Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,I bore thee myself to the grave outright;The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,And after us follow’d the bright constellations.As through the forest the train moved along,They made it resound with the litany’s song;The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.And as o’er the willowy lake we flewThe elfins were dancing full in our view;They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.And when we had reach’d the grave, full soonFrom out of the heavens descended the moon,And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condolingWhile in the distance the bells were tolling.
Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,I bore thee myself to the grave outright;The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,And after us follow’d the bright constellations.As through the forest the train moved along,They made it resound with the litany’s song;The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.And as o’er the willowy lake we flewThe elfins were dancing full in our view;They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.And when we had reach’d the grave, full soonFrom out of the heavens descended the moon,And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condolingWhile in the distance the bells were tolling.
Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.
’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,I bore thee myself to the grave outright;The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,And after us follow’d the bright constellations.
As through the forest the train moved along,They made it resound with the litany’s song;The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.
And as o’er the willowy lake we flewThe elfins were dancing full in our view;They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.
And when we had reach’d the grave, full soonFrom out of the heavens descended the moon,And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condolingWhile in the distance the bells were tolling.
Love, before she granted favours,One day told the god ApolloShe on guarantees insisted,For the times were false and hollow.Laughingly the god made answer:“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,“And thou speakest like a usurer“Who on pawn lends money duly.“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,—“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;“Prythee say how many kisses“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
Love, before she granted favours,One day told the god ApolloShe on guarantees insisted,For the times were false and hollow.Laughingly the god made answer:“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,“And thou speakest like a usurer“Who on pawn lends money duly.“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,—“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;“Prythee say how many kisses“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
Love, before she granted favours,One day told the god ApolloShe on guarantees insisted,For the times were false and hollow.
Laughingly the god made answer:“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,“And thou speakest like a usurer“Who on pawn lends money duly.
“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,—“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;“Prythee say how many kisses“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
She for whom my heart once beatWas a rosebud fair and tender;Yet it ever grew more sweet,Bursting into full-blown splendour.’Twas the loveliest that could be,And to pluck it I bethought me;But it stung me piquantlyWith its thorns, and prudence taught me.Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,By the wind and tempests shatter’d,“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.Henry here and Henry thereCalleth she with ceaseless din now;If a thorn is anywhere,’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.O how hard the bristles growOn the chin’s warts of my beauty!Either to a convent go,Or to shave will be thy duty.
She for whom my heart once beatWas a rosebud fair and tender;Yet it ever grew more sweet,Bursting into full-blown splendour.’Twas the loveliest that could be,And to pluck it I bethought me;But it stung me piquantlyWith its thorns, and prudence taught me.Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,By the wind and tempests shatter’d,“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.Henry here and Henry thereCalleth she with ceaseless din now;If a thorn is anywhere,’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.O how hard the bristles growOn the chin’s warts of my beauty!Either to a convent go,Or to shave will be thy duty.
She for whom my heart once beatWas a rosebud fair and tender;Yet it ever grew more sweet,Bursting into full-blown splendour.
’Twas the loveliest that could be,And to pluck it I bethought me;But it stung me piquantlyWith its thorns, and prudence taught me.
Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,By the wind and tempests shatter’d,“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.
Henry here and Henry thereCalleth she with ceaseless din now;If a thorn is anywhere,’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.
O how hard the bristles growOn the chin’s warts of my beauty!Either to a convent go,Or to shave will be thy duty.
See these violets, dusty tresses,And this faded ribbon blue,Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,And these half-torn billets-doux,—All, with angry look and gestureIn the blazing fire I throw;Sadly crackle up these relicsOf my happiness and woe.Vows of love, and fond deceivingBroken oaths all upwards flyIn the chimney, while in secretCupid laughs maliciously.Dreamily beside the fireplaceSit I, while the sparkles brightGlow in silence midst the ashes,—So farewell! good night! good night!
See these violets, dusty tresses,And this faded ribbon blue,Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,And these half-torn billets-doux,—All, with angry look and gestureIn the blazing fire I throw;Sadly crackle up these relicsOf my happiness and woe.Vows of love, and fond deceivingBroken oaths all upwards flyIn the chimney, while in secretCupid laughs maliciously.Dreamily beside the fireplaceSit I, while the sparkles brightGlow in silence midst the ashes,—So farewell! good night! good night!
See these violets, dusty tresses,And this faded ribbon blue,Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,And these half-torn billets-doux,—
All, with angry look and gestureIn the blazing fire I throw;Sadly crackle up these relicsOf my happiness and woe.
Vows of love, and fond deceivingBroken oaths all upwards flyIn the chimney, while in secretCupid laughs maliciously.
Dreamily beside the fireplaceSit I, while the sparkles brightGlow in silence midst the ashes,—So farewell! good night! good night!
He who has already much,Finds his wealth increasing faster;Who but little, is of allSoon bereft by some disaster.But if thou hast nothing, friend,Go and hang thyself this minute;Only they who’ve aught on earthHave a claim for living in it.
He who has already much,Finds his wealth increasing faster;Who but little, is of allSoon bereft by some disaster.But if thou hast nothing, friend,Go and hang thyself this minute;Only they who’ve aught on earthHave a claim for living in it.
He who has already much,Finds his wealth increasing faster;Who but little, is of allSoon bereft by some disaster.
But if thou hast nothing, friend,Go and hang thyself this minute;Only they who’ve aught on earthHave a claim for living in it.
I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birthIn this delightful kitchen of earth;Each thing that the world contains that’s deliciousHave I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,And many a charming doll caress’d,Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,And had my pockets well lined with notes;The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,Had house and castle all à-la-mode.On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,And through my brain sweet visions raced,Sweet visions of endless May and flowers—How happily fleeted then the hours,So dim and hazy, so full of repose,—My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,And angels came, and out of their pocketsThe champagne bottles flew like rockets,—Bright visions were these,—soap-bubbles, alas!They burst,—and I lie on the humid grass;My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.Alas! each pleasure and gratificationI bought at the price of bitter vexation;I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrowI needs must lie, and I needs must borrowFrom wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,I even believe that I begg’d for a while.And now I would finish this wearisome race,And find in the grave a resting-place.Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,Once more we may hope to meet with each other.
