasar shall have his place,On the left shall be Melchior’s station,In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not whatWhen alive, was their right situation.
The Holy Alliance from out of the East,Now canonised so duly,Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’dQuite properly and truly.
Balthasar perchance and Melchior tooWere men of but weak resolution,Who promised, when sorely press’d from without,Their kingdom a constitution,
And afterwards broke their word.—PerchanceKing Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen,Rewarded with black ingratitudeHis foolish fond subjects, the poor men!
And when I came to the bridge o’er the Rhine,Where the bastion its corner advances,There saw I Father Rhine flowing onIn the silent moonbeam’s glances.“All hail to thee, good Father Rhine,Now that I’m home returning!Full often have I on thee thought,With longing and deep yearning.”Thus spake I, and heard in the waters deepA voice at once strange and moaning,Like the wheezing cough of an aged man,With grumbling and feeble groaning:“Thou’rt welcome, and as thou rememberest me,I see thee, good youth, again gladly;’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last,My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.“At Biberich many a stone I’ve gulp’d down,“My digestion in consequence worse is;“Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas,“Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47]verses!“My praises he chants, as though I were now“The purest and best-behaved maiden,“Who never allow’d any mortal to steal“The crown with her purity laden.“Whenever I hear the stupid song,“I could tear my beard in a passion,“And feel inclined to drown myself“In myself, in a curious fashion!“That I am a virgin pure no more“The French know better than any;“For they with my waters have mingled oft“Their floods of victory many.“The stupid song and the stupid man!“Indeed he has treated me badly;“To a certain extent he has compromised me“In matters political sadly.“For if the French should ever come back,“I must blush at their reappearance,“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return“To heaven with perseverance.“I always have loved full well the French,“So tiny yet full of sinew;“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?“Does their singing and springing continue?“Right glad should I be to see them again,“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted“On account of the words of that cursèd song;“And the sneers of its author half-witted!“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town,“Perchance will come as their drummer,“And march at their head, and his wretched wit“Play off on me all through the summer.”Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints,And discontentedly splutter’d.—In order to raise his sinking heart,These comforting words I utter’d:“O do not dread, good Father Rhine,“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,“And they also have alter’d their breeches.“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white,“They also have alter’d the button;“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,“But hang their heads like dead mutton.“They now are philosophers all, and quote“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,“And many play also at skittles.“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs,“But carry it even farther;“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,“But believe in Hengstenberg[49]rather.“As for Alfred de Musset, indeed it is true“That he still to abuse gives a handle;“But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down“His tongue so devoted to scandal.“And if he should play off his wretched wit,“We’ll punish him most severely,“Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets“With the women he loves most dearly.“Then be contented, good Father Rhine,“Bad songs treat only with laughter;“A better song ere long thou shalt hear,—“Farewell, we shall meet hereafter.”
And when I came to the bridge o’er the Rhine,Where the bastion its corner advances,There saw I Father Rhine flowing onIn the silent moonbeam’s glances.“All hail to thee, good Father Rhine,Now that I’m home returning!Full often have I on thee thought,With longing and deep yearning.”Thus spake I, and heard in the waters deepA voice at once strange and moaning,Like the wheezing cough of an aged man,With grumbling and feeble groaning:“Thou’rt welcome, and as thou rememberest me,I see thee, good youth, again gladly;’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last,My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.“At Biberich many a stone I’ve gulp’d down,“My digestion in consequence worse is;“Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas,“Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47]verses!“My praises he chants, as though I were now“The purest and best-behaved maiden,“Who never allow’d any mortal to steal“The crown with her purity laden.“Whenever I hear the stupid song,“I could tear my beard in a passion,“And feel inclined to drown myself“In myself, in a curious fashion!“That I am a virgin pure no more“The French know better than any;“For they with my waters have mingled oft“Their floods of victory many.“The stupid song and the stupid man!“Indeed he has treated me badly;“To a certain extent he has compromised me“In matters political sadly.“For if the French should ever come back,“I must blush at their reappearance,“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return“To heaven with perseverance.“I always have loved full well the French,“So tiny yet full of sinew;“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?“Does their singing and springing continue?“Right glad should I be to see them again,“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted“On account of the words of that cursèd song;“And the sneers of its author half-witted!“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town,“Perchance will come as their drummer,“And march at their head, and his wretched wit“Play off on me all through the summer.”Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints,And discontentedly splutter’d.—In order to raise his sinking heart,These comforting words I utter’d:“O do not dread, good Father Rhine,“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,“And they also have alter’d their breeches.“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white,“They also have alter’d the button;“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,“But hang their heads like dead mutton.“They now are philosophers all, and quote“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,“And many play also at skittles.“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs,“But carry it even farther;“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,“But believe in Hengstenberg[49]rather.“As for Alfred de Musset, indeed it is true“That he still to abuse gives a handle;“But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down“His tongue so devoted to scandal.“And if he should play off his wretched wit,“We’ll punish him most severely,“Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets“With the women he loves most dearly.“Then be contented, good Father Rhine,“Bad songs treat only with laughter;“A better song ere long thou shalt hear,—“Farewell, we shall meet hereafter.”
