When summer’s pleasant days have comeI’ll tell you all the historyOf the other wonders that came to passIn that long night of mystery.The olden hypocritical race,Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;To the grave it is sinking, and owes its deathTo its ceaseless habit of lying.Another race is rising up fast,By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,Of genial humour and thoughts,—to itI’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.The youth which the poet’s goodness and prideAppreciates, puts forth its blossom,And warms itself at his radiant soul,And against his feeling bosom.My heart is loving as the light,And pure and chaste as the fire;The noblest Graces themselves have tunedThe chords of my sweet lyre.’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songsMy worthy father uses,—The poet Aristophanes,The favourite of the Muses.In the previous chapter I tried my handAt copying the conclusionOf the play of the “Birds,” which certainly isMy father’s finest effusion.The “Frogs” is also capital. ThisIs now, in a German translation,Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at BerlinFor his Majesty’s edification.The King likes the piece. This shows his tasteFor the old-fashion’d style of joking;The late King far more amusement foundIn modern frogs’ loud croaking.The King likes the piece. But neverthelessWere the author still living, I kindlyWould counsel him to trust himselfIn Prussia not too blindly.The genuine AristophanesWould find it no subject for laughter;We should see him move, wherever he went,With a chorus of gendarmes after.O King, I really wish thee wellWhen this piece of advice I’m giving:Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,And tender be to the living.Affront the living poets not,With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,By the poets created and burnish’d.Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell,Regardless whether they know it;Affront the mightiest Lord of all,But O, affront not the poet!The deities harshly avenge in truthMan’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;The fire of hell is passably hot,And there he must roast and must swelter.Yet pious steps can the sinner releaseFrom the flames; for saying massesAnd giving to churches with liberal handFrom torment a certain pass is.When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend,And burst hell’s gloomy portals;And though he may sit in judgment strict,He still will acquit many mortals.And yet there are hells from out of whose clutchThere’s no escape to heaven;No prayers there avail, and powerless tooIs the Saviour’s pardon even.Is Dante’s hell to thee unknown,With its terrible trinary verses?The man whom the poet there has shut upWill never escape from his curses.He ne’er will be freed from those musical flamesBy any god or Saviour;So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!
When summer’s pleasant days have comeI’ll tell you all the historyOf the other wonders that came to passIn that long night of mystery.The olden hypocritical race,Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;To the grave it is sinking, and owes its deathTo its ceaseless habit of lying.Another race is rising up fast,By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,Of genial humour and thoughts,—to itI’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.The youth which the poet’s goodness and prideAppreciates, puts forth its blossom,And warms itself at his radiant soul,And against his feeling bosom.My heart is loving as the light,And pure and chaste as the fire;The noblest Graces themselves have tunedThe chords of my sweet lyre.’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songsMy worthy father uses,—The poet Aristophanes,The favourite of the Muses.In the previous chapter I tried my handAt copying the conclusionOf the play of the “Birds,” which certainly isMy father’s finest effusion.The “Frogs” is also capital. ThisIs now, in a German translation,Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at BerlinFor his Majesty’s edification.The King likes the piece. This shows his tasteFor the old-fashion’d style of joking;The late King far more amusement foundIn modern frogs’ loud croaking.The King likes the piece. But neverthelessWere the author still living, I kindlyWould counsel him to trust himselfIn Prussia not too blindly.The genuine AristophanesWould find it no subject for laughter;We should see him move, wherever he went,With a chorus of gendarmes after.O King, I really wish thee wellWhen this piece of advice I’m giving:Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,And tender be to the living.Affront the living poets not,With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,By the poets created and burnish’d.Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell,Regardless whether they know it;Affront the mightiest Lord of all,But O, affront not the poet!The deities harshly avenge in truthMan’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;The fire of hell is passably hot,And there he must roast and must swelter.Yet pious steps can the sinner releaseFrom the flames; for saying massesAnd giving to churches with liberal handFrom torment a certain pass is.When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend,And burst hell’s gloomy portals;And though he may sit in judgment strict,He still will acquit many mortals.And yet there are hells from out of whose clutchThere’s no escape to heaven;No prayers there avail, and powerless tooIs the Saviour’s pardon even.Is Dante’s hell to thee unknown,With its terrible trinary verses?The man whom the poet there has shut upWill never escape from his curses.He ne’er will be freed from those musical flamesBy any god or Saviour;So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!
When summer’s pleasant days have comeI’ll tell you all the historyOf the other wonders that came to passIn that long night of mystery.
The olden hypocritical race,Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;To the grave it is sinking, and owes its deathTo its ceaseless habit of lying.
Another race is rising up fast,By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,Of genial humour and thoughts,—to itI’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.
The youth which the poet’s goodness and prideAppreciates, puts forth its blossom,And warms itself at his radiant soul,And against his feeling bosom.
My heart is loving as the light,And pure and chaste as the fire;The noblest Graces themselves have tunedThe chords of my sweet lyre.
’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songsMy worthy father uses,—The poet Aristophanes,The favourite of the Muses.
In the previous chapter I tried my handAt copying the conclusionOf the play of the “Birds,” which certainly isMy father’s finest effusion.
The “Frogs” is also capital. ThisIs now, in a German translation,Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at BerlinFor his Majesty’s edification.
The King likes the piece. This shows his tasteFor the old-fashion’d style of joking;The late King far more amusement foundIn modern frogs’ loud croaking.