I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birthIn this delightful kitchen of earth;Each thing that the world contains that’s deliciousHave I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,And many a charming doll caress’d,Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,And had my pockets well lined with notes;The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,Had house and castle all à-la-mode.On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,And through my brain sweet visions raced,Sweet visions of endless May and flowers—How happily fleeted then the hours,So dim and hazy, so full of repose,—My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,And angels came, and out of their pocketsThe champagne bottles flew like rockets,—Bright visions were these,—soap-bubbles, alas!They burst,—and I lie on the humid grass;My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.Alas! each pleasure and gratificationI bought at the price of bitter vexation;I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrowI needs must lie, and I needs must borrowFrom wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,I even believe that I begg’d for a while.And now I would finish this wearisome race,And find in the grave a resting-place.Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,Once more we may hope to meet with each other.
I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birthIn this delightful kitchen of earth;Each thing that the world contains that’s deliciousHave I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,And many a charming doll caress’d,Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,And had my pockets well lined with notes;The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,Had house and castle all à-la-mode.On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,And through my brain sweet visions raced,Sweet visions of endless May and flowers—How happily fleeted then the hours,So dim and hazy, so full of repose,—My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,And angels came, and out of their pocketsThe champagne bottles flew like rockets,—Bright visions were these,—soap-bubbles, alas!They burst,—and I lie on the humid grass;My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.Alas! each pleasure and gratificationI bought at the price of bitter vexation;I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrowI needs must lie, and I needs must borrowFrom wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,I even believe that I begg’d for a while.And now I would finish this wearisome race,And find in the grave a resting-place.Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,Once more we may hope to meet with each other.
The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skiesAs though it summon’d to battle;From out of their graves the dead arise,Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.Each thing that has legs prepares for the race,The spectres white are all drivenTo Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,Where judgment is now to be given.There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord,By all his apostles surrounded;Assessors are they,—each judgment, each wordOn love and wisdom is founded.No face is disguised in all that arrayFor every mask is seen fallingIn the radiant light of the judgment day,At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at lastThe whole of the troop is united,And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,I’ve the summary only recited:The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,—The parting is quickly effected;For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,And hell for the goats is selected.
The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skiesAs though it summon’d to battle;From out of their graves the dead arise,Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.Each thing that has legs prepares for the race,The spectres white are all drivenTo Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,Where judgment is now to be given.There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord,By all his apostles surrounded;Assessors are they,—each judgment, each wordOn love and wisdom is founded.No face is disguised in all that arrayFor every mask is seen fallingIn the radiant light of the judgment day,At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at lastThe whole of the troop is united,And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,I’ve the summary only recited:The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,—The parting is quickly effected;For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,And hell for the goats is selected.
The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skiesAs though it summon’d to battle;From out of their graves the dead arise,Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.
Each thing that has legs prepares for the race,The spectres white are all drivenTo Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,Where judgment is now to be given.
There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord,By all his apostles surrounded;Assessors are they,—each judgment, each wordOn love and wisdom is founded.
No face is disguised in all that arrayFor every mask is seen fallingIn the radiant light of the judgment day,At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.
At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at lastThe whole of the troop is united,And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,I’ve the summary only recited:
The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,—The parting is quickly effected;For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,And hell for the goats is selected.
Flying after bliss and light,Thou return’st in piteous plight;German truth and German shirtStrangers draggle through the dirt.Pale as death hast thou become,But take comfort, thou’rt at home;Warm as by the household hearthLie we under German earth.Many others, who fell lame,Home again, alas! ne’er came,Though they yearningly implored,—O have pity, gracious Lord!
Flying after bliss and light,Thou return’st in piteous plight;German truth and German shirtStrangers draggle through the dirt.Pale as death hast thou become,But take comfort, thou’rt at home;Warm as by the household hearthLie we under German earth.Many others, who fell lame,Home again, alas! ne’er came,Though they yearningly implored,—O have pity, gracious Lord!
Flying after bliss and light,Thou return’st in piteous plight;German truth and German shirtStrangers draggle through the dirt.
Pale as death hast thou become,But take comfort, thou’rt at home;Warm as by the household hearthLie we under German earth.
Many others, who fell lame,Home again, alas! ne’er came,Though they yearningly implored,—O have pity, gracious Lord!
Rich people only can be wonBy open, barefaced flattery;Money is flat, my worthy son,And needs must flatly flatter’d be.The box of incense swing with zealBefore all worshipp’d golden calves:In dust and mire with meekness kneel,And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.The price of bread this year is high,Fine words we lavish all in vain;Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,And earn a bellyful again.
Rich people only can be wonBy open, barefaced flattery;Money is flat, my worthy son,And needs must flatly flatter’d be.The box of incense swing with zealBefore all worshipp’d golden calves:In dust and mire with meekness kneel,And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.The price of bread this year is high,Fine words we lavish all in vain;Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,And earn a bellyful again.
Rich people only can be wonBy open, barefaced flattery;Money is flat, my worthy son,And needs must flatly flatter’d be.
The box of incense swing with zealBefore all worshipp’d golden calves:In dust and mire with meekness kneel,And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.
The price of bread this year is high,Fine words we lavish all in vain;Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,And earn a bellyful again.
The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,—O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the currentBeneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,They buried him under a grave of May flowers,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.O prudent wert thou, thus early in strivingTo ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,—O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the currentBeneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,They buried him under a grave of May flowers,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.O prudent wert thou, thus early in strivingTo ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,—O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]
The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the currentBeneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,They buried him under a grave of May flowers,But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
O prudent wert thou, thus early in strivingTo ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,—But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;Methinks the angels, who for our protectionDwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.The tulip has no scent. The saying is:Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may beWould have in time brought forth a thumping baby.The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;A woman may be witty and discreet,And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’enThe marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thouFaultless art not, nor free from failings now.“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,—A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!
Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;Methinks the angels, who for our protectionDwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.The tulip has no scent. The saying is:Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may beWould have in time brought forth a thumping baby.The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;A woman may be witty and discreet,And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’enThe marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thouFaultless art not, nor free from failings now.“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,—A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!
Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;Methinks the angels, who for our protectionDwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.
The tulip has no scent. The saying is:Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may beWould have in time brought forth a thumping baby.
The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;A woman may be witty and discreet,And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.
The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’enThe marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).
In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.
The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.
And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thouFaultless art not, nor free from failings now.“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,—A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!
When thou dost quit this mortal abode,Immortal spirit, beware theeLest dangers seek to ensnare thee;Through death and night conducteth the road.The soldiers of God at the golden doorOf the city of light are collected;Here actions and deeds are respected,Mere name and station avail no more.The pilgrim leaves at the portal behindHis shoes so heavy and dusty;O enter with confidence trusty,Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.
When thou dost quit this mortal abode,Immortal spirit, beware theeLest dangers seek to ensnare thee;Through death and night conducteth the road.The soldiers of God at the golden doorOf the city of light are collected;Here actions and deeds are respected,Mere name and station avail no more.The pilgrim leaves at the portal behindHis shoes so heavy and dusty;O enter with confidence trusty,Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.
When thou dost quit this mortal abode,Immortal spirit, beware theeLest dangers seek to ensnare thee;Through death and night conducteth the road.
The soldiers of God at the golden doorOf the city of light are collected;Here actions and deeds are respected,Mere name and station avail no more.
The pilgrim leaves at the portal behindHis shoes so heavy and dusty;O enter with confidence trusty,Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.
When we are dead, we long must lieWithin the tomb; distress’d am I,Yes, sad am I that resurrectionDelays so long to give perfection.Once more, before the light of lifeIs quench’d, before this weary strifeIs o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.Some fair one I would now inviteWith eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;No more I relish the advancesOf wild brunettes with burning glances.Young men, exulting in their youth,Prefer tumultuous love in truth.With them excitement’s all the fashion,And soul-enthralling mutual passion.No longer young, bereft of power,As I, alas! am at this hour,I fain once more would love in quiet,And happy be,—without a riot.
When we are dead, we long must lieWithin the tomb; distress’d am I,Yes, sad am I that resurrectionDelays so long to give perfection.Once more, before the light of lifeIs quench’d, before this weary strifeIs o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.Some fair one I would now inviteWith eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;No more I relish the advancesOf wild brunettes with burning glances.Young men, exulting in their youth,Prefer tumultuous love in truth.With them excitement’s all the fashion,And soul-enthralling mutual passion.No longer young, bereft of power,As I, alas! am at this hour,I fain once more would love in quiet,And happy be,—without a riot.
When we are dead, we long must lieWithin the tomb; distress’d am I,Yes, sad am I that resurrectionDelays so long to give perfection.
Once more, before the light of lifeIs quench’d, before this weary strifeIs o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.
Some fair one I would now inviteWith eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;No more I relish the advancesOf wild brunettes with burning glances.
Young men, exulting in their youth,Prefer tumultuous love in truth.With them excitement’s all the fashion,And soul-enthralling mutual passion.
No longer young, bereft of power,As I, alas! am at this hour,I fain once more would love in quiet,And happy be,—without a riot.
The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber;By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,On either side six thousand in number.The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming,And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightlyTwelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.But presently back in their sheaths are fallingThe angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeperGrows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,And soon his lips are gently calling:“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish!“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”
The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber;By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,On either side six thousand in number.The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming,And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightlyTwelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.But presently back in their sheaths are fallingThe angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeperGrows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,And soon his lips are gently calling:“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish!“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”
The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber;By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,On either side six thousand in number.
The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming,And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightlyTwelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.
But presently back in their sheaths are fallingThe angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeperGrows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,And soon his lips are gently calling:
“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish!“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”
Similar in disposition,Like a brother link’d to brother,We unconsciously were everGrowing fonder of each other.Each one knew the other’s meaning,Just as if we were omniscient;Words, in fact, we found superfluous,And a look was quite sufficient.How I long’d to have thee near me,Revelling in peace and plenty,As my staunch and valiant comradeIn a dolce far niente!Always to remain beside theeWas the aim of each endeavour;Everything that gave thee pleasure,To accomplish sought I ever.I enjoy’d what thou didst relish,Neither would I touch the dishesThou didst hate, and even smokingI commenced, to meet thy wishes.Many a funny Polish storyThat thy merriment excited,In a strange and Jewish accentTo repeat I then delighted.Yes, then long’d I to approach thee,Leave my foreign habitation,And beside thy fortune’s fireplaceTake for evermore my station.Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles!Like my life they all have vanish’d;On the ground I now am lying,Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.Fare ye well, ye golden wishesWhere my darling hopes once centred!Ah! the blow was far too deadlyThat my inmost heart has enter’d.
Similar in disposition,Like a brother link’d to brother,We unconsciously were everGrowing fonder of each other.Each one knew the other’s meaning,Just as if we were omniscient;Words, in fact, we found superfluous,And a look was quite sufficient.How I long’d to have thee near me,Revelling in peace and plenty,As my staunch and valiant comradeIn a dolce far niente!Always to remain beside theeWas the aim of each endeavour;Everything that gave thee pleasure,To accomplish sought I ever.I enjoy’d what thou didst relish,Neither would I touch the dishesThou didst hate, and even smokingI commenced, to meet thy wishes.Many a funny Polish storyThat thy merriment excited,In a strange and Jewish accentTo repeat I then delighted.Yes, then long’d I to approach thee,Leave my foreign habitation,And beside thy fortune’s fireplaceTake for evermore my station.Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles!Like my life they all have vanish’d;On the ground I now am lying,Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.Fare ye well, ye golden wishesWhere my darling hopes once centred!Ah! the blow was far too deadlyThat my inmost heart has enter’d.
Similar in disposition,Like a brother link’d to brother,We unconsciously were everGrowing fonder of each other.
Each one knew the other’s meaning,Just as if we were omniscient;Words, in fact, we found superfluous,And a look was quite sufficient.
How I long’d to have thee near me,Revelling in peace and plenty,As my staunch and valiant comradeIn a dolce far niente!
Always to remain beside theeWas the aim of each endeavour;Everything that gave thee pleasure,To accomplish sought I ever.
