No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on the God to whom our petition“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,—“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,“We’re weaving busily night and day;“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”
No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on the God to whom our petition“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,—“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,“We’re weaving busily night and day;“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”
No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the God to whom our petition“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,—“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,“We’re weaving busily night and day;“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”
All the gods of love are shoutingIn my heart, and blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”Not the queen of OtaheiteWhom ’twas missionaries’ dutyTo convert; no, she I meanIs a wild untutor’d beauty.Twice in every week appears she,All her subjects quite entrancingIn that dear Jardin Mabille,Waltzes and the polka dancing.Majesty in all her footsteps,Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,Quite a princess every inch,Whichsoever way you take her.Thus she dances—gods of love areIn my heart all blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
All the gods of love are shoutingIn my heart, and blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”Not the queen of OtaheiteWhom ’twas missionaries’ dutyTo convert; no, she I meanIs a wild untutor’d beauty.Twice in every week appears she,All her subjects quite entrancingIn that dear Jardin Mabille,Waltzes and the polka dancing.Majesty in all her footsteps,Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,Quite a princess every inch,Whichsoever way you take her.Thus she dances—gods of love areIn my heart all blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
All the gods of love are shoutingIn my heart, and blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Not the queen of OtaheiteWhom ’twas missionaries’ dutyTo convert; no, she I meanIs a wild untutor’d beauty.
Twice in every week appears she,All her subjects quite entrancingIn that dear Jardin Mabille,Waltzes and the polka dancing.
Majesty in all her footsteps,Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,Quite a princess every inch,Whichsoever way you take her.
Thus she dances—gods of love areIn my heart all blowing airyFlourishes, and crying: “Hail!“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
She dances. How her figure sways!What grace her every limb displays!There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,As if she from her skin were springing.She dances. When she twirls with skillUpon one foot, and then stands stillAt last with both her arms extended,My very reason seems suspended.She dances. ’Tis the very sameThat once Herodias’ daughter cameAnd danced to Herod. As she dances,Her eye casts round it deadly glances.She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,What shall be thy reward to-day?Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gatewayDecapitate the Baptist straightway!
She dances. How her figure sways!What grace her every limb displays!There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,As if she from her skin were springing.She dances. When she twirls with skillUpon one foot, and then stands stillAt last with both her arms extended,My very reason seems suspended.She dances. ’Tis the very sameThat once Herodias’ daughter cameAnd danced to Herod. As she dances,Her eye casts round it deadly glances.She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,What shall be thy reward to-day?Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gatewayDecapitate the Baptist straightway!
She dances. How her figure sways!What grace her every limb displays!There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,As if she from her skin were springing.
She dances. When she twirls with skillUpon one foot, and then stands stillAt last with both her arms extended,My very reason seems suspended.
She dances. ’Tis the very sameThat once Herodias’ daughter cameAnd danced to Herod. As she dances,Her eye casts round it deadly glances.
She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,What shall be thy reward to-day?Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gatewayDecapitate the Baptist straightway!
Yesterday for very bread,In the mire she wallowèd;But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,In her carriage takes an airing.On its silken cushions sheRests her head, and haughtilyLooks upon the thronging massesWhom on foot her carriage passes.When I see thee travelling so,Then my heart is fill’d with woe!Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—To the hospital will bear thee,Where unfeeling cruel deathSoon will take away thy breath,And the student, with coarse greasyPrentice hand, so free and easy,Will cut up thy body fairAnatomically there;And at Montfaucon thy horsesAt the knacker’s end their courses.
Yesterday for very bread,In the mire she wallowèd;But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,In her carriage takes an airing.On its silken cushions sheRests her head, and haughtilyLooks upon the thronging massesWhom on foot her carriage passes.When I see thee travelling so,Then my heart is fill’d with woe!Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—To the hospital will bear thee,Where unfeeling cruel deathSoon will take away thy breath,And the student, with coarse greasyPrentice hand, so free and easy,Will cut up thy body fairAnatomically there;And at Montfaucon thy horsesAt the knacker’s end their courses.
Yesterday for very bread,In the mire she wallowèd;But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,In her carriage takes an airing.On its silken cushions sheRests her head, and haughtilyLooks upon the thronging massesWhom on foot her carriage passes.When I see thee travelling so,Then my heart is fill’d with woe!Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—To the hospital will bear thee,Where unfeeling cruel deathSoon will take away thy breath,And the student, with coarse greasyPrentice hand, so free and easy,Will cut up thy body fairAnatomically there;And at Montfaucon thy horsesAt the knacker’s end their courses.
Thou hast been by fate befriendedBetter than at first I said;God be praised, all now is ended!God be praised, and thou art dead!In thy poor and agèd mother’sGarret thou at length didst die.She, with love beyond all others,Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.She a winding-sheet bought duly,And a coffin, and a grave;Somewhat close and wretched trulyWas the funeral that they gave.No priests at that funeral lonelySang, no bell toll’d mournfully;Thyfriseurand poodle onlyAs thy mourners follow’d thee.“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,“And her long black tresses soften,“Sitting in her easy chair!”But the dog,—away he scamper’dAt the churchyard gate anon,And was lodged and fed and pamper’dAfterwards by Rose Pompon.She, the Provençaler, grudged theeThy hard-earnèd name of queen,As a hated rival judged thee,Made thee victim of her spleen.Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,With thy mud crown on thy head,Thou art saved by God’s eternalGoodness, thou at last art dead.As thy mother, so thy FatherMercy show’d thee from above;This He did, methinks, the ratherIn that thou so much didst love.