The King likes the piece. But neverthelessWere the author still living, I kindlyWould counsel him to trust himselfIn Prussia not too blindly.
The genuine AristophanesWould find it no subject for laughter;We should see him move, wherever he went,With a chorus of gendarmes after.
O King, I really wish thee wellWhen this piece of advice I’m giving:Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,And tender be to the living.
Affront the living poets not,With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,By the poets created and burnish’d.
Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell,Regardless whether they know it;Affront the mightiest Lord of all,But O, affront not the poet!
The deities harshly avenge in truthMan’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;The fire of hell is passably hot,And there he must roast and must swelter.
Yet pious steps can the sinner releaseFrom the flames; for saying massesAnd giving to churches with liberal handFrom torment a certain pass is.
When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend,And burst hell’s gloomy portals;And though he may sit in judgment strict,He still will acquit many mortals.
And yet there are hells from out of whose clutchThere’s no escape to heaven;No prayers there avail, and powerless tooIs the Saviour’s pardon even.
Is Dante’s hell to thee unknown,With its terrible trinary verses?The man whom the poet there has shut upWill never escape from his curses.
He ne’er will be freed from those musical flamesBy any god or Saviour;So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!
When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath,Let thy faith soar the higher;And when thy soul is sad unto death,Then strike thou the lyre.A flaming and glowing heroical songThe chords breathe discreetly!All anger flies, and thy spirit ere longWill bleed to death sweetly.
When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath,Let thy faith soar the higher;And when thy soul is sad unto death,Then strike thou the lyre.A flaming and glowing heroical songThe chords breathe discreetly!All anger flies, and thy spirit ere longWill bleed to death sweetly.
When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath,Let thy faith soar the higher;And when thy soul is sad unto death,Then strike thou the lyre.
A flaming and glowing heroical songThe chords breathe discreetly!All anger flies, and thy spirit ere longWill bleed to death sweetly.
When the King RhampsenitusEnter’d in the halls resplendentOf his daughter, she was laughing,As was also each attendant.E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs,Follow’d in loud chorus after;E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxesSeem’d about to burst with laughter.Then the princess said: “I fanciedThat I held the thief securely,But it was a dead arm onlyThat my hand had seized so surely.“I can see now how the robberTo thy storehouse penetrated,And despite all bars and fast’ningsAll thy treasure confiscated.“He a magic key possesses,“Which the door of house or stable“Straightway opens; to resist it“Are the strongest doors unable.“Now I’m really not a strong door,“Nor could I resist his pleasure;“So this night, while treasure-watching,“Have I lost my little treasure!”Round the chamber danced the princess,Laughing at this notion clever,And the maidens and the eunuchsLaugh’d again as loud as ever.On that day all Memphis laugh’d too,E’en the crocodiles so bloodyLaughingly their heads protrudedFrom the yellow Nile-stream muddy,When they heard the drum’s loud beating,And the foll’wing proclamationShouted by the public crierOn the bank, to all the nation:—“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace“King of Egypt, to our loyal“Well-belovèd friends and subjects“Hereby send our greeting royal.“In the night between the third and“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred“Four and twentieth year before Christ,“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d“Many jewels from the storehouse“Where we kept them, and more lately“Further thefts has perpetrated,“So that we have suffer’d greatly.“To discover the offender,“Made we our belovèd daughter“Sleep beside the treasure; but he“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.“Now, to check this wholesale plunder,“And to show our deep affection“For the thief, our admiration,“And our grateful recollection,“We will give our only daughter“As his lawful wife—God bless her!—“And to princely rank promote him,“Owning him as our successor.“Since our son-in-law’s abode is“Unknown to us just at present,“This our rescript shall inform him“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.“Done the third of January“Thirteen hundred twenty-six“Years before Christ; here our seal we,“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”And he kept his word; the thief heAs his son-in-law soon counted,And when he was dead, the robberOn the throne of Egypt mounted.And he ruled like other monarchs,Trade and talent patronizing,And the fewness of the robb’riesIn his reign was quite surprising.
When the King RhampsenitusEnter’d in the halls resplendentOf his daughter, she was laughing,As was also each attendant.E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs,Follow’d in loud chorus after;E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxesSeem’d about to burst with laughter.Then the princess said: “I fanciedThat I held the thief securely,But it was a dead arm onlyThat my hand had seized so surely.“I can see now how the robberTo thy storehouse penetrated,And despite all bars and fast’ningsAll thy treasure confiscated.“He a magic key possesses,“Which the door of house or stable“Straightway opens; to resist it“Are the strongest doors unable.“Now I’m really not a strong door,“Nor could I resist his pleasure;“So this night, while treasure-watching,“Have I lost my little treasure!”Round the chamber danced the princess,Laughing at this notion clever,And the maidens and the eunuchsLaugh’d again as loud as ever.On that day all Memphis laugh’d too,E’en the crocodiles so bloodyLaughingly their heads protrudedFrom the yellow Nile-stream muddy,When they heard the drum’s loud beating,And the foll’wing proclamationShouted by the public crierOn the bank, to all the nation:—“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace“King of Egypt, to our loyal“Well-belovèd friends and subjects“Hereby send our greeting royal.“In the night between the third and“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred“Four and twentieth year before Christ,“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d“Many jewels from the storehouse“Where we kept them, and more lately“Further thefts has perpetrated,“So that we have suffer’d greatly.“To discover the offender,“Made we our belovèd daughter“Sleep beside the treasure; but he“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.“Now, to check this wholesale plunder,“And to show our deep affection“For the thief, our admiration,“And our grateful recollection,“We will give our only daughter“As his lawful wife—God bless her!—“And to princely rank promote him,“Owning him as our successor.“Since our son-in-law’s abode is“Unknown to us just at present,“This our rescript shall inform him“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.“Done the third of January“Thirteen hundred twenty-six“Years before Christ; here our seal we,“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”And he kept his word; the thief heAs his son-in-law soon counted,And when he was dead, the robberOn the throne of Egypt mounted.And he ruled like other monarchs,Trade and talent patronizing,And the fewness of the robb’riesIn his reign was quite surprising.