I enjoy’d what thou didst relish,Neither would I touch the dishesThou didst hate, and even smokingI commenced, to meet thy wishes.
Many a funny Polish storyThat thy merriment excited,In a strange and Jewish accentTo repeat I then delighted.
Yes, then long’d I to approach thee,Leave my foreign habitation,And beside thy fortune’s fireplaceTake for evermore my station.
Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles!Like my life they all have vanish’d;On the ground I now am lying,Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.
Fare ye well, ye golden wishesWhere my darling hopes once centred!Ah! the blow was far too deadlyThat my inmost heart has enter’d.
Not one mass will e’er be chanted,Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,When the day I died returneth,—Nothing will be sung or utter’d.Yet upon that day, it may be,If the weather has not chill’d her,On a visit to MontmartreWith Pauline will go Matilda.With a wreath of immortelles she’llDeck my grave in foreign fashion,Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadlyDrop a tear of fond compassion.I shall then too high be dwelling,And, alas! no chair have readyFor my darling’s use to offer,As she walks with foot unsteady.Sweet, stout little one, return notHome on foot, I must implore thee;At the barrier gate is standingA fiacre all ready for thee.
Not one mass will e’er be chanted,Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,When the day I died returneth,—Nothing will be sung or utter’d.Yet upon that day, it may be,If the weather has not chill’d her,On a visit to MontmartreWith Pauline will go Matilda.With a wreath of immortelles she’llDeck my grave in foreign fashion,Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadlyDrop a tear of fond compassion.I shall then too high be dwelling,And, alas! no chair have readyFor my darling’s use to offer,As she walks with foot unsteady.Sweet, stout little one, return notHome on foot, I must implore thee;At the barrier gate is standingA fiacre all ready for thee.
Not one mass will e’er be chanted,Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,When the day I died returneth,—Nothing will be sung or utter’d.
Yet upon that day, it may be,If the weather has not chill’d her,On a visit to MontmartreWith Pauline will go Matilda.
With a wreath of immortelles she’llDeck my grave in foreign fashion,Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadlyDrop a tear of fond compassion.
I shall then too high be dwelling,And, alas! no chair have readyFor my darling’s use to offer,As she walks with foot unsteady.
Sweet, stout little one, return notHome on foot, I must implore thee;At the barrier gate is standingA fiacre all ready for thee.
One summer eve, in the woodbine bowerWe sat once more at the window lonely;The moon arose with life-giving power,But we appear’d two spectres only.Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasionWhen we on this spot had sat together;Each tender glow, each loving persuasionHad meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.I silently sat. The woman, however,Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashesMust needs be raking, but vain her endeavourTo kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.And she recounted how she had contendedWith evil thoughts, the story disclosingHow hardly she once her virtue defended,—I stupidly listened to all her prosing.When homeward I rode, the trees beside meLike spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.
One summer eve, in the woodbine bowerWe sat once more at the window lonely;The moon arose with life-giving power,But we appear’d two spectres only.Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasionWhen we on this spot had sat together;Each tender glow, each loving persuasionHad meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.I silently sat. The woman, however,Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashesMust needs be raking, but vain her endeavourTo kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.And she recounted how she had contendedWith evil thoughts, the story disclosingHow hardly she once her virtue defended,—I stupidly listened to all her prosing.When homeward I rode, the trees beside meLike spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.
One summer eve, in the woodbine bowerWe sat once more at the window lonely;The moon arose with life-giving power,But we appear’d two spectres only.
Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasionWhen we on this spot had sat together;Each tender glow, each loving persuasionHad meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.
I silently sat. The woman, however,Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashesMust needs be raking, but vain her endeavourTo kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.
And she recounted how she had contendedWith evil thoughts, the story disclosingHow hardly she once her virtue defended,—I stupidly listened to all her prosing.
When homeward I rode, the trees beside meLike spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.
When fortune on me shed her ray,The gnats around me danced all day,Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,And all, in fashion brotherly,My viands with me tasted,And my last penny wasted.Fortune has fled, and void is my purse,My friends have left for better for worse,Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,Around me the gnats no longer play;My friends and the gnats togetherHave gone with the sunny weather.Beside my bed in the winter nightOld Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;She wears a habit that’s white enough,A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.The box is harshly creaking,As the woman a pinch is seeking.I often dream that the happy timeOf bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,And friendship, and all the gnats as well,—When creaks the snuffbox,—and, sad to tell,The bubble is straightway breaking,While the nurse her snuff is taking.
When fortune on me shed her ray,The gnats around me danced all day,Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,And all, in fashion brotherly,My viands with me tasted,And my last penny wasted.Fortune has fled, and void is my purse,My friends have left for better for worse,Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,Around me the gnats no longer play;My friends and the gnats togetherHave gone with the sunny weather.Beside my bed in the winter nightOld Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;She wears a habit that’s white enough,A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.The box is harshly creaking,As the woman a pinch is seeking.I often dream that the happy timeOf bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,And friendship, and all the gnats as well,—When creaks the snuffbox,—and, sad to tell,The bubble is straightway breaking,While the nurse her snuff is taking.
When fortune on me shed her ray,The gnats around me danced all day,Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,And all, in fashion brotherly,My viands with me tasted,And my last penny wasted.
Fortune has fled, and void is my purse,My friends have left for better for worse,Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,Around me the gnats no longer play;My friends and the gnats togetherHave gone with the sunny weather.
Beside my bed in the winter nightOld Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;She wears a habit that’s white enough,A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.The box is harshly creaking,As the woman a pinch is seeking.
I often dream that the happy timeOf bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,And friendship, and all the gnats as well,—When creaks the snuffbox,—and, sad to tell,The bubble is straightway breaking,While the nurse her snuff is taking.
This is dread Thanatos indeed!He comes upon his pale-white steed.I hear its tread, I hear its trot,The dusky horseman spares me not;He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,—This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.She was at once my child, my wife,And when I quit this mortal lifeAn orphan’d widow will she be!I leave alone on earth’s wide seaThe wife, the child, who, trusting to my guidingSlept on my bosom, careless and confiding.Ye angels in yon heavens so fairReceive my sobs, receive my prayer!When I am buried, from aboveProtect the woman that I love!Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!By all the tears e’er shed by youOver men’s woes in pity true,—By that dread word that priests aloneKnow, and ne’er breathe without a groan,By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!