Thou hast been by fate befriendedBetter than at first I said;God be praised, all now is ended!God be praised, and thou art dead!In thy poor and agèd mother’sGarret thou at length didst die.She, with love beyond all others,Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.She a winding-sheet bought duly,And a coffin, and a grave;Somewhat close and wretched trulyWas the funeral that they gave.No priests at that funeral lonelySang, no bell toll’d mournfully;Thyfriseurand poodle onlyAs thy mourners follow’d thee.“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,“And her long black tresses soften,“Sitting in her easy chair!”But the dog,—away he scamper’dAt the churchyard gate anon,And was lodged and fed and pamper’dAfterwards by Rose Pompon.She, the Provençaler, grudged theeThy hard-earnèd name of queen,As a hated rival judged thee,Made thee victim of her spleen.Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,With thy mud crown on thy head,Thou art saved by God’s eternalGoodness, thou at last art dead.As thy mother, so thy FatherMercy show’d thee from above;This He did, methinks, the ratherIn that thou so much didst love.
Thou hast been by fate befriendedBetter than at first I said;God be praised, all now is ended!God be praised, and thou art dead!
In thy poor and agèd mother’sGarret thou at length didst die.She, with love beyond all others,Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.
She a winding-sheet bought duly,And a coffin, and a grave;Somewhat close and wretched trulyWas the funeral that they gave.
No priests at that funeral lonelySang, no bell toll’d mournfully;Thyfriseurand poodle onlyAs thy mourners follow’d thee.
“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,“And her long black tresses soften,“Sitting in her easy chair!”
But the dog,—away he scamper’dAt the churchyard gate anon,And was lodged and fed and pamper’dAfterwards by Rose Pompon.
She, the Provençaler, grudged theeThy hard-earnèd name of queen,As a hated rival judged thee,Made thee victim of her spleen.
Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,With thy mud crown on thy head,Thou art saved by God’s eternalGoodness, thou at last art dead.
As thy mother, so thy FatherMercy show’d thee from above;This He did, methinks, the ratherIn that thou so much didst love.
The convent stands high on the rocky steep,The Rhine beneath it glistens;The youthful nun doth eagerly peepThrough the lattice window, and listens.A bark of fable is sailing past,By the evening glow tinged brightly;While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,With flowing auburn tresses;Of very ancient cut, in truth,His gold and purple dress is.Before his feet nine women lie,Of marble-lovely graces;A tunic fair and loop’d up highEach slender form embraces.The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,And likewise plays his lyre;The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,And sets it all on fire.She makes a cross, and once againThe nun repeats the measure;The cross scares not her blissful pain,Nor checks her bitter pleasure.
The convent stands high on the rocky steep,The Rhine beneath it glistens;The youthful nun doth eagerly peepThrough the lattice window, and listens.A bark of fable is sailing past,By the evening glow tinged brightly;While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,With flowing auburn tresses;Of very ancient cut, in truth,His gold and purple dress is.Before his feet nine women lie,Of marble-lovely graces;A tunic fair and loop’d up highEach slender form embraces.The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,And likewise plays his lyre;The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,And sets it all on fire.She makes a cross, and once againThe nun repeats the measure;The cross scares not her blissful pain,Nor checks her bitter pleasure.
The convent stands high on the rocky steep,The Rhine beneath it glistens;The youthful nun doth eagerly peepThrough the lattice window, and listens.
A bark of fable is sailing past,By the evening glow tinged brightly;While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.
Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,With flowing auburn tresses;Of very ancient cut, in truth,His gold and purple dress is.
Before his feet nine women lie,Of marble-lovely graces;A tunic fair and loop’d up highEach slender form embraces.
The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,And likewise plays his lyre;The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,And sets it all on fire.
She makes a cross, and once againThe nun repeats the measure;The cross scares not her blissful pain,Nor checks her bitter pleasure.
I am the god of music bright,Revered in every nation;In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,My temple had its station.In Greece I oft have sat and play’dOn famed Parnassus’ mountain,Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,Beside Castalia’s fountain.My daughters sat around their Pa,And raised a vocal chorus;They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!While laughter floated o’er us.The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!From out the forest loudly;There hunted Artemisia,My little sister, proudly.And whensoe’er I took some sips,—I can’t describe it neatly,—From out Castalia’s fount, my lipsBurst into music sweetly.I sang—my lyre, as it replied,O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;I felt as if I Daphne spiedBehind the laurels peeping.I sang—ambrosial incense stream’d,And lightly o’er me hover’d;And the whole world around me seem’dBy a bright halo cover’d.A thousand years from Grecia’s landHave I been sadly banish’d;Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s landRemain’d, though I have vanish’d.
I am the god of music bright,Revered in every nation;In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,My temple had its station.In Greece I oft have sat and play’dOn famed Parnassus’ mountain,Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,Beside Castalia’s fountain.My daughters sat around their Pa,And raised a vocal chorus;They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!While laughter floated o’er us.The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!From out the forest loudly;There hunted Artemisia,My little sister, proudly.And whensoe’er I took some sips,—I can’t describe it neatly,—From out Castalia’s fount, my lipsBurst into music sweetly.I sang—my lyre, as it replied,O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;I felt as if I Daphne spiedBehind the laurels peeping.I sang—ambrosial incense stream’d,And lightly o’er me hover’d;And the whole world around me seem’dBy a bright halo cover’d.A thousand years from Grecia’s landHave I been sadly banish’d;Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s landRemain’d, though I have vanish’d.
I am the god of music bright,Revered in every nation;In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,My temple had its station.
In Greece I oft have sat and play’dOn famed Parnassus’ mountain,Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,Beside Castalia’s fountain.
My daughters sat around their Pa,And raised a vocal chorus;They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!While laughter floated o’er us.
The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!From out the forest loudly;There hunted Artemisia,My little sister, proudly.
And whensoe’er I took some sips,—I can’t describe it neatly,—From out Castalia’s fount, my lipsBurst into music sweetly.
I sang—my lyre, as it replied,O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;I felt as if I Daphne spiedBehind the laurels peeping.
I sang—ambrosial incense stream’d,And lightly o’er me hover’d;And the whole world around me seem’dBy a bright halo cover’d.
A thousand years from Grecia’s landHave I been sadly banish’d;Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s landRemain’d, though I have vanish’d.