And when I came to the bridge o’er the Rhine,Where the bastion its corner advances,There saw I Father Rhine flowing onIn the silent moonbeam’s glances.
“All hail to thee, good Father Rhine,Now that I’m home returning!Full often have I on thee thought,With longing and deep yearning.”
Thus spake I, and heard in the waters deepA voice at once strange and moaning,Like the wheezing cough of an aged man,With grumbling and feeble groaning:
“Thou’rt welcome, and as thou rememberest me,I see thee, good youth, again gladly;’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last,My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.
“At Biberich many a stone I’ve gulp’d down,“My digestion in consequence worse is;“Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas,“Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47]verses!
“My praises he chants, as though I were now“The purest and best-behaved maiden,“Who never allow’d any mortal to steal“The crown with her purity laden.
“Whenever I hear the stupid song,“I could tear my beard in a passion,“And feel inclined to drown myself“In myself, in a curious fashion!
“That I am a virgin pure no more“The French know better than any;“For they with my waters have mingled oft“Their floods of victory many.
“The stupid song and the stupid man!“Indeed he has treated me badly;“To a certain extent he has compromised me“In matters political sadly.
“For if the French should ever come back,“I must blush at their reappearance,“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return“To heaven with perseverance.
“I always have loved full well the French,“So tiny yet full of sinew;“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?“Does their singing and springing continue?
“Right glad should I be to see them again,“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted“On account of the words of that cursèd song;“And the sneers of its author half-witted!
“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town,“Perchance will come as their drummer,“And march at their head, and his wretched wit“Play off on me all through the summer.”
Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints,And discontentedly splutter’d.—In order to raise his sinking heart,These comforting words I utter’d:
“O do not dread, good Father Rhine,“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,“And they also have alter’d their breeches.
“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white,“They also have alter’d the button;“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,“But hang their heads like dead mutton.
“They now are philosophers all, and quote“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,“And many play also at skittles.
“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs,“But carry it even farther;“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,“But believe in Hengstenberg[49]rather.
“As for Alfred de Musset, indeed it is true“That he still to abuse gives a handle;“But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down“His tongue so devoted to scandal.
“And if he should play off his wretched wit,“We’ll punish him most severely,“Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets“With the women he loves most dearly.
“Then be contented, good Father Rhine,“Bad songs treat only with laughter;“A better song ere long thou shalt hear,—“Farewell, we shall meet hereafter.”