This is dread Thanatos indeed!He comes upon his pale-white steed.I hear its tread, I hear its trot,The dusky horseman spares me not;He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,—This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.She was at once my child, my wife,And when I quit this mortal lifeAn orphan’d widow will she be!I leave alone on earth’s wide seaThe wife, the child, who, trusting to my guidingSlept on my bosom, careless and confiding.Ye angels in yon heavens so fairReceive my sobs, receive my prayer!When I am buried, from aboveProtect the woman that I love!Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!By all the tears e’er shed by youOver men’s woes in pity true,—By that dread word that priests aloneKnow, and ne’er breathe without a groan,By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!
This is dread Thanatos indeed!He comes upon his pale-white steed.I hear its tread, I hear its trot,The dusky horseman spares me not;He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,—This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.
She was at once my child, my wife,And when I quit this mortal lifeAn orphan’d widow will she be!I leave alone on earth’s wide seaThe wife, the child, who, trusting to my guidingSlept on my bosom, careless and confiding.
Ye angels in yon heavens so fairReceive my sobs, receive my prayer!When I am buried, from aboveProtect the woman that I love!Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!
By all the tears e’er shed by youOver men’s woes in pity true,—By that dread word that priests aloneKnow, and ne’er breathe without a groan,By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!
The weather now is calm and mild,And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,And Germany, that o’ergrown child,Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.Domestic joys we now pursue,All things beyond are false and hollow,And to the house’s gable too,Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.Forest and stream rest peacefully,With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.Perchance with weapons in his hand,Some madcap they have overtaken;(All do not flight well understandLike Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume,Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?Or Sontag rising from the tombGreeted, by rockets showering down upon her?And Francis Liszt appears again!He lives, he lies not dead and goryOn some Hungarian battle-plain,Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,And Hungary to death is bleeding—Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,His sword a quiet life at home is leading.Francis still lives; when old and grayOf the Hungarian war devoutlyHe’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”Hearing the name of Hungary,My German waistcoat grows too narrow;Beneath it foams a raging sea,The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.Once more across my memory throngThe hero-legend’s strains enthralling,The wild and iron martial song,The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.’Tis still the same heroic lot,’Tis still the same old noble stories;The names are changed, the natures not,—’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.And the same issue ’tis once more;However proudly flaunts the banner,The hero, as in days of yore,Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.This time the oxen and the bearIn firm alliance are united;Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,Still more have allourGerman hopes been blighted.While very decent beasts are theyWho have in fight become thy masters,We have, alas! become the preyOf wolves, swine, dogs,—so great are our disasters.They howl, grunt, bark,—the victor’s smellIs such, I fain would do without it;—But, Poet, hush!—it were as well,Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
The weather now is calm and mild,And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,And Germany, that o’ergrown child,Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.Domestic joys we now pursue,All things beyond are false and hollow,And to the house’s gable too,Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.Forest and stream rest peacefully,With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.Perchance with weapons in his hand,Some madcap they have overtaken;(All do not flight well understandLike Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume,Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?Or Sontag rising from the tombGreeted, by rockets showering down upon her?And Francis Liszt appears again!He lives, he lies not dead and goryOn some Hungarian battle-plain,Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,And Hungary to death is bleeding—Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,His sword a quiet life at home is leading.Francis still lives; when old and grayOf the Hungarian war devoutlyHe’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”Hearing the name of Hungary,My German waistcoat grows too narrow;Beneath it foams a raging sea,The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.Once more across my memory throngThe hero-legend’s strains enthralling,The wild and iron martial song,The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.’Tis still the same heroic lot,’Tis still the same old noble stories;The names are changed, the natures not,—’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.And the same issue ’tis once more;However proudly flaunts the banner,The hero, as in days of yore,Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.This time the oxen and the bearIn firm alliance are united;Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,Still more have allourGerman hopes been blighted.While very decent beasts are theyWho have in fight become thy masters,We have, alas! become the preyOf wolves, swine, dogs,—so great are our disasters.They howl, grunt, bark,—the victor’s smellIs such, I fain would do without it;—But, Poet, hush!—it were as well,Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
The weather now is calm and mild,And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,And Germany, that o’ergrown child,Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.
Domestic joys we now pursue,All things beyond are false and hollow,And to the house’s gable too,Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.
Forest and stream rest peacefully,With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.
Perchance with weapons in his hand,Some madcap they have overtaken;(All do not flight well understandLike Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).
Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume,Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?Or Sontag rising from the tombGreeted, by rockets showering down upon her?
And Francis Liszt appears again!He lives, he lies not dead and goryOn some Hungarian battle-plain,Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.
Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,And Hungary to death is bleeding—Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,His sword a quiet life at home is leading.
Francis still lives; when old and grayOf the Hungarian war devoutlyHe’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”
Hearing the name of Hungary,My German waistcoat grows too narrow;Beneath it foams a raging sea,The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.
Once more across my memory throngThe hero-legend’s strains enthralling,The wild and iron martial song,The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.
’Tis still the same heroic lot,’Tis still the same old noble stories;The names are changed, the natures not,—’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.
And the same issue ’tis once more;However proudly flaunts the banner,The hero, as in days of yore,Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.
This time the oxen and the bearIn firm alliance are united;Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,Still more have allourGerman hopes been blighted.
While very decent beasts are theyWho have in fight become thy masters,We have, alas! become the preyOf wolves, swine, dogs,—so great are our disasters.
They howl, grunt, bark,—the victor’s smellIs such, I fain would do without it;—But, Poet, hush!—it were as well,Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
In vision once more young and happy, paced INear the old country house that used to standHard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.How graceful was her figure! She enchantedWith the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;On her small feet how firmly was she planted,A form where elegance with vigour vies!Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,I wander not, my reason’s in command;Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before meShe stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.When I a lily from the stem had broken,I gave it her, and then these words address’d:“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,For presently I woke,—and now lie hereIn my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever—As I have hopeless lain for many a year.