In the costume of the Beguins,In the cloak with cap upon itOf the coarsest blackest serge,Is the youthful nun envelop’d.Hastily along the Rhine banksPaces she adown the highwayOn the road to Holland, askingEagerly of every passer:“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”None will answer her inquiry,Many turn their backs in silence,Many stare upon her smiling,Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”But along the highway trottingComes a slovenly old man;Making figures in the air, heKeeps on singing through his nose.He a clumsy wallet carries,And a little hat three-corner’d,And with sharp and smiling eyes heListens to the nun’s inquiry:“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”He however gave this answer,Whilst his little head he waggledHere and there, and comicallyAt his sharp beard kept on twitching:“Have I chanced to see Apollo?“Yes, I certainly have seen him“When at Amsterdam full often,“In the German synagogue.“He was there the leading singer,“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—“But he’s not my idol truly.“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too“I remember; genuine scarlet,“And the price per ell eight florins,—“Not all paid for to this moment.“His old father, Moses Jitscher,“Know I well; he’s circumciser“To the Portuguese, I fancy,“And to various sovereigns also.“And his mother is a cousin“Of my sister’s husband, trading“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.“In their son they take no pleasure;“On the lyre he plays not badly,“But, I grieve to say, far better“Plays he at taroc and ombre.“He is likewise a free-thinker,“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,“And then travell’d round the country“With some painted low comedians.“In the shops and on the markets“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,“Holofernes, or King David,“But the latter most excell’d in.“For the king’s own sorrows sang he“In the king’s own mother language,“Giving all the proper quavers“In the proper olden fashion.“Recently some wenches took he“From the Amsterdam casino,“And he’s travelling with these Muses“Round the country as Apollo.“One amongst them is a stout one,“Squeaking very much and grunting:“On account of her green laurel“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”
In the costume of the Beguins,In the cloak with cap upon itOf the coarsest blackest serge,Is the youthful nun envelop’d.Hastily along the Rhine banksPaces she adown the highwayOn the road to Holland, askingEagerly of every passer:“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”None will answer her inquiry,Many turn their backs in silence,Many stare upon her smiling,Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”But along the highway trottingComes a slovenly old man;Making figures in the air, heKeeps on singing through his nose.He a clumsy wallet carries,And a little hat three-corner’d,And with sharp and smiling eyes heListens to the nun’s inquiry:“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”He however gave this answer,Whilst his little head he waggledHere and there, and comicallyAt his sharp beard kept on twitching:“Have I chanced to see Apollo?“Yes, I certainly have seen him“When at Amsterdam full often,“In the German synagogue.“He was there the leading singer,“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—“But he’s not my idol truly.“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too“I remember; genuine scarlet,“And the price per ell eight florins,—“Not all paid for to this moment.“His old father, Moses Jitscher,“Know I well; he’s circumciser“To the Portuguese, I fancy,“And to various sovereigns also.“And his mother is a cousin“Of my sister’s husband, trading“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.“In their son they take no pleasure;“On the lyre he plays not badly,“But, I grieve to say, far better“Plays he at taroc and ombre.“He is likewise a free-thinker,“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,“And then travell’d round the country“With some painted low comedians.“In the shops and on the markets“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,“Holofernes, or King David,“But the latter most excell’d in.“For the king’s own sorrows sang he“In the king’s own mother language,“Giving all the proper quavers“In the proper olden fashion.“Recently some wenches took he“From the Amsterdam casino,“And he’s travelling with these Muses“Round the country as Apollo.“One amongst them is a stout one,“Squeaking very much and grunting:“On account of her green laurel“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”
In the costume of the Beguins,In the cloak with cap upon itOf the coarsest blackest serge,Is the youthful nun envelop’d.
Hastily along the Rhine banksPaces she adown the highwayOn the road to Holland, askingEagerly of every passer:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”
None will answer her inquiry,Many turn their backs in silence,Many stare upon her smiling,Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”
But along the highway trottingComes a slovenly old man;Making figures in the air, heKeeps on singing through his nose.
He a clumsy wallet carries,And a little hat three-corner’d,And with sharp and smiling eyes heListens to the nun’s inquiry:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,“And he is my darling idol.”
He however gave this answer,Whilst his little head he waggledHere and there, and comicallyAt his sharp beard kept on twitching:
“Have I chanced to see Apollo?“Yes, I certainly have seen him“When at Amsterdam full often,“In the German synagogue.
“He was there the leading singer,“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—“But he’s not my idol truly.
“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too“I remember; genuine scarlet,“And the price per ell eight florins,—“Not all paid for to this moment.
“His old father, Moses Jitscher,“Know I well; he’s circumciser“To the Portuguese, I fancy,“And to various sovereigns also.
“And his mother is a cousin“Of my sister’s husband, trading“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.
“In their son they take no pleasure;“On the lyre he plays not badly,“But, I grieve to say, far better“Plays he at taroc and ombre.
“He is likewise a free-thinker,“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,“And then travell’d round the country“With some painted low comedians.
“In the shops and on the markets“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,“Holofernes, or King David,“But the latter most excell’d in.
“For the king’s own sorrows sang he“In the king’s own mother language,“Giving all the proper quavers“In the proper olden fashion.
“Recently some wenches took he“From the Amsterdam casino,“And he’s travelling with these Muses“Round the country as Apollo.
“One amongst them is a stout one,“Squeaking very much and grunting:“On account of her green laurel“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”
Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,Few monarchs are half so splendid;In him a king the Bavarians revere,From an ancient line descended.He’s fond of art: fair women to getFor their portraits to sit, is his passion:In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,In eunuch-artistic fashion.A marble place of skulls hath heNear Ratisbon constructed,And all the arrangements for every headIn his own royal person conducted.Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,Where the merit of every man isSet forth, with his character and his acts,From Teut[70]to Schinderhannes.[71]But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,Has no place in this proud mausoleum;The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left outIn a natural hist’ry museum.King Louis is also a poet renown’d;Whenever sings or plays he,Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”King Louis is also a hero renown’d,Like his child, his little son, Otho,Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).When Louis dies, he’ll canonised beAt Rome by the holy Father;A cat with ruffles a face like hisWith its Glory will look like rather.As soon as the monkeys and kangaroosAre converted to Christianity,They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,In proof of their perfect sanity.
Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,Few monarchs are half so splendid;In him a king the Bavarians revere,From an ancient line descended.He’s fond of art: fair women to getFor their portraits to sit, is his passion:In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,In eunuch-artistic fashion.A marble place of skulls hath heNear Ratisbon constructed,And all the arrangements for every headIn his own royal person conducted.Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,Where the merit of every man isSet forth, with his character and his acts,From Teut[70]to Schinderhannes.[71]But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,Has no place in this proud mausoleum;The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left outIn a natural hist’ry museum.King Louis is also a poet renown’d;Whenever sings or plays he,Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”King Louis is also a hero renown’d,Like his child, his little son, Otho,Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).When Louis dies, he’ll canonised beAt Rome by the holy Father;A cat with ruffles a face like hisWith its Glory will look like rather.As soon as the monkeys and kangaroosAre converted to Christianity,They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,In proof of their perfect sanity.
Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,Few monarchs are half so splendid;In him a king the Bavarians revere,From an ancient line descended.
He’s fond of art: fair women to getFor their portraits to sit, is his passion:In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,In eunuch-artistic fashion.
A marble place of skulls hath heNear Ratisbon constructed,And all the arrangements for every headIn his own royal person conducted.
Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,Where the merit of every man isSet forth, with his character and his acts,From Teut[70]to Schinderhannes.[71]
But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,Has no place in this proud mausoleum;The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left outIn a natural hist’ry museum.
King Louis is also a poet renown’d;Whenever sings or plays he,Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”
King Louis is also a hero renown’d,Like his child, his little son, Otho,Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).
When Louis dies, he’ll canonised beAt Rome by the holy Father;A cat with ruffles a face like hisWith its Glory will look like rather.
As soon as the monkeys and kangaroosAre converted to Christianity,They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,In proof of their perfect sanity.
Crapulinski and Waschlapski,Poles in Poland born and bred,Fought for their dear country’s freedom’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.Boldly did they fight, and lastlyFound at Paris a retreat;Living, just as much as dyingFor one’s fatherland, is sweet.Like Achilles and Patroclus,David and his Jonathan,Loved the pair of Poles each other,Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]Neither e’er betray’d the other,Both were faithful friends and true,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Born and bred in Poland too.They the same apartment dwelt in,In the selfsame bed slept they,And in noble emulationScratch’d themselves by night and day.In the selfsame beershop dined they,And as neither was contentThat the other paid his reckoning,Neither ever paid a cent.’Twas the selfsame washerwomanDid the washing for the pair;Humming, for their linen came sheEvery month to wash and air.Yes, they really had their linen,Each one had two shirts, well-worn,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Poles in Poland bred and born.They to-day sit near the chimney,Where the flames a bright glow cast;Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,And the coaches driving past.They a mighty bowl of punch haveDrain’d already and devour’d;(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,And unwater’d and unsour’d.)Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,Tears their furrow’d faces streak:With a voice of deep emotionThus doth Crapulinski speak;“Would that I had here in Paris“My dear bearskin, my old cotton“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,“In my fatherland forgotten!”Thus to him replied Waschlapski:“O thou art a driv’ller true;“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,“Still our wives to sons give birth,“And our girls will do so likewise,“And produce us men of worth,“Heroes, like great Sobieski,“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,“And the mighty Eselinski.”
Crapulinski and Waschlapski,Poles in Poland born and bred,Fought for their dear country’s freedom’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.Boldly did they fight, and lastlyFound at Paris a retreat;Living, just as much as dyingFor one’s fatherland, is sweet.Like Achilles and Patroclus,David and his Jonathan,Loved the pair of Poles each other,Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]Neither e’er betray’d the other,Both were faithful friends and true,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Born and bred in Poland too.They the same apartment dwelt in,In the selfsame bed slept they,And in noble emulationScratch’d themselves by night and day.In the selfsame beershop dined they,And as neither was contentThat the other paid his reckoning,Neither ever paid a cent.’Twas the selfsame washerwomanDid the washing for the pair;Humming, for their linen came sheEvery month to wash and air.Yes, they really had their linen,Each one had two shirts, well-worn,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Poles in Poland bred and born.They to-day sit near the chimney,Where the flames a bright glow cast;Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,And the coaches driving past.They a mighty bowl of punch haveDrain’d already and devour’d;(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,And unwater’d and unsour’d.)Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,Tears their furrow’d faces streak:With a voice of deep emotionThus doth Crapulinski speak;“Would that I had here in Paris“My dear bearskin, my old cotton“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,“In my fatherland forgotten!”Thus to him replied Waschlapski:“O thou art a driv’ller true;“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,“Still our wives to sons give birth,“And our girls will do so likewise,“And produce us men of worth,“Heroes, like great Sobieski,“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,“And the mighty Eselinski.”
Crapulinski and Waschlapski,Poles in Poland born and bred,Fought for their dear country’s freedom’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.
Boldly did they fight, and lastlyFound at Paris a retreat;Living, just as much as dyingFor one’s fatherland, is sweet.
Like Achilles and Patroclus,David and his Jonathan,Loved the pair of Poles each other,Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]
Neither e’er betray’d the other,Both were faithful friends and true,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Born and bred in Poland too.
They the same apartment dwelt in,In the selfsame bed slept they,And in noble emulationScratch’d themselves by night and day.
In the selfsame beershop dined they,And as neither was contentThat the other paid his reckoning,Neither ever paid a cent.
’Twas the selfsame washerwomanDid the washing for the pair;Humming, for their linen came sheEvery month to wash and air.
Yes, they really had their linen,Each one had two shirts, well-worn,Notwithstanding that they Poles were,Poles in Poland bred and born.
They to-day sit near the chimney,Where the flames a bright glow cast;Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,And the coaches driving past.
They a mighty bowl of punch haveDrain’d already and devour’d;(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,And unwater’d and unsour’d.)
Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,Tears their furrow’d faces streak:With a voice of deep emotionThus doth Crapulinski speak;
“Would that I had here in Paris“My dear bearskin, my old cotton“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,“In my fatherland forgotten!”
Thus to him replied Waschlapski:“O thou art a driv’ller true;“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.
“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,“Still our wives to sons give birth,“And our girls will do so likewise,“And produce us men of worth,
“Heroes, like great Sobieski,“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,“And the mighty Eselinski.”
A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,And enjoy’d a sail deliciousFar over the wide and boundless sea,The wind was quite propitious.We gave our frigates the proudest namesThat we in our calendar reckon’d;One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,And Prutz[74]we christen’d the second.There floated the cutter Freiligrath,Whereon was seen the figureOf the Moorish king, which gazed belowLike a moon (but as black as a nigger).There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;On each of them stood a Swabian face,Each holding a wooden lyre.There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which boreOn its mast the escutcheon oldenOf the famous German Admiralty,On tatters black-red-golden.We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,And bore ourselves like sailors;Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.Full many, who formerly sipp’d but teaAs husbands kind and forbearing,Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,And, seaman-like, took to swearing.So bright was our vision, we well nigh wonA naval victory splendid;But when return’d the morning sun,Both fleet and vision had ended.We still were lying at home in bed,Our limbs all over it sprawling;We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,The following wise speech bawling:“The world is round; why seek to be tost“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?“When we sail round the world, at last we return“To the point from which we started.”
A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,And enjoy’d a sail deliciousFar over the wide and boundless sea,The wind was quite propitious.We gave our frigates the proudest namesThat we in our calendar reckon’d;One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,And Prutz[74]we christen’d the second.There floated the cutter Freiligrath,Whereon was seen the figureOf the Moorish king, which gazed belowLike a moon (but as black as a nigger).There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;On each of them stood a Swabian face,Each holding a wooden lyre.There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which boreOn its mast the escutcheon oldenOf the famous German Admiralty,On tatters black-red-golden.We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,And bore ourselves like sailors;Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.Full many, who formerly sipp’d but teaAs husbands kind and forbearing,Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,And, seaman-like, took to swearing.So bright was our vision, we well nigh wonA naval victory splendid;But when return’d the morning sun,Both fleet and vision had ended.We still were lying at home in bed,Our limbs all over it sprawling;We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,The following wise speech bawling:“The world is round; why seek to be tost“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?“When we sail round the world, at last we return“To the point from which we started.”
A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,And enjoy’d a sail deliciousFar over the wide and boundless sea,The wind was quite propitious.
We gave our frigates the proudest namesThat we in our calendar reckon’d;One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,And Prutz[74]we christen’d the second.
There floated the cutter Freiligrath,Whereon was seen the figureOf the Moorish king, which gazed belowLike a moon (but as black as a nigger).
There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;On each of them stood a Swabian face,Each holding a wooden lyre.
There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which boreOn its mast the escutcheon oldenOf the famous German Admiralty,On tatters black-red-golden.
We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,And bore ourselves like sailors;Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.
Full many, who formerly sipp’d but teaAs husbands kind and forbearing,Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,And, seaman-like, took to swearing.
So bright was our vision, we well nigh wonA naval victory splendid;But when return’d the morning sun,Both fleet and vision had ended.
We still were lying at home in bed,Our limbs all over it sprawling;We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,The following wise speech bawling:
“The world is round; why seek to be tost“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?“When we sail round the world, at last we return“To the point from which we started.”
Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,To the idol-dance inviting—Round the golden calf with springingAll of Jacob’s daughters come—Brum—brum—brum—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!Girding up their tunics lightly,Clasping hands together tightly,Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,Round the beast—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!Aaron’s self joins in the mazyCircling dance with motions crazy;His concerns not looking after,Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,Like a goat—Kettle drums and ringing laughter!
Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,To the idol-dance inviting—Round the golden calf with springingAll of Jacob’s daughters come—Brum—brum—brum—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!Girding up their tunics lightly,Clasping hands together tightly,Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,Round the beast—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!Aaron’s self joins in the mazyCircling dance with motions crazy;His concerns not looking after,Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,Like a goat—Kettle drums and ringing laughter!
Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,To the idol-dance inviting—Round the golden calf with springingAll of Jacob’s daughters come—Brum—brum—brum—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Girding up their tunics lightly,Clasping hands together tightly,Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,Round the beast—Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Aaron’s self joins in the mazyCircling dance with motions crazy;His concerns not looking after,Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,Like a goat—Kettle drums and ringing laughter!
Despots smiling yield their breath,Knowing after their own deathThat their slaves but change their master,And, if anything, work faster.Ah, poor race! like horse and bullThey the waggons still must pull,And their backs will soon be brokenIf they heed not what is spoken.David said to SolomonOn his deathbed: “List, my son!“My most dreaded foe of course is“Joab, general of my forces.“This brave general many a year“I have view’d with hate and fear;“But, however I detest him,“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,“Fearing God, art strong enough;“’Tis for thee an easy matter“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”
Despots smiling yield their breath,Knowing after their own deathThat their slaves but change their master,And, if anything, work faster.Ah, poor race! like horse and bullThey the waggons still must pull,And their backs will soon be brokenIf they heed not what is spoken.David said to SolomonOn his deathbed: “List, my son!“My most dreaded foe of course is“Joab, general of my forces.“This brave general many a year“I have view’d with hate and fear;“But, however I detest him,“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,“Fearing God, art strong enough;“’Tis for thee an easy matter“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”
Despots smiling yield their breath,Knowing after their own deathThat their slaves but change their master,And, if anything, work faster.
Ah, poor race! like horse and bullThey the waggons still must pull,And their backs will soon be brokenIf they heed not what is spoken.
David said to SolomonOn his deathbed: “List, my son!“My most dreaded foe of course is“Joab, general of my forces.
“This brave general many a year“I have view’d with hate and fear;“But, however I detest him,“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.