On Paganini used always to waitA Spiritus Familiaris,Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shapeOf the late lamented George Harris.Napoleon, before each important event,Saw a man in red, as they mention,And Socrates he had his Dæmon too,No fanciful mere invention.E’en I, when I sat at my table to write,When the darkness of night had entwined me,Have sometimes seen a muffled form,Mysteriously standing behind me.Hid under his mantle, a Something he held,And when the light happen’d to catch it,It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe,An executioner’s hatchet.His stature appear’d to be under the mean,His eyes like very stars glisten’d;He never disturb’d me as I wrote,But quietly stood there, and listen’d.For many a year I had ceased to seeThis very singular fellow,But found him here suddenly at Cologne,In the moonlight silent and mellow.I saunter’d thoughtfully through the streets,And saw him behind me stalking,Just like my shadow, and when I stood still,He also left off walking.He stood, as if he were waiting for me,And when I onward hurried,He follow’d again, and thus I reach’dThe Cathedral yard, quite flurried.I could not bear it, so turn’d sharp round,And said: “I insist on an answer;“Why follow me thus in the silent night,“And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?“I come across thee just at the time“When world-wide feelings are dashing“Across my breast, and through my brain“The spirit-lightnings are flashing.“Thou gazest upon me so fixedly—“Now answer me, what is there hidden“Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams?“Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”“The other replied in a somewhat dry tone,“If not a little phlegmatic:“I pray thee, exorcise me not,“And be not quite so emphatic!“No ghost am I from the days gone by,“No grave-arisen spectre;“I have no affection for rhetoric,“I’m no philosophic projector.“I am of a practical nature in fact,“And of silent resolution;“But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives,“I put into execution.“And even when years have pass’d away,“I rest not, nor suffer distraction,“Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts;“Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I,“And, like a servant obedient,“The judgments execute pleasing to thee,“Whether right or inexpedient.“Before the Consul they carried an axe“In Rome of old, let me remind thee“And thou hast also thy lictor, but he“Now carries the axe behind thee.“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind,“And carry in all its splendour“The polish’d executioner’s axe—“I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
On Paganini used always to waitA Spiritus Familiaris,Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shapeOf the late lamented George Harris.Napoleon, before each important event,Saw a man in red, as they mention,And Socrates he had his Dæmon too,No fanciful mere invention.E’en I, when I sat at my table to write,When the darkness of night had entwined me,Have sometimes seen a muffled form,Mysteriously standing behind me.Hid under his mantle, a Something he held,And when the light happen’d to catch it,It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe,An executioner’s hatchet.His stature appear’d to be under the mean,His eyes like very stars glisten’d;He never disturb’d me as I wrote,But quietly stood there, and listen’d.For many a year I had ceased to seeThis very singular fellow,But found him here suddenly at Cologne,In the moonlight silent and mellow.I saunter’d thoughtfully through the streets,And saw him behind me stalking,Just like my shadow, and when I stood still,He also left off walking.He stood, as if he were waiting for me,And when I onward hurried,He follow’d again, and thus I reach’dThe Cathedral yard, quite flurried.I could not bear it, so turn’d sharp round,And said: “I insist on an answer;“Why follow me thus in the silent night,“And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?“I come across thee just at the time“When world-wide feelings are dashing“Across my breast, and through my brain“The spirit-lightnings are flashing.“Thou gazest upon me so fixedly—“Now answer me, what is there hidden“Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams?“Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”“The other replied in a somewhat dry tone,“If not a little phlegmatic:“I pray thee, exorcise me not,“And be not quite so emphatic!“No ghost am I from the days gone by,“No grave-arisen spectre;“I have no affection for rhetoric,“I’m no philosophic projector.“I am of a practical nature in fact,“And of silent resolution;“But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives,“I put into execution.“And even when years have pass’d away,“I rest not, nor suffer distraction,“Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts;“Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I,“And, like a servant obedient,“The judgments execute pleasing to thee,“Whether right or inexpedient.“Before the Consul they carried an axe“In Rome of old, let me remind thee“And thou hast also thy lictor, but he“Now carries the axe behind thee.“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind,“And carry in all its splendour“The polish’d executioner’s axe—“I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
On Paganini used always to waitA Spiritus Familiaris,Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shapeOf the late lamented George Harris.
Napoleon, before each important event,Saw a man in red, as they mention,And Socrates he had his Dæmon too,No fanciful mere invention.
E’en I, when I sat at my table to write,When the darkness of night had entwined me,Have sometimes seen a muffled form,Mysteriously standing behind me.