In vision once more young and happy, paced INear the old country house that used to standHard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.How graceful was her figure! She enchantedWith the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;On her small feet how firmly was she planted,A form where elegance with vigour vies!Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,I wander not, my reason’s in command;Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before meShe stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.When I a lily from the stem had broken,I gave it her, and then these words address’d:“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,For presently I woke,—and now lie hereIn my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever—As I have hopeless lain for many a year.
In vision once more young and happy, paced INear the old country house that used to standHard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.
How graceful was her figure! She enchantedWith the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;On her small feet how firmly was she planted,A form where elegance with vigour vies!
Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.
It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,I wander not, my reason’s in command;Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before meShe stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.
When I a lily from the stem had broken,I gave it her, and then these words address’d:“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”
The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,For presently I woke,—and now lie hereIn my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever—As I have hopeless lain for many a year.
The curtain falls, as ends the play,And all the audience go away;And did the piece give satisfaction?Methinks they found it of attraction.A much-respected public thenIts poet thankfully commended;But now the house is hush’d again,And lights and merriment are ended.But hark to that dull heavy clangHard by the empty stage’s middle!It was perchance the bursting twangOf the worn string of some old fiddle.With rustling noise across the pitSome nasty rats like shadows flit,And rancid oil all places smell of,And the last lamp, with groans and sighsDespairing, then goes out and dies.—My soul was this poor light I tell of.
The curtain falls, as ends the play,And all the audience go away;And did the piece give satisfaction?Methinks they found it of attraction.A much-respected public thenIts poet thankfully commended;But now the house is hush’d again,And lights and merriment are ended.But hark to that dull heavy clangHard by the empty stage’s middle!It was perchance the bursting twangOf the worn string of some old fiddle.With rustling noise across the pitSome nasty rats like shadows flit,And rancid oil all places smell of,And the last lamp, with groans and sighsDespairing, then goes out and dies.—My soul was this poor light I tell of.
The curtain falls, as ends the play,And all the audience go away;And did the piece give satisfaction?Methinks they found it of attraction.A much-respected public thenIts poet thankfully commended;But now the house is hush’d again,And lights and merriment are ended.
But hark to that dull heavy clangHard by the empty stage’s middle!It was perchance the bursting twangOf the worn string of some old fiddle.With rustling noise across the pitSome nasty rats like shadows flit,And rancid oil all places smell of,And the last lamp, with groans and sighsDespairing, then goes out and dies.—My soul was this poor light I tell of.
Now that life is nearly spent,Here’s my will and testament,Giving every foe a present,As a Christian finds it pleasant:Let these gentry full of meritHave my sickness as their guerdon,All that makes my life a burden,—All my wretched pangs inherit.I bequeath you all the colicWhich my belly tweaks in frolic,—Strangury and these perfidiousPrussian piles so sharp and hideous.Unto you my cramps be given,Pains in joints, and salivation,Pains in back, and inflammation,—Every one the gift of heaven.Let this codicil then follow:—Lord! that wretched herd demolish,And their very name abolish,As they in their vileness wallow.
Now that life is nearly spent,Here’s my will and testament,Giving every foe a present,As a Christian finds it pleasant:Let these gentry full of meritHave my sickness as their guerdon,All that makes my life a burden,—All my wretched pangs inherit.I bequeath you all the colicWhich my belly tweaks in frolic,—Strangury and these perfidiousPrussian piles so sharp and hideous.Unto you my cramps be given,Pains in joints, and salivation,Pains in back, and inflammation,—Every one the gift of heaven.Let this codicil then follow:—Lord! that wretched herd demolish,And their very name abolish,As they in their vileness wallow.
Now that life is nearly spent,Here’s my will and testament,Giving every foe a present,As a Christian finds it pleasant:
Let these gentry full of meritHave my sickness as their guerdon,All that makes my life a burden,—All my wretched pangs inherit.
I bequeath you all the colicWhich my belly tweaks in frolic,—Strangury and these perfidiousPrussian piles so sharp and hideous.
Unto you my cramps be given,Pains in joints, and salivation,Pains in back, and inflammation,—Every one the gift of heaven.
Let this codicil then follow:—Lord! that wretched herd demolish,And their very name abolish,As they in their vileness wallow.
Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought IStoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought ISafe and uninjured home to see again.I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle,As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)In those long nights ennui would oft assail me,And fear as well,—(’tis fools who never fear;)To scare them, I delighted to regale meWith whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,—If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,I took a careful aim, and laid him gaspingWith a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.But by-and-by, if I may so express it,This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping—One falls, the others follow in his wake;Unvanquish’d fall I,—from my hands escapingMy arms break not, my heart alone doth break.
Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought IStoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought ISafe and uninjured home to see again.I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle,As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)In those long nights ennui would oft assail me,And fear as well,—(’tis fools who never fear;)To scare them, I delighted to regale meWith whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,—If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,I took a careful aim, and laid him gaspingWith a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.But by-and-by, if I may so express it,This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping—One falls, the others follow in his wake;Unvanquish’d fall I,—from my hands escapingMy arms break not, my heart alone doth break.
Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought IStoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought ISafe and uninjured home to see again.
I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle,As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)
In those long nights ennui would oft assail me,And fear as well,—(’tis fools who never fear;)To scare them, I delighted to regale meWith whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.
Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,—If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,I took a careful aim, and laid him gaspingWith a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.
But by-and-by, if I may so express it,This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.
A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping—One falls, the others follow in his wake;Unvanquish’d fall I,—from my hands escapingMy arms break not, my heart alone doth break.
O let the days of thy life pass notWithout tasting life’s blisses;And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,Let it fly, for it misses.If fortune should ever be passing thy way,To grasp her, forth sally;Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,But down in the valley.
O let the days of thy life pass notWithout tasting life’s blisses;And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,Let it fly, for it misses.If fortune should ever be passing thy way,To grasp her, forth sally;Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,But down in the valley.
O let the days of thy life pass notWithout tasting life’s blisses;And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,Let it fly, for it misses.
If fortune should ever be passing thy way,To grasp her, forth sally;Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,But down in the valley.