“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,“Fearing God, art strong enough;“’Tis for thee an easy matter“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”
Through the silent glades of the forest there springsAn eager horseman proudly;He blows his horn, he laughs, and he singsExultingly and loudly.His armour is made of the brass most strong,But stronger still is his bosom;’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,That Christian chivalry’s blossom.“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough“Exclaims with joyous assurance;“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”The king snuffs up the free air the while,Like a newborn creature lives he;He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,—And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.
Through the silent glades of the forest there springsAn eager horseman proudly;He blows his horn, he laughs, and he singsExultingly and loudly.His armour is made of the brass most strong,But stronger still is his bosom;’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,That Christian chivalry’s blossom.“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough“Exclaims with joyous assurance;“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”The king snuffs up the free air the while,Like a newborn creature lives he;He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,—And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.
Through the silent glades of the forest there springsAn eager horseman proudly;He blows his horn, he laughs, and he singsExultingly and loudly.
His armour is made of the brass most strong,But stronger still is his bosom;’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,That Christian chivalry’s blossom.
“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough“Exclaims with joyous assurance;“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”
The king snuffs up the free air the while,Like a newborn creature lives he;He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,—And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.
Daily went the wondrous lovelySultan’s daughter at the coolingHour of evening to the fountain,Where the waters white were plashing.Daily at the hour of eveningStood the young slave at the fountainWhere the waters white were plashing,Daily grew he pale and paler.And one evening came the princess,And these sudden words address’d him:“Thou must tell me what thy name is,“And thy country and thy kindred!”And the slave replied: “My name is“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,“And my race is of those Asras,“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”
Daily went the wondrous lovelySultan’s daughter at the coolingHour of evening to the fountain,Where the waters white were plashing.Daily at the hour of eveningStood the young slave at the fountainWhere the waters white were plashing,Daily grew he pale and paler.And one evening came the princess,And these sudden words address’d him:“Thou must tell me what thy name is,“And thy country and thy kindred!”And the slave replied: “My name is“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,“And my race is of those Asras,“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”
Daily went the wondrous lovelySultan’s daughter at the coolingHour of evening to the fountain,Where the waters white were plashing.
Daily at the hour of eveningStood the young slave at the fountainWhere the waters white were plashing,Daily grew he pale and paler.
And one evening came the princess,And these sudden words address’d him:“Thou must tell me what thy name is,“And thy country and thy kindred!”
And the slave replied: “My name is“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,“And my race is of those Asras,“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”
Who at night the convent wallsPasses, sees the windows brightlyLighted up, for there the spectresMake their gloomy circuit nightly.’Tis dead Ursulines that joinIn the sad and dark procession;From the linen hoods are peepingFaces young of sweet expression.Tapers bear they in their hands,Glimm’ring bloodred and mysteriousStrangely echo in the crosswayWhispers low, wails sad and serious.To the church the train moves on;Sitting on the wooden benchesOf the quire, their mournful chorusStraight begin the’ unhappy wenches.Like a litany it sounds,But the words are wild and shockingThey are poor and outcast spiritsAt the heavenly portal knocking.“Brides of Christ we used to be,“But by love of earth were chainèd,“And we render’d unto Cæsar“Things that unto God pertainèd.“Charming is a uniform“And mustachios smooth and shining“For the epaulettes of Cæsar“Were our hearts in secret pining.“Antlers to the brow we gave“By our shameless ill behaviour,“Which the crown of thorns once carried,—“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.“Jesus,—mercy’s very self,—“Softly wept o’er our transgression,“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd“‘For disgracing your profession!’“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,“We must wander in these dreary“Walls, our folly to atone for,—“Miserere! Miserere!“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery“In the glowing realms of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!“Jesus sweet, forgive at length“Our transgression sad and weary;“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!”Thus the troop of nuns sing on,And a long-dead clerk is playingOn the organ. Hands of spiritsO’er the keys are wildly straying.
Who at night the convent wallsPasses, sees the windows brightlyLighted up, for there the spectresMake their gloomy circuit nightly.’Tis dead Ursulines that joinIn the sad and dark procession;From the linen hoods are peepingFaces young of sweet expression.Tapers bear they in their hands,Glimm’ring bloodred and mysteriousStrangely echo in the crosswayWhispers low, wails sad and serious.To the church the train moves on;Sitting on the wooden benchesOf the quire, their mournful chorusStraight begin the’ unhappy wenches.Like a litany it sounds,But the words are wild and shockingThey are poor and outcast spiritsAt the heavenly portal knocking.“Brides of Christ we used to be,“But by love of earth were chainèd,“And we render’d unto Cæsar“Things that unto God pertainèd.“Charming is a uniform“And mustachios smooth and shining“For the epaulettes of Cæsar“Were our hearts in secret pining.“Antlers to the brow we gave“By our shameless ill behaviour,“Which the crown of thorns once carried,—“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.“Jesus,—mercy’s very self,—“Softly wept o’er our transgression,“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd“‘For disgracing your profession!’“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,“We must wander in these dreary“Walls, our folly to atone for,—“Miserere! Miserere!“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery“In the glowing realms of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!“Jesus sweet, forgive at length“Our transgression sad and weary;“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!”Thus the troop of nuns sing on,And a long-dead clerk is playingOn the organ. Hands of spiritsO’er the keys are wildly straying.
Who at night the convent wallsPasses, sees the windows brightlyLighted up, for there the spectresMake their gloomy circuit nightly.
’Tis dead Ursulines that joinIn the sad and dark procession;From the linen hoods are peepingFaces young of sweet expression.
Tapers bear they in their hands,Glimm’ring bloodred and mysteriousStrangely echo in the crosswayWhispers low, wails sad and serious.
To the church the train moves on;Sitting on the wooden benchesOf the quire, their mournful chorusStraight begin the’ unhappy wenches.
Like a litany it sounds,But the words are wild and shockingThey are poor and outcast spiritsAt the heavenly portal knocking.
“Brides of Christ we used to be,“But by love of earth were chainèd,“And we render’d unto Cæsar“Things that unto God pertainèd.