When the King RhampsenitusEnter’d in the halls resplendentOf his daughter, she was laughing,As was also each attendant.
E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs,Follow’d in loud chorus after;E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxesSeem’d about to burst with laughter.
Then the princess said: “I fanciedThat I held the thief securely,But it was a dead arm onlyThat my hand had seized so surely.
“I can see now how the robberTo thy storehouse penetrated,And despite all bars and fast’ningsAll thy treasure confiscated.
“He a magic key possesses,“Which the door of house or stable“Straightway opens; to resist it“Are the strongest doors unable.
“Now I’m really not a strong door,“Nor could I resist his pleasure;“So this night, while treasure-watching,“Have I lost my little treasure!”
Round the chamber danced the princess,Laughing at this notion clever,And the maidens and the eunuchsLaugh’d again as loud as ever.
On that day all Memphis laugh’d too,E’en the crocodiles so bloodyLaughingly their heads protrudedFrom the yellow Nile-stream muddy,
When they heard the drum’s loud beating,And the foll’wing proclamationShouted by the public crierOn the bank, to all the nation:—
“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace“King of Egypt, to our loyal“Well-belovèd friends and subjects“Hereby send our greeting royal.
“In the night between the third and“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred“Four and twentieth year before Christ,“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d
“Many jewels from the storehouse“Where we kept them, and more lately“Further thefts has perpetrated,“So that we have suffer’d greatly.
“To discover the offender,“Made we our belovèd daughter“Sleep beside the treasure; but he“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.
“Now, to check this wholesale plunder,“And to show our deep affection“For the thief, our admiration,“And our grateful recollection,
“We will give our only daughter“As his lawful wife—God bless her!—“And to princely rank promote him,“Owning him as our successor.
“Since our son-in-law’s abode is“Unknown to us just at present,“This our rescript shall inform him“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.
“Done the third of January“Thirteen hundred twenty-six“Years before Christ; here our seal we,“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”
And he kept his word; the thief heAs his son-in-law soon counted,And when he was dead, the robberOn the throne of Egypt mounted.
And he ruled like other monarchs,Trade and talent patronizing,And the fewness of the robb’riesIn his reign was quite surprising.
Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King,Has half of India under his wing;Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obeyHis rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.Each year with banner, trumpet, and drumTo Siam the trains with the tribute come;Many thousand camels, with backs piled highWith the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.When the camels he sees with their heavy piles,The soul of the King in secret smiles;But in public in truth he always deploresThat his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious,So full of magnificence, so capacious,The reality’s splendour surpasses in gloryThe Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.The “Castle of Indra” call they the hallIn which are display’d the deities all,The golden images, chisell’d with care,And all incrusted with jewels so fair.Full thirty thousand their numbers are,Their ugliness passes description far;A compound of men and animals dread,With many a hand and many a head.In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly seesSome thirteen hundred coral trees,As big as palms, a singular sight,With spiral branches, a forest bright.The floor of purest crystal is made,And all the trees are in it display’d,While pheasants of glittering plumage gayStrut up and down in a dignified way.The ape on which the monarch doth doteA ribbon of silk wears round his throat,Whence hangs the key that opens the hallWhich people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.All kinds of jewels of value highAll over the ground here scatter’d lieLike common peas, with diamonds rareThat in size with the egg of a fowl compare.On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appearThe Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;The ape lies down by the monarch proud,And both of them slumber and snore aloud.But the King’s most precious, costly treasure,His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,The joy and the pride of MahawasantIs truly his snow-white elephant.As a home for a guest so highly respectedA splendid palace the King has erected;Gay lotos-headed columns upholdIts roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.Three hundred heralds stand at the gate,As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;And kneeling down with low-bent backThere serve him a hundred eunuchs black.For his proboscis the daintiest meatOn golden dishes they bring him to eat;From silver buckets he drinks his wine,Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.With perfumes they rub him, and otto of rosesOn his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,The richest shawls that are made in the EastAs carpets serve for the dignified beast.The happiest life appears to be his,But no one on earth contented is;The noble creature,—one cannot tell why,—Gives way to a deep despondency.The melancholy monster whiteIs wretched, all this profusion despite;They fain would enliven and cheer him again,But all their cleverest efforts are vain.In vain with singing and springing there comeThe bayaderes; the kettle drumAnd cornet in vain the musicians play,But nothing can make the elephant gay.As matters continue to go on badly,The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;He sends for the wisest astrologer known,And bids him stand before his throne.“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”—Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead“What is it that my poor elephant needs,“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”The other one threw himself thrice on the ground,And finally spoke with obeisance profound:“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.“There lives in the North a woman fair,“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.“Compared with her, he only appears“A little white mouse; her form she rears“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame;“Two lofty pilasters support the same,“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,“Of alabaster dazzling and white.“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic,“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!“As lamp there burns within the fane“A heart quite free from spot and stain.“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;“E’en Gautier[65]unable to do it, alas! is,“Its whiteness all description surpasses.“The highest Himalaya’s snow“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;“The lily that she by accident thumbs“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.“The Countess Bianca is the name“Of this enormous snow-white dame;“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.“By strange and wondrous elective affinity“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity“And into his heart this lofty Ideal“First crept by means of a vision unreal.“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy,“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill!“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’“His body alone is in Siam, his mind“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;“And yet this parting of body and soul“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly,“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive,“His return to the animal world contrive,“O King, then send the renown’d invalid“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.“When he on the spot in the actual sight“Of the beautiful lady can take delight—“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.