In Arabia’s books of storiesRead we of enchanted princes,Who from time to time recover’dTheir once handsome pristine features;Or the whilome hairy monsterTo a king’s son is converted,Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,And the flute divinely playing.Yet the magic time expires,And once more and of a suddenWe behold his royal highnessChanged into a shaggy monster.Of a prince of such-like fortuneSings my song. His name is Israel,And a witch’s art has changed himTo the figure of a dog.As a dog, with doggish notions,All the week his time he muddlesThrough life’s filthiness and sweepings,To the scavengers’ derision.But upon each Friday evening,Just at twilight, the enchantmentCeases suddenly,—the dogOnce more is a human being.As a man, with human feelings,With his head and breast raised proudlyDress’d in festival attire,His paternal halls he enters.“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd“Of my gracious regal father!“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”Through the house mysteriouslyGoes a whispering and buzzing,And the unseen master of itShudd’ring breathes amid the silence,—Silence, save the seneschal(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)Here and there with vigour springing,As the lamps he seeks to kindle.Golden lights so comfort-giving,How they glitter, how they glimmer!Proudly also flare the tapersOn the rails of the Almemor.At the shrine wherein the ThoraIs preserved, and which is cover’dWith the costly silken cov’ringThat with precious jewels sparkles,—There beside his post, alreadyStands prepared the parish minstrel,Dandy little man, who shouldersHis black cloak coquettishly.His white hand to show the better,At his neck he works, his fingerPressing strangely to his temple,And his thumb against his throat.To himself then softly trills he,Till at length his voice he raisesJoyfully, and loudly sings he“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle—“Loved one, come! the bride already“Waiteth for thee, to uncover“To thy face her blushing features!”This most charming marriage dittyWas composed by the illustriousFar and wide known MinnesingerDon Jehuda ben Halevy.In the song was celebratedThe espousals of Prince IsraelWith the lovely Princess Sabbath,Whom they call the silent princess.Pearl and flower of perfect beautyIs the Princess. Fairer neverWas the famous queen of Sheba,Solomon’s old bosom-friend,Ethiopian vain blue-stocking,Who with herespritwould dazzle,And with all her clever riddlesWas, I fear, extremely tedious.But our Princess Sabbath, who wasPeace itself personified,Held in utter detestationAll debates and wit-encounters.Equally abhorr’d she noisyAnd declamatory passion,—All that pathos which with flowingAnd dishevell’d hair storms wildly.Modestly the silent princessIn her hood conceals her tresses;Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,Slender as an Addas blooms she.She allows her lover all thingsSave this one,—tobacco-smoking:“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,“For to-day the Sabbath is.“But at noon, in compensation,“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,“Which is perfectly delicious—“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal,“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,Had he ever tasted Schalet.Schalet is the food of heaven,Which the Lord Himself taught MosesHow to cook, when on that visitTo the summit of Mount Sinai,Where the Lord Almighty alsoEvery good religious doctrineAnd the holy ten commandmentsPublish’d in a storm of lightning.Schalet is the pure ambrosiaThat the food of heaven composes—Is the bread of Paradise;And compared with food so glorious,The ambrosia of the spuriousHeathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’dAnd were naught but muffled devils,Was but wretched devil’s dung.When the prince this food hath tasted,Gleams his eye as if transfigured,And his waistcoat he unbuttons,And he speaks with smiles of rapture:“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring?“Is it not the gushing fountains“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,“Where the camels have their station?“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing?“Is it not the well-fed wethers“Whom the herdsman drives at evening“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”Yet the beauteous day fades quickly;As with long and shadowy legsHastens on the fell enchantment’sEvil hour, the prince sighs sadly,Feeling as though with his bosomIcy witches’ fingers grappled;He’s pervaded by the fear ofCanine metamorphosis.To the prince then hands the princessHer own golden box of spikenard;Long he smells, once more desiringTo find comfort in sweet odours.Next the parting drink the princessGives the prince—He hastilyDrinks, and in the goblet onlySome few drops are left untasted.With them sprinkles he the table,Then he takes a little waxlight,And he dips it in the moistureTill it crackles and goes out.
In Arabia’s books of storiesRead we of enchanted princes,Who from time to time recover’dTheir once handsome pristine features;Or the whilome hairy monsterTo a king’s son is converted,Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,And the flute divinely playing.Yet the magic time expires,And once more and of a suddenWe behold his royal highnessChanged into a shaggy monster.Of a prince of such-like fortuneSings my song. His name is Israel,And a witch’s art has changed himTo the figure of a dog.As a dog, with doggish notions,All the week his time he muddlesThrough life’s filthiness and sweepings,To the scavengers’ derision.But upon each Friday evening,Just at twilight, the enchantmentCeases suddenly,—the dogOnce more is a human being.As a man, with human feelings,With his head and breast raised proudlyDress’d in festival attire,His paternal halls he enters.“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd“Of my gracious regal father!“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”Through the house mysteriouslyGoes a whispering and buzzing,And the unseen master of itShudd’ring breathes amid the silence,—Silence, save the seneschal(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)Here and there with vigour springing,As the lamps he seeks to kindle.Golden lights so comfort-giving,How they glitter, how they glimmer!Proudly also flare the tapersOn the rails of the Almemor.At the shrine wherein the ThoraIs preserved, and which is cover’dWith the costly silken cov’ringThat with precious jewels sparkles,—There beside his post, alreadyStands prepared the parish minstrel,Dandy little man, who shouldersHis black cloak coquettishly.His white hand to show the better,At his neck he works, his fingerPressing strangely to his temple,And his thumb against his throat.To himself then softly trills he,Till at length his voice he raisesJoyfully, and loudly sings he“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle—“Loved one, come! the bride already“Waiteth for thee, to uncover“To thy face her blushing features!”This most charming marriage dittyWas composed by the illustriousFar and wide known MinnesingerDon Jehuda ben Halevy.In the song was celebratedThe espousals of Prince IsraelWith the lovely Princess Sabbath,Whom they call the silent princess.Pearl and flower of perfect beautyIs the Princess. Fairer neverWas the famous queen of Sheba,Solomon’s old bosom-friend,Ethiopian vain blue-stocking,Who with herespritwould dazzle,And with all her clever riddlesWas, I fear, extremely tedious.But our Princess Sabbath, who wasPeace itself personified,Held in utter detestationAll debates and wit-encounters.Equally abhorr’d she noisyAnd declamatory passion,—All that pathos which with flowingAnd dishevell’d hair storms wildly.Modestly the silent princessIn her hood conceals her tresses;Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,Slender as an Addas blooms she.She allows her lover all thingsSave this one,—tobacco-smoking:“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,“For to-day the Sabbath is.