Hid under his mantle, a Something he held,And when the light happen’d to catch it,It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe,An executioner’s hatchet.
His stature appear’d to be under the mean,His eyes like very stars glisten’d;He never disturb’d me as I wrote,But quietly stood there, and listen’d.
For many a year I had ceased to seeThis very singular fellow,But found him here suddenly at Cologne,In the moonlight silent and mellow.
I saunter’d thoughtfully through the streets,And saw him behind me stalking,Just like my shadow, and when I stood still,He also left off walking.
He stood, as if he were waiting for me,And when I onward hurried,He follow’d again, and thus I reach’dThe Cathedral yard, quite flurried.
I could not bear it, so turn’d sharp round,And said: “I insist on an answer;“Why follow me thus in the silent night,“And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?
“I come across thee just at the time“When world-wide feelings are dashing“Across my breast, and through my brain“The spirit-lightnings are flashing.
“Thou gazest upon me so fixedly—“Now answer me, what is there hidden“Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams?“Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”
“The other replied in a somewhat dry tone,“If not a little phlegmatic:“I pray thee, exorcise me not,“And be not quite so emphatic!
“No ghost am I from the days gone by,“No grave-arisen spectre;“I have no affection for rhetoric,“I’m no philosophic projector.
“I am of a practical nature in fact,“And of silent resolution;“But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives,“I put into execution.
“And even when years have pass’d away,“I rest not, nor suffer distraction,“Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts;“Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.
“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I,“And, like a servant obedient,“The judgments execute pleasing to thee,“Whether right or inexpedient.
“Before the Consul they carried an axe“In Rome of old, let me remind thee“And thou hast also thy lictor, but he“Now carries the axe behind thee.
“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind,“And carry in all its splendour“The polish’d executioner’s axe—“I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
I homeward went, and as soundly I sleptAs if by the angels tended;In German beds one cosily rests,For they are all featherbeds splendid.How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet reposeOf my own native country’s pillows,While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night,In my exile far over the billows!One sleeps so well, and one dreams so wellIn our featherbeds delicious;The German spirit here feels itself freeFrom all earth’s fetters pernicious.It feels itself free, and upward soarsTo the highest regions Elysian;O German Spirit, how proud is the flightThou takest in nightly vision!The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh;When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions,Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star,With the strokes of thine eager pinions.The land belongs to the Russians and French,In the British the ocean is vested,But we in dream’s airy regions possessThe mastery uncontested.The art of ruling practise we here,And here we are never dissever’d,While other nations on earth’s flat faceTo develop themselves have endeavour’d.—And as I slumber’d, methought in my dreamI was once more sauntering slowlyIn the moonlight clear through the echoing streetsOf Cologne’s ancient city so holy.Behind me once again my blackAnd mask’d attendant speeded;I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke,Yet on, still on, we proceeded.We onward went. My heart in my breastGaped open, and parted in sunder,And the red drops glided out of the woundIn my heart,—a sight of wonder.I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein,And often the fancy came o’er meTo streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d,Each doorpost lying before me.And every time that I mark’d a houseIn this very peculiar fashion,A funeral bell was heard in a toneOf mournful and soft compassion.But now in the heavens the moon grew pale,And darkness came over me thickly,And over her face, like horses black,The stormy clouds sped quickly.And still behind me onward wentMy dark companion ever,His hidden axe grasping,—on, still on,And pausing and resting never.We went and went, till we reach’d at lengthThe Cathedral precincts’ centre;The doors of the church wide open stood,And straightway did we enter.Within its capacious expanse but deathAnd night and silence hover’d,While here and there a glimmering lampThe darkness plainly discover’d.I wander’d long the pillars among,And heard the footsteps onlyOf my attendant, who follow’d me stillE’en here in the silence lonely.At length we came to a certain place,With gold and jewels quite glorious,And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,—’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.But the three holy kings, who were wont to lieQuite still, and in order befitting—O sight of wonder!—were now uprightUpon their sarcophagi sitting.Three skeletons, deck’d in fantastic array,With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow,And each one held in his bony handA sceptre, beside his fellow.Like dancing puppets they moved aboutTheir bones which so long had perish’d;They smelt of mould, and they also smeltOf incense fragrant and cherish’d.One ’mongst the number soon moved his mouth,And utter’d a lengthy oration,Explaining the reasons why he claim’dMy respectful salutation.The first, because he was a corpse,Because a monarch, the second;Because a saint, the third,—but the wholeOf little account I reckon’d.I gave him an answer in laughing mood:“In vain is all thy endeavour!“I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect“As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!“Away! away! In the deep grave alone“Your lengths ye ought to measure!“Real life will shortly confiscate“This chapel’s mighty treasure.“Hereafter the merry cavalry“Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling;“If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used,“With clubs your exit compelling!”When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round,And saw where was glimmering brightlyMy silent attendant’s terrible axe,And he read my meaning rightly.So he quickly approach’d, and with the axeRemorselessly he shatter’dThose skeletons poor of bigotry,And into atoms scatter’d.The echoing blows from the vaulted roofRang wildly, in countless numbers;While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast,And I awoke from my slumbers.