“Charming is a uniform“And mustachios smooth and shining“For the epaulettes of Cæsar“Were our hearts in secret pining.
“Antlers to the brow we gave“By our shameless ill behaviour,“Which the crown of thorns once carried,—“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.
“Jesus,—mercy’s very self,—“Softly wept o’er our transgression,“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd“‘For disgracing your profession!’
“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,“We must wander in these dreary“Walls, our folly to atone for,—“Miserere! Miserere!
“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery“In the glowing realms of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!
“Jesus sweet, forgive at length“Our transgression sad and weary;“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,—“Miserere! Miserere!”
Thus the troop of nuns sing on,And a long-dead clerk is playingOn the organ. Hands of spiritsO’er the keys are wildly straying.
The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d“That, seeking to find us,“Are floating behind us?—“So sadly are floating the corpses!“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make“That they their oaths should never break,“I seized and bound them,“And straightway drown’d them,—“So sadly are floating the corpses!”The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,And point with their fingers towards the sky,In token of swearing,With glassy eyes staring—So sadly are floating the corpses!
The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d“That, seeking to find us,“Are floating behind us?—“So sadly are floating the corpses!“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make“That they their oaths should never break,“I seized and bound them,“And straightway drown’d them,—“So sadly are floating the corpses!”The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,And point with their fingers towards the sky,In token of swearing,With glassy eyes staring—So sadly are floating the corpses!
The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d“That, seeking to find us,“Are floating behind us?—“So sadly are floating the corpses!
“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make“That they their oaths should never break,“I seized and bound them,“And straightway drown’d them,—“So sadly are floating the corpses!”
The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,And point with their fingers towards the sky,In token of swearing,With glassy eyes staring—So sadly are floating the corpses!
To the Alpuxarres’ exileWent the youthful Moorish monarch;Silent and with heart full mournfulHeading the procession rode he.And behind, on lofty palfreysOr in golden litters riding,Sat the women of his household;Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.And a hundred trusty followersRode on noble Arab horses;Haughty steeds, and yet the ridersCarelessly bestrode the saddles.Not a drum and not a cymbal,Not a single song resounded;Silver bells upon the mules, though,Echoed sadly in the silence.On the height, from whence the glancesSweep across the Duero valley,And Granada’s battlementsFor the last time rise before one,There the mournful king dismounted,And he gazed upon the cityGlittering in the light of evening,As though deck’d with gold and purple.But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!In the place of that dear crescentGleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standardOn the tow’rs of the Alhambra.Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ryBroke from out the monarch’s bosom;Suddenly the tears ’gan fallingLike a torrent down his cheeks.Sadly from her lofty palfreyDownward gazed the monarch’s mother,Looking on her son’s affliction;Proudly, bitterly, she chided:“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Like a woman thou bewailest“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst“To defend with manly courage.”When the monarch’s dearest mistressHeard these words, so harsh and cruel,Hastily she left her litter,Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!“From the deep abyss of sorrow“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.“Not alone the glorious victor,“Not alone the proud triumphant“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring“Has succumb’d, will live for ever“In the memory of mortals.”—“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”To this very moment call theyYonder height from whence the monarchFor the last time saw Granada.Time has now fulfill’d full sweetlyHis beloved one’s prophecy,And the Moorish monarch’s name isReverenced and held in honour.Never will his glory vanish,Never, till the last chord’s brokenOf the last guitar remainingIn the land of Andalusia.
To the Alpuxarres’ exileWent the youthful Moorish monarch;Silent and with heart full mournfulHeading the procession rode he.And behind, on lofty palfreysOr in golden litters riding,Sat the women of his household;Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.And a hundred trusty followersRode on noble Arab horses;Haughty steeds, and yet the ridersCarelessly bestrode the saddles.Not a drum and not a cymbal,Not a single song resounded;Silver bells upon the mules, though,Echoed sadly in the silence.On the height, from whence the glancesSweep across the Duero valley,And Granada’s battlementsFor the last time rise before one,There the mournful king dismounted,And he gazed upon the cityGlittering in the light of evening,As though deck’d with gold and purple.But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!In the place of that dear crescentGleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standardOn the tow’rs of the Alhambra.Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ryBroke from out the monarch’s bosom;Suddenly the tears ’gan fallingLike a torrent down his cheeks.Sadly from her lofty palfreyDownward gazed the monarch’s mother,Looking on her son’s affliction;Proudly, bitterly, she chided:“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Like a woman thou bewailest“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst“To defend with manly courage.”When the monarch’s dearest mistressHeard these words, so harsh and cruel,Hastily she left her litter,Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!“From the deep abyss of sorrow“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.“Not alone the glorious victor,“Not alone the proud triumphant“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring“Has succumb’d, will live for ever“In the memory of mortals.”—“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”To this very moment call theyYonder height from whence the monarchFor the last time saw Granada.Time has now fulfill’d full sweetlyHis beloved one’s prophecy,And the Moorish monarch’s name isReverenced and held in honour.Never will his glory vanish,Never, till the last chord’s brokenOf the last guitar remainingIn the land of Andalusia.
To the Alpuxarres’ exileWent the youthful Moorish monarch;Silent and with heart full mournfulHeading the procession rode he.
And behind, on lofty palfreysOr in golden litters riding,Sat the women of his household;Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.
And a hundred trusty followersRode on noble Arab horses;Haughty steeds, and yet the ridersCarelessly bestrode the saddles.
Not a drum and not a cymbal,Not a single song resounded;Silver bells upon the mules, though,Echoed sadly in the silence.
On the height, from whence the glancesSweep across the Duero valley,And Granada’s battlementsFor the last time rise before one,
There the mournful king dismounted,And he gazed upon the cityGlittering in the light of evening,As though deck’d with gold and purple.
But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!In the place of that dear crescentGleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standardOn the tow’rs of the Alhambra.
Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ryBroke from out the monarch’s bosom;Suddenly the tears ’gan fallingLike a torrent down his cheeks.