“But at noon, in compensation,“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,“Which is perfectly delicious—“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal,“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,Had he ever tasted Schalet.Schalet is the food of heaven,Which the Lord Himself taught MosesHow to cook, when on that visitTo the summit of Mount Sinai,Where the Lord Almighty alsoEvery good religious doctrineAnd the holy ten commandmentsPublish’d in a storm of lightning.Schalet is the pure ambrosiaThat the food of heaven composes—Is the bread of Paradise;And compared with food so glorious,The ambrosia of the spuriousHeathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’dAnd were naught but muffled devils,Was but wretched devil’s dung.When the prince this food hath tasted,Gleams his eye as if transfigured,And his waistcoat he unbuttons,And he speaks with smiles of rapture:“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring?“Is it not the gushing fountains“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,“Where the camels have their station?“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing?“Is it not the well-fed wethers“Whom the herdsman drives at evening“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”Yet the beauteous day fades quickly;As with long and shadowy legsHastens on the fell enchantment’sEvil hour, the prince sighs sadly,Feeling as though with his bosomIcy witches’ fingers grappled;He’s pervaded by the fear ofCanine metamorphosis.To the prince then hands the princessHer own golden box of spikenard;Long he smells, once more desiringTo find comfort in sweet odours.Next the parting drink the princessGives the prince—He hastilyDrinks, and in the goblet onlySome few drops are left untasted.With them sprinkles he the table,Then he takes a little waxlight,And he dips it in the moistureTill it crackles and goes out.
In Arabia’s books of storiesRead we of enchanted princes,Who from time to time recover’dTheir once handsome pristine features;
Or the whilome hairy monsterTo a king’s son is converted,Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,And the flute divinely playing.
Yet the magic time expires,And once more and of a suddenWe behold his royal highnessChanged into a shaggy monster.
Of a prince of such-like fortuneSings my song. His name is Israel,And a witch’s art has changed himTo the figure of a dog.
As a dog, with doggish notions,All the week his time he muddlesThrough life’s filthiness and sweepings,To the scavengers’ derision.
But upon each Friday evening,Just at twilight, the enchantmentCeases suddenly,—the dogOnce more is a human being.
As a man, with human feelings,With his head and breast raised proudlyDress’d in festival attire,His paternal halls he enters.
“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd“Of my gracious regal father!“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”
Through the house mysteriouslyGoes a whispering and buzzing,And the unseen master of itShudd’ring breathes amid the silence,—
Silence, save the seneschal(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)Here and there with vigour springing,As the lamps he seeks to kindle.
Golden lights so comfort-giving,How they glitter, how they glimmer!Proudly also flare the tapersOn the rails of the Almemor.
At the shrine wherein the ThoraIs preserved, and which is cover’dWith the costly silken cov’ringThat with precious jewels sparkles,—
There beside his post, alreadyStands prepared the parish minstrel,Dandy little man, who shouldersHis black cloak coquettishly.
His white hand to show the better,At his neck he works, his fingerPressing strangely to his temple,And his thumb against his throat.
To himself then softly trills he,Till at length his voice he raisesJoyfully, and loudly sings he“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle—“Loved one, come! the bride already“Waiteth for thee, to uncover“To thy face her blushing features!”
This most charming marriage dittyWas composed by the illustriousFar and wide known MinnesingerDon Jehuda ben Halevy.
In the song was celebratedThe espousals of Prince IsraelWith the lovely Princess Sabbath,Whom they call the silent princess.
Pearl and flower of perfect beautyIs the Princess. Fairer neverWas the famous queen of Sheba,Solomon’s old bosom-friend,
Ethiopian vain blue-stocking,Who with herespritwould dazzle,And with all her clever riddlesWas, I fear, extremely tedious.
But our Princess Sabbath, who wasPeace itself personified,Held in utter detestationAll debates and wit-encounters.
Equally abhorr’d she noisyAnd declamatory passion,—All that pathos which with flowingAnd dishevell’d hair storms wildly.
Modestly the silent princessIn her hood conceals her tresses;Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,Slender as an Addas blooms she.
She allows her lover all thingsSave this one,—tobacco-smoking:“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,“For to-day the Sabbath is.
“But at noon, in compensation,“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,“Which is perfectly delicious—“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”
“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal,“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,Had he ever tasted Schalet.
Schalet is the food of heaven,Which the Lord Himself taught MosesHow to cook, when on that visitTo the summit of Mount Sinai,
Where the Lord Almighty alsoEvery good religious doctrineAnd the holy ten commandmentsPublish’d in a storm of lightning.
Schalet is the pure ambrosiaThat the food of heaven composes—Is the bread of Paradise;And compared with food so glorious,
The ambrosia of the spuriousHeathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’dAnd were naught but muffled devils,Was but wretched devil’s dung.
When the prince this food hath tasted,Gleams his eye as if transfigured,And his waistcoat he unbuttons,And he speaks with smiles of rapture:
“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring?“Is it not the gushing fountains“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,“Where the camels have their station?
“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing?“Is it not the well-fed wethers“Whom the herdsman drives at evening“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”
Yet the beauteous day fades quickly;As with long and shadowy legsHastens on the fell enchantment’sEvil hour, the prince sighs sadly,
Feeling as though with his bosomIcy witches’ fingers grappled;He’s pervaded by the fear ofCanine metamorphosis.
To the prince then hands the princessHer own golden box of spikenard;Long he smells, once more desiringTo find comfort in sweet odours.
Next the parting drink the princessGives the prince—He hastilyDrinks, and in the goblet onlySome few drops are left untasted.
With them sprinkles he the table,Then he takes a little waxlight,And he dips it in the moistureTill it crackles and goes out.