I homeward went, and as soundly I sleptAs if by the angels tended;In German beds one cosily rests,For they are all featherbeds splendid.How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet reposeOf my own native country’s pillows,While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night,In my exile far over the billows!One sleeps so well, and one dreams so wellIn our featherbeds delicious;The German spirit here feels itself freeFrom all earth’s fetters pernicious.It feels itself free, and upward soarsTo the highest regions Elysian;O German Spirit, how proud is the flightThou takest in nightly vision!The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh;When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions,Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star,With the strokes of thine eager pinions.The land belongs to the Russians and French,In the British the ocean is vested,But we in dream’s airy regions possessThe mastery uncontested.The art of ruling practise we here,And here we are never dissever’d,While other nations on earth’s flat faceTo develop themselves have endeavour’d.—And as I slumber’d, methought in my dreamI was once more sauntering slowlyIn the moonlight clear through the echoing streetsOf Cologne’s ancient city so holy.Behind me once again my blackAnd mask’d attendant speeded;I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke,Yet on, still on, we proceeded.We onward went. My heart in my breastGaped open, and parted in sunder,And the red drops glided out of the woundIn my heart,—a sight of wonder.I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein,And often the fancy came o’er meTo streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d,Each doorpost lying before me.And every time that I mark’d a houseIn this very peculiar fashion,A funeral bell was heard in a toneOf mournful and soft compassion.But now in the heavens the moon grew pale,And darkness came over me thickly,And over her face, like horses black,The stormy clouds sped quickly.And still behind me onward wentMy dark companion ever,His hidden axe grasping,—on, still on,And pausing and resting never.We went and went, till we reach’d at lengthThe Cathedral precincts’ centre;The doors of the church wide open stood,And straightway did we enter.Within its capacious expanse but deathAnd night and silence hover’d,While here and there a glimmering lampThe darkness plainly discover’d.I wander’d long the pillars among,And heard the footsteps onlyOf my attendant, who follow’d me stillE’en here in the silence lonely.At length we came to a certain place,With gold and jewels quite glorious,And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,—’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.But the three holy kings, who were wont to lieQuite still, and in order befitting—O sight of wonder!—were now uprightUpon their sarcophagi sitting.Three skeletons, deck’d in fantastic array,With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow,And each one held in his bony handA sceptre, beside his fellow.Like dancing puppets they moved aboutTheir bones which so long had perish’d;They smelt of mould, and they also smeltOf incense fragrant and cherish’d.One ’mongst the number soon moved his mouth,And utter’d a lengthy oration,Explaining the reasons why he claim’dMy respectful salutation.The first, because he was a corpse,Because a monarch, the second;Because a saint, the third,—but the wholeOf little account I reckon’d.I gave him an answer in laughing mood:“In vain is all thy endeavour!“I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect“As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!“Away! away! In the deep grave alone“Your lengths ye ought to measure!“Real life will shortly confiscate“This chapel’s mighty treasure.“Hereafter the merry cavalry“Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling;“If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used,“With clubs your exit compelling!”When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round,And saw where was glimmering brightlyMy silent attendant’s terrible axe,And he read my meaning rightly.So he quickly approach’d, and with the axeRemorselessly he shatter’dThose skeletons poor of bigotry,And into atoms scatter’d.The echoing blows from the vaulted roofRang wildly, in countless numbers;While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast,And I awoke from my slumbers.