Sadly from her lofty palfreyDownward gazed the monarch’s mother,Looking on her son’s affliction;Proudly, bitterly, she chided:
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Like a woman thou bewailest“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst“To defend with manly courage.”
When the monarch’s dearest mistressHeard these words, so harsh and cruel,Hastily she left her litter,Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!“From the deep abyss of sorrow“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.
“Not alone the glorious victor,“Not alone the proud triumphant“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,
“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring“Has succumb’d, will live for ever“In the memory of mortals.”—
“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”To this very moment call theyYonder height from whence the monarchFor the last time saw Granada.
Time has now fulfill’d full sweetlyHis beloved one’s prophecy,And the Moorish monarch’s name isReverenced and held in honour.
Never will his glory vanish,Never, till the last chord’s brokenOf the last guitar remainingIn the land of Andalusia.
In the Château Blay still see weTapestry the walls adorning,Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’Own fair hands, no labour scorning.Her whole soul was woven in it,And with loving tears and tenderHallow’d is the silken picture,Which the following scene doth render:How the Countess saw RudèlDying on the strand of ocean,And the’ ideal in his featuresTraced of all her heart’s emotion.For the first and last time alsoLiving saw Rudèl and breathingHer who in his every visionIntertwining was and wreathing.Over him the Countess bends her,Lovingly his form she raises,And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,That so sweetly sang her praises.Ah! the kiss of welcome likewiseWas the kiss of separation,And they drain’d the cup of wildestJoy, and deepest desolation.In the Château Blay at night-timeComes a rushing, crackling, shakingOn the tapestry the figuresSuddenly to life are waking.Troubadour and lady stretch theirDrowsy ghostlike members yonder,And from out the wall advancing,Up and down the hall they wander.Whispers fond and gentle toying,Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,Minnesingers’ times recalling:“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,“And I feel once more a glimmer“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”“Melisanda! I awaken“Unto happiness and gladness,“When I see thine eyes; dead only“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”“Geoffry! Once we loved each other“In our dreams; now, cut asunder“By the hand of death, still love we,—“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”“Melisanda! What are dreams?“What is death? Mere words to scare one!“Truth in love alone e’er find we,“And I love thee, ever fair one!”“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings“In this moonlit chamber nightly,“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams“I no more shall wander lightly.”“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!“Love and joys of May are budding,“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”—Thus those tender spectres wanderUp and down, and sweet caressesInterchange, whilst peeps the moonlightThrough the window’s arch’d recesses.But at length the rays of morningScare away the fond illusion;To the tapestry retreat theyOn the wall, in shy confusion.
In the Château Blay still see weTapestry the walls adorning,Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’Own fair hands, no labour scorning.Her whole soul was woven in it,And with loving tears and tenderHallow’d is the silken picture,Which the following scene doth render:How the Countess saw RudèlDying on the strand of ocean,And the’ ideal in his featuresTraced of all her heart’s emotion.For the first and last time alsoLiving saw Rudèl and breathingHer who in his every visionIntertwining was and wreathing.Over him the Countess bends her,Lovingly his form she raises,And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,That so sweetly sang her praises.Ah! the kiss of welcome likewiseWas the kiss of separation,And they drain’d the cup of wildestJoy, and deepest desolation.In the Château Blay at night-timeComes a rushing, crackling, shakingOn the tapestry the figuresSuddenly to life are waking.Troubadour and lady stretch theirDrowsy ghostlike members yonder,And from out the wall advancing,Up and down the hall they wander.Whispers fond and gentle toying,Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,Minnesingers’ times recalling:“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,“And I feel once more a glimmer“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”“Melisanda! I awaken“Unto happiness and gladness,“When I see thine eyes; dead only“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”“Geoffry! Once we loved each other“In our dreams; now, cut asunder“By the hand of death, still love we,—“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”“Melisanda! What are dreams?“What is death? Mere words to scare one!“Truth in love alone e’er find we,“And I love thee, ever fair one!”“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings“In this moonlit chamber nightly,“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams“I no more shall wander lightly.”“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!“Love and joys of May are budding,“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”—Thus those tender spectres wanderUp and down, and sweet caressesInterchange, whilst peeps the moonlightThrough the window’s arch’d recesses.But at length the rays of morningScare away the fond illusion;To the tapestry retreat theyOn the wall, in shy confusion.
In the Château Blay still see weTapestry the walls adorning,Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’Own fair hands, no labour scorning.
Her whole soul was woven in it,And with loving tears and tenderHallow’d is the silken picture,Which the following scene doth render:
How the Countess saw RudèlDying on the strand of ocean,And the’ ideal in his featuresTraced of all her heart’s emotion.
For the first and last time alsoLiving saw Rudèl and breathingHer who in his every visionIntertwining was and wreathing.
Over him the Countess bends her,Lovingly his form she raises,And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,That so sweetly sang her praises.
Ah! the kiss of welcome likewiseWas the kiss of separation,And they drain’d the cup of wildestJoy, and deepest desolation.
In the Château Blay at night-timeComes a rushing, crackling, shakingOn the tapestry the figuresSuddenly to life are waking.
Troubadour and lady stretch theirDrowsy ghostlike members yonder,And from out the wall advancing,Up and down the hall they wander.
Whispers fond and gentle toying,Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,Minnesingers’ times recalling:
“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,“And I feel once more a glimmer“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”
“Melisanda! I awaken“Unto happiness and gladness,“When I see thine eyes; dead only“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”
“Geoffry! Once we loved each other“In our dreams; now, cut asunder“By the hand of death, still love we,—“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”
“Melisanda! What are dreams?“What is death? Mere words to scare one!“Truth in love alone e’er find we,“And I love thee, ever fair one!”
“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings“In this moonlit chamber nightly,“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams“I no more shall wander lightly.”
“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!“Love and joys of May are budding,“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”—
Thus those tender spectres wanderUp and down, and sweet caressesInterchange, whilst peeps the moonlightThrough the window’s arch’d recesses.
But at length the rays of morningScare away the fond illusion;To the tapestry retreat theyOn the wall, in shy confusion.