“There where his mistress’s glances fall,“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface“Which in his bosom had taken their place.“And then her voice, like a magical tune,“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,“And feel as he felt in youthful days.“All things are so very enchanting and pretty“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!“How thy elephant there will civilized be,“Amusing himself right merrily!“But most of all, O monarch, take care“That plenty of money he has with him there,“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,“For a million of ducats or thereabouts;“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts“About him, but say with an accent mellow:“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”The astrologer thus discoursed, and thenHe threw himself thrice on the ground again.The king with rich presents sent him away,And stretched himself, his course to survey.He thought of this, and he thought of that;(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).His ape beside him took his seat,And both of them fell asleep with the heat.What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate;The Indian mails are behind their date.The last of these which has come to handWas by way of Suez, and overland.
Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King,Has half of India under his wing;Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obeyHis rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.Each year with banner, trumpet, and drumTo Siam the trains with the tribute come;Many thousand camels, with backs piled highWith the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.When the camels he sees with their heavy piles,The soul of the King in secret smiles;But in public in truth he always deploresThat his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious,So full of magnificence, so capacious,The reality’s splendour surpasses in gloryThe Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.The “Castle of Indra” call they the hallIn which are display’d the deities all,The golden images, chisell’d with care,And all incrusted with jewels so fair.Full thirty thousand their numbers are,Their ugliness passes description far;A compound of men and animals dread,With many a hand and many a head.In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly seesSome thirteen hundred coral trees,As big as palms, a singular sight,With spiral branches, a forest bright.The floor of purest crystal is made,And all the trees are in it display’d,While pheasants of glittering plumage gayStrut up and down in a dignified way.The ape on which the monarch doth doteA ribbon of silk wears round his throat,Whence hangs the key that opens the hallWhich people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.All kinds of jewels of value highAll over the ground here scatter’d lieLike common peas, with diamonds rareThat in size with the egg of a fowl compare.On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appearThe Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;The ape lies down by the monarch proud,And both of them slumber and snore aloud.But the King’s most precious, costly treasure,His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,The joy and the pride of MahawasantIs truly his snow-white elephant.As a home for a guest so highly respectedA splendid palace the King has erected;Gay lotos-headed columns upholdIts roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.Three hundred heralds stand at the gate,As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;And kneeling down with low-bent backThere serve him a hundred eunuchs black.For his proboscis the daintiest meatOn golden dishes they bring him to eat;From silver buckets he drinks his wine,Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.With perfumes they rub him, and otto of rosesOn his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,The richest shawls that are made in the EastAs carpets serve for the dignified beast.The happiest life appears to be his,But no one on earth contented is;The noble creature,—one cannot tell why,—Gives way to a deep despondency.The melancholy monster whiteIs wretched, all this profusion despite;They fain would enliven and cheer him again,But all their cleverest efforts are vain.In vain with singing and springing there comeThe bayaderes; the kettle drumAnd cornet in vain the musicians play,But nothing can make the elephant gay.As matters continue to go on badly,The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;He sends for the wisest astrologer known,And bids him stand before his throne.“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”—Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead“What is it that my poor elephant needs,“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”The other one threw himself thrice on the ground,And finally spoke with obeisance profound:“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.“There lives in the North a woman fair,“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.“Compared with her, he only appears“A little white mouse; her form she rears“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame;“Two lofty pilasters support the same,“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,“Of alabaster dazzling and white.“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic,“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!“As lamp there burns within the fane“A heart quite free from spot and stain.“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;“E’en Gautier[65]unable to do it, alas! is,“Its whiteness all description surpasses.“The highest Himalaya’s snow“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;“The lily that she by accident thumbs“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.“The Countess Bianca is the name“Of this enormous snow-white dame;“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.“By strange and wondrous elective affinity“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity“And into his heart this lofty Ideal“First crept by means of a vision unreal.“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy,“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill!“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’“His body alone is in Siam, his mind“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;“And yet this parting of body and soul“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly,“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive,“His return to the animal world contrive,“O King, then send the renown’d invalid“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.“When he on the spot in the actual sight“Of the beautiful lady can take delight—“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.“There where his mistress’s glances fall,“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface“Which in his bosom had taken their place.“And then her voice, like a magical tune,“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,“And feel as he felt in youthful days.“All things are so very enchanting and pretty“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!“How thy elephant there will civilized be,“Amusing himself right merrily!“But most of all, O monarch, take care“That plenty of money he has with him there,“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,“For a million of ducats or thereabouts;“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts“About him, but say with an accent mellow:“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”The astrologer thus discoursed, and thenHe threw himself thrice on the ground again.The king with rich presents sent him away,And stretched himself, his course to survey.He thought of this, and he thought of that;(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).His ape beside him took his seat,And both of them fell asleep with the heat.What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate;The Indian mails are behind their date.The last of these which has come to handWas by way of Suez, and overland.
Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King,Has half of India under his wing;Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obeyHis rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.
Each year with banner, trumpet, and drumTo Siam the trains with the tribute come;Many thousand camels, with backs piled highWith the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.
When the camels he sees with their heavy piles,The soul of the King in secret smiles;But in public in truth he always deploresThat his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.
Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious,So full of magnificence, so capacious,The reality’s splendour surpasses in gloryThe Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.
The “Castle of Indra” call they the hallIn which are display’d the deities all,The golden images, chisell’d with care,And all incrusted with jewels so fair.
Full thirty thousand their numbers are,Their ugliness passes description far;A compound of men and animals dread,With many a hand and many a head.
In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly seesSome thirteen hundred coral trees,As big as palms, a singular sight,With spiral branches, a forest bright.
The floor of purest crystal is made,And all the trees are in it display’d,While pheasants of glittering plumage gayStrut up and down in a dignified way.
The ape on which the monarch doth doteA ribbon of silk wears round his throat,Whence hangs the key that opens the hallWhich people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.
All kinds of jewels of value highAll over the ground here scatter’d lieLike common peas, with diamonds rareThat in size with the egg of a fowl compare.
On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appearThe Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;The ape lies down by the monarch proud,And both of them slumber and snore aloud.
But the King’s most precious, costly treasure,His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,The joy and the pride of MahawasantIs truly his snow-white elephant.
As a home for a guest so highly respectedA splendid palace the King has erected;Gay lotos-headed columns upholdIts roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.
Three hundred heralds stand at the gate,As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;And kneeling down with low-bent backThere serve him a hundred eunuchs black.
For his proboscis the daintiest meatOn golden dishes they bring him to eat;From silver buckets he drinks his wine,Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.
With perfumes they rub him, and otto of rosesOn his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,The richest shawls that are made in the EastAs carpets serve for the dignified beast.
The happiest life appears to be his,But no one on earth contented is;The noble creature,—one cannot tell why,—Gives way to a deep despondency.
The melancholy monster whiteIs wretched, all this profusion despite;They fain would enliven and cheer him again,But all their cleverest efforts are vain.
In vain with singing and springing there comeThe bayaderes; the kettle drumAnd cornet in vain the musicians play,But nothing can make the elephant gay.
As matters continue to go on badly,The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;He sends for the wisest astrologer known,And bids him stand before his throne.
“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”—Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead“What is it that my poor elephant needs,“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”
The other one threw himself thrice on the ground,And finally spoke with obeisance profound:“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.
“There lives in the North a woman fair,“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.
“Compared with her, he only appears“A little white mouse; her form she rears“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.
“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame;“Two lofty pilasters support the same,“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,“Of alabaster dazzling and white.
“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic,“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!“As lamp there burns within the fane“A heart quite free from spot and stain.
“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;“E’en Gautier[65]unable to do it, alas! is,“Its whiteness all description surpasses.
“The highest Himalaya’s snow“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;“The lily that she by accident thumbs“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.
“The Countess Bianca is the name“Of this enormous snow-white dame;“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.
“By strange and wondrous elective affinity“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity“And into his heart this lofty Ideal“First crept by means of a vision unreal.
“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy,“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.
“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill!“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’
“His body alone is in Siam, his mind“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;“And yet this parting of body and soul“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.
“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly,“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.
“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive,“His return to the animal world contrive,“O King, then send the renown’d invalid“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.
“When he on the spot in the actual sight“Of the beautiful lady can take delight—“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.
“There where his mistress’s glances fall,“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface“Which in his bosom had taken their place.
“And then her voice, like a magical tune,“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,“And feel as he felt in youthful days.
“All things are so very enchanting and pretty“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!“How thy elephant there will civilized be,“Amusing himself right merrily!
“But most of all, O monarch, take care“That plenty of money he has with him there,“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,
“For a million of ducats or thereabouts;“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts“About him, but say with an accent mellow:“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”
The astrologer thus discoursed, and thenHe threw himself thrice on the ground again.The king with rich presents sent him away,And stretched himself, his course to survey.
He thought of this, and he thought of that;(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).His ape beside him took his seat,And both of them fell asleep with the heat.
What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate;The Indian mails are behind their date.The last of these which has come to handWas by way of Suez, and overland.
At Dusseldorf castle on the RhineThey’re gaily masquerading;The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,The music their nimbleness aiding.The beauteous Duchess dances too,And ceases laughing never;Her partner is a slender youth,Who seems right courtly and clever.He wears a mask of velvet black,Whence merrily is peepingAn eye just like a shining dirkFrom out of its sheath half creeping.The carnival throng exultingly shoutAs they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]Salute with loud noise and grimaces.The trumpets crash, and the merry humOf the double-bass increases,Until the dance to an end has come,And then the music ceases.“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“’Tis time for me to go now—”“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,“Unless your face you show now.”“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“My face is a hideous creature’s—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,“I insist upon seeing your features.”“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“For night and death are my portion—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”In vain he struggled with gloomy wordsTo change her determination;At length she forcibly tore the maskFrom his face for her information.“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hallExclaim with a feeling of terror,And timidly shrink;—the Duchess rush’d out,Her husband to tell of her error.The Duke was wise, and all the disgraceOf the Duchess straightway effac’d he;He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,Good fellow!” with accents hasty.“With this stroke of the sword I make you now“A limb of the order knightly;“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”So the headsman became a nobleman proud,Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,Though now they all underground are!