I homeward went, and as soundly I sleptAs if by the angels tended;In German beds one cosily rests,For they are all featherbeds splendid.
How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet reposeOf my own native country’s pillows,While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night,In my exile far over the billows!
One sleeps so well, and one dreams so wellIn our featherbeds delicious;The German spirit here feels itself freeFrom all earth’s fetters pernicious.
It feels itself free, and upward soarsTo the highest regions Elysian;O German Spirit, how proud is the flightThou takest in nightly vision!
The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh;When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions,Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star,With the strokes of thine eager pinions.
The land belongs to the Russians and French,In the British the ocean is vested,But we in dream’s airy regions possessThe mastery uncontested.
The art of ruling practise we here,And here we are never dissever’d,While other nations on earth’s flat faceTo develop themselves have endeavour’d.—
And as I slumber’d, methought in my dreamI was once more sauntering slowlyIn the moonlight clear through the echoing streetsOf Cologne’s ancient city so holy.
Behind me once again my blackAnd mask’d attendant speeded;I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke,Yet on, still on, we proceeded.
We onward went. My heart in my breastGaped open, and parted in sunder,And the red drops glided out of the woundIn my heart,—a sight of wonder.
I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein,And often the fancy came o’er meTo streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d,Each doorpost lying before me.
And every time that I mark’d a houseIn this very peculiar fashion,A funeral bell was heard in a toneOf mournful and soft compassion.
But now in the heavens the moon grew pale,And darkness came over me thickly,And over her face, like horses black,The stormy clouds sped quickly.
And still behind me onward wentMy dark companion ever,His hidden axe grasping,—on, still on,And pausing and resting never.
We went and went, till we reach’d at lengthThe Cathedral precincts’ centre;The doors of the church wide open stood,And straightway did we enter.
Within its capacious expanse but deathAnd night and silence hover’d,While here and there a glimmering lampThe darkness plainly discover’d.
I wander’d long the pillars among,And heard the footsteps onlyOf my attendant, who follow’d me stillE’en here in the silence lonely.
At length we came to a certain place,With gold and jewels quite glorious,And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,—’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.
But the three holy kings, who were wont to lieQuite still, and in order befitting—O sight of wonder!—were now uprightUpon their sarcophagi sitting.
Three skeletons, deck’d in fantastic array,With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow,And each one held in his bony handA sceptre, beside his fellow.
Like dancing puppets they moved aboutTheir bones which so long had perish’d;They smelt of mould, and they also smeltOf incense fragrant and cherish’d.
One ’mongst the number soon moved his mouth,And utter’d a lengthy oration,Explaining the reasons why he claim’dMy respectful salutation.
The first, because he was a corpse,Because a monarch, the second;Because a saint, the third,—but the wholeOf little account I reckon’d.
I gave him an answer in laughing mood:“In vain is all thy endeavour!“I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect“As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!
“Away! away! In the deep grave alone“Your lengths ye ought to measure!“Real life will shortly confiscate“This chapel’s mighty treasure.
“Hereafter the merry cavalry“Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling;“If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used,“With clubs your exit compelling!”
When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round,And saw where was glimmering brightlyMy silent attendant’s terrible axe,And he read my meaning rightly.
So he quickly approach’d, and with the axeRemorselessly he shatter’dThose skeletons poor of bigotry,And into atoms scatter’d.
The echoing blows from the vaulted roofRang wildly, in countless numbers;While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast,And I awoke from my slumbers.