At Dusseldorf castle on the RhineThey’re gaily masquerading;The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,The music their nimbleness aiding.The beauteous Duchess dances too,And ceases laughing never;Her partner is a slender youth,Who seems right courtly and clever.He wears a mask of velvet black,Whence merrily is peepingAn eye just like a shining dirkFrom out of its sheath half creeping.The carnival throng exultingly shoutAs they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]Salute with loud noise and grimaces.The trumpets crash, and the merry humOf the double-bass increases,Until the dance to an end has come,And then the music ceases.“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“’Tis time for me to go now—”“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,“Unless your face you show now.”“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“My face is a hideous creature’s—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,“I insist upon seeing your features.”“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“For night and death are my portion—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”In vain he struggled with gloomy wordsTo change her determination;At length she forcibly tore the maskFrom his face for her information.“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hallExclaim with a feeling of terror,And timidly shrink;—the Duchess rush’d out,Her husband to tell of her error.The Duke was wise, and all the disgraceOf the Duchess straightway effac’d he;He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,Good fellow!” with accents hasty.“With this stroke of the sword I make you now“A limb of the order knightly;“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”So the headsman became a nobleman proud,Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,Though now they all underground are!
At Dusseldorf castle on the RhineThey’re gaily masquerading;The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,The music their nimbleness aiding.
The beauteous Duchess dances too,And ceases laughing never;Her partner is a slender youth,Who seems right courtly and clever.
He wears a mask of velvet black,Whence merrily is peepingAn eye just like a shining dirkFrom out of its sheath half creeping.
The carnival throng exultingly shoutAs they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]Salute with loud noise and grimaces.
The trumpets crash, and the merry humOf the double-bass increases,Until the dance to an end has come,And then the music ceases.
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“’Tis time for me to go now—”“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,“Unless your face you show now.”
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“My face is a hideous creature’s—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,“I insist upon seeing your features.”
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,“For night and death are my portion—”“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”
In vain he struggled with gloomy wordsTo change her determination;At length she forcibly tore the maskFrom his face for her information.
“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hallExclaim with a feeling of terror,And timidly shrink;—the Duchess rush’d out,Her husband to tell of her error.
The Duke was wise, and all the disgraceOf the Duchess straightway effac’d he;He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,Good fellow!” with accents hasty.
“With this stroke of the sword I make you now“A limb of the order knightly;“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”
So the headsman became a nobleman proud,Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,Though now they all underground are!
While below contending forcesFight, above on cloudy horsesThree Valkyres ride; their songThrough the air re-echoes long.“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel,“Each would bear away the laurel;“Conquest is the highest prize,“Highest worth in courage lies.“No proud helmet gives protection,“Death brings all things in subjection;“And the hero’s blood is shed,“And the wicked win instead.“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!On the morrow in he marches,“Who the better one o’erthrew,“Winning land and people too.“Senator and burgomaster“Go to meet the victor faster“With the keys that ope the gate,“And the train then enters straight.“Cannon from the walls are crashing,“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.“On the balconies are standing“Smiling beauteous women, handing“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
While below contending forcesFight, above on cloudy horsesThree Valkyres ride; their songThrough the air re-echoes long.“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel,“Each would bear away the laurel;“Conquest is the highest prize,“Highest worth in courage lies.“No proud helmet gives protection,“Death brings all things in subjection;“And the hero’s blood is shed,“And the wicked win instead.“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!On the morrow in he marches,“Who the better one o’erthrew,“Winning land and people too.“Senator and burgomaster“Go to meet the victor faster“With the keys that ope the gate,“And the train then enters straight.“Cannon from the walls are crashing,“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.“On the balconies are standing“Smiling beauteous women, handing“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
While below contending forcesFight, above on cloudy horsesThree Valkyres ride; their songThrough the air re-echoes long.
“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel,“Each would bear away the laurel;“Conquest is the highest prize,“Highest worth in courage lies.
“No proud helmet gives protection,“Death brings all things in subjection;“And the hero’s blood is shed,“And the wicked win instead.
“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!On the morrow in he marches,“Who the better one o’erthrew,“Winning land and people too.
“Senator and burgomaster“Go to meet the victor faster“With the keys that ope the gate,“And the train then enters straight.
“Cannon from the walls are crashing,“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.
“On the balconies are standing“Smiling beauteous women, handing“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’dWhen he heard the tragical storyThat Harold the king had lost his lifeOn Hastings battle-field gory.Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, heAs messengers then selected,To seek at Hastings amongst the deadFor Harold’s body neglected.The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,And return’d with faces averted:“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,“We seem by Fortune deserted.“The better man has fallen in fight,“O’ercome by that bastard demon;“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,“And make a slave of the freeman.“The veriest rascal in Normandy now“Is lord of the island of Britain;“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs“We saw as gay as a kitten.“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.“The meaning now we can understand“Of the blood-red comet which lately“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.“At Hastings there was realized“The evil star’s prediction;“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there“We sought with deep affliction.“Till every hope had disappear’d“We sought in each direction;“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,“Escaped our close inspection.”’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d heThen sank in deep thought, and finally said,As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,“In beauty once so excelling.“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,“Because her neck in its splendour“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king“Loved the maid with affection tender.“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then“Forgot, like a faithless lover;Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years“Have since those days pass’d over.“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,“And bid her return with you quickly“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.“And when you have found his body, with speed“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,“That we for his soul due masses may sing,“And like a Christian inter him.”At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’dThe hut in the forest, saying:“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,“And follow without delaying.“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,“And the routed Saxons are flying,“And on the field of Hastings the corpse“Of Harold the King is lying.“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there“The body beneath the dead hidden,“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,And not one word she utter’d,But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hairIn the wind all wildly flutter’d.The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coastAt the dawning of day descried they.The mist, which like a snowy veil,The battle-field was cloaking,Dispersed by degrees; the noisy dawsWere flapping their wings and croaking.Many thousand corpses were lying thereOn the earth with blood bespatter’d,Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steedAmong the carcases scatter’d.Poor Edith the Swanneck in the bloodWith naked feet now waded;No single spot the searching glanceOf her piercing eye evaded.Both here and there she sought, and she oftHad to scare away the devouringBlack troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;The monks behind her were cowering.She sought throughout the livelong day,Till the shades of the evening were falling;When out of the poor woman’s breast there burstA shriek both wild and appalling.For Edith the Swanneck had found at lastThe corpse of the king, poor creature!No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,She kiss’d each pallid feature.She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,Her arms encircled him tightly;She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,Disfigured by wounds unsightly.Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,—And cover’d them over with kisses,—Three little scars that her teeth had made,The signs of their former blisses.And in the meantime the pair of monksSome branches of trees collected;These form’d the bier, on which they boreThe body, with hearts dejected.To Waltham Abbey the body they took,To bury it rightly and duly,And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpseOf him she had loved so truly.The litanies for the dead she sangIn childlike pious fashion,And in the night they fearfully rang,—The monks pray’d, full of compassion.
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’dWhen he heard the tragical storyThat Harold the king had lost his lifeOn Hastings battle-field gory.Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, heAs messengers then selected,To seek at Hastings amongst the deadFor Harold’s body neglected.The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,And return’d with faces averted:“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,“We seem by Fortune deserted.“The better man has fallen in fight,“O’ercome by that bastard demon;“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,“And make a slave of the freeman.“The veriest rascal in Normandy now“Is lord of the island of Britain;“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs“We saw as gay as a kitten.“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.“The meaning now we can understand“Of the blood-red comet which lately“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.“At Hastings there was realized“The evil star’s prediction;“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there“We sought with deep affliction.“Till every hope had disappear’d“We sought in each direction;“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,“Escaped our close inspection.”’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d heThen sank in deep thought, and finally said,As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,“In beauty once so excelling.“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,“Because her neck in its splendour“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king“Loved the maid with affection tender.“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then“Forgot, like a faithless lover;Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years“Have since those days pass’d over.“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,“And bid her return with you quickly“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.“And when you have found his body, with speed“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,“That we for his soul due masses may sing,“And like a Christian inter him.”At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’dThe hut in the forest, saying:“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,“And follow without delaying.“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,“And the routed Saxons are flying,“And on the field of Hastings the corpse“Of Harold the King is lying.“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there“The body beneath the dead hidden,“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,And not one word she utter’d,But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hairIn the wind all wildly flutter’d.The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coastAt the dawning of day descried they.The mist, which like a snowy veil,The battle-field was cloaking,Dispersed by degrees; the noisy dawsWere flapping their wings and croaking.Many thousand corpses were lying thereOn the earth with blood bespatter’d,Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steedAmong the carcases scatter’d.Poor Edith the Swanneck in the bloodWith naked feet now waded;No single spot the searching glanceOf her piercing eye evaded.Both here and there she sought, and she oftHad to scare away the devouringBlack troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;The monks behind her were cowering.She sought throughout the livelong day,Till the shades of the evening were falling;When out of the poor woman’s breast there burstA shriek both wild and appalling.For Edith the Swanneck had found at lastThe corpse of the king, poor creature!No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,She kiss’d each pallid feature.She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,Her arms encircled him tightly;She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,Disfigured by wounds unsightly.Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,—And cover’d them over with kisses,—Three little scars that her teeth had made,The signs of their former blisses.And in the meantime the pair of monksSome branches of trees collected;These form’d the bier, on which they boreThe body, with hearts dejected.To Waltham Abbey the body they took,To bury it rightly and duly,And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpseOf him she had loved so truly.The litanies for the dead she sangIn childlike pious fashion,And in the night they fearfully rang,—The monks pray’d, full of compassion.
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’dWhen he heard the tragical storyThat Harold the king had lost his lifeOn Hastings battle-field gory.
Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, heAs messengers then selected,To seek at Hastings amongst the deadFor Harold’s body neglected.
The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,And return’d with faces averted:“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,“We seem by Fortune deserted.
“The better man has fallen in fight,“O’ercome by that bastard demon;“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,“And make a slave of the freeman.
“The veriest rascal in Normandy now“Is lord of the island of Britain;“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs“We saw as gay as a kitten.
“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.
“The meaning now we can understand“Of the blood-red comet which lately“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.
“At Hastings there was realized“The evil star’s prediction;“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there“We sought with deep affliction.
“Till every hope had disappear’d“We sought in each direction;“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,“Escaped our close inspection.”
’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d heThen sank in deep thought, and finally said,As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:
“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,“In beauty once so excelling.
“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,“Because her neck in its splendour“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king“Loved the maid with affection tender.
“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then“Forgot, like a faithless lover;Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years“Have since those days pass’d over.
“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,“And bid her return with you quickly“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.
“And when you have found his body, with speed“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,“That we for his soul due masses may sing,“And like a Christian inter him.”
At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’dThe hut in the forest, saying:“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,“And follow without delaying.
“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,“And the routed Saxons are flying,“And on the field of Hastings the corpse“Of Harold the King is lying.
“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there“The body beneath the dead hidden,“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”
Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,And not one word she utter’d,But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hairIn the wind all wildly flutter’d.
The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coastAt the dawning of day descried they.
The mist, which like a snowy veil,The battle-field was cloaking,Dispersed by degrees; the noisy dawsWere flapping their wings and croaking.
Many thousand corpses were lying thereOn the earth with blood bespatter’d,Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steedAmong the carcases scatter’d.
Poor Edith the Swanneck in the bloodWith naked feet now waded;No single spot the searching glanceOf her piercing eye evaded.
Both here and there she sought, and she oftHad to scare away the devouringBlack troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;The monks behind her were cowering.
She sought throughout the livelong day,Till the shades of the evening were falling;When out of the poor woman’s breast there burstA shriek both wild and appalling.
For Edith the Swanneck had found at lastThe corpse of the king, poor creature!No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,She kiss’d each pallid feature.
She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,Her arms encircled him tightly;She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,Disfigured by wounds unsightly.
Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,—And cover’d them over with kisses,—Three little scars that her teeth had made,The signs of their former blisses.
And in the meantime the pair of monksSome branches of trees collected;These form’d the bier, on which they boreThe body, with hearts dejected.
To Waltham Abbey the body they took,To bury it rightly and duly,And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpseOf him she had loved so truly.
The litanies for the dead she sangIn childlike pious fashion,And in the night they fearfully rang,—The monks pray’d, full of compassion.
In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the woodSits the king, an object of pity;The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,And sings this monotonous ditty:“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow“The sign,—and dead is the kitten;“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,“And now no longer receive they,—“Eiapopeia,—the faith in a God,“Still less in the king believe they.“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice“And we from their presence are driven,—“Eiapopeia,—I, monarch on earth,“And God, the monarch in heaven.“My heart grows sicker day by day,“My brow grows sterner and sterner;“Eiapopeia,—my headsman art thou,“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!“My song of death is thy cradle-song—“Eiapopeia—thou’lt fumble“My grey locks about, and cut them off,—“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;“Thou strikest off from my body my head,—“The life of the kitten is ended.“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,—“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”
In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the woodSits the king, an object of pity;The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,And sings this monotonous ditty:“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow“The sign,—and dead is the kitten;“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,“And now no longer receive they,—“Eiapopeia,—the faith in a God,“Still less in the king believe they.“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice“And we from their presence are driven,—“Eiapopeia,—I, monarch on earth,“And God, the monarch in heaven.“My heart grows sicker day by day,“My brow grows sterner and sterner;“Eiapopeia,—my headsman art thou,“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!“My song of death is thy cradle-song—“Eiapopeia—thou’lt fumble“My grey locks about, and cut them off,—“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;“Thou strikest off from my body my head,—“The life of the kitten is ended.“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,—“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”
In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the woodSits the king, an object of pity;The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,And sings this monotonous ditty:
“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.
“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow“The sign,—and dead is the kitten;“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.
“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,“And now no longer receive they,—“Eiapopeia,—the faith in a God,“Still less in the king believe they.
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice“And we from their presence are driven,—“Eiapopeia,—I, monarch on earth,“And God, the monarch in heaven.
“My heart grows sicker day by day,“My brow grows sterner and sterner;“Eiapopeia,—my headsman art thou,“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!
“My song of death is thy cradle-song—“Eiapopeia—thou’lt fumble“My grey locks about, and cut them off,—“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.
“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;“Thou strikest off from my body my head,—“The life of the kitten is ended.
“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,—“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”
The plate-glass windows gleam in the sunIn the Tuileries Castle gaily;And yet the well-known spectres of oldStill walk about in it daily.Queen Marie Antoinette still doth hauntThe famous pavilion of Flora;With strict etiquette she holds her courtAt each return of Aurora.Full dress’d are the ladies,—they most of them stand,On tabourets others are sitting,With dresses of satin and gold brocade,Hung with lace and jewels befitting.Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,And from underneath them are peepingTheir high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,—If their heads were but still in their keeping!Not one of the number a head has on,The queen herself in that articleIs wanting, and so Her Majesty boastsOf frizzling not one particle.Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,In dignity so resplendent,Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,The German Cæsar’s descendant,She, curlless and headless, now must walkAmongst her maids of honour,Who, equally headless and void of curls,Are humbly waiting upon her.All this from the French Revolution has sprung,And its doctrines so pernicious,From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,And Voltaire the malicious.Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly thinkThat none of these hapless creaturesHave ever observed how dead they are,How devoid of head and features.The firstdame d’atoura linen shift brings,And makes a reverence lowly;The second hands it to the queen,And both retire then slowly.The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneelBefore the queen discreetly,That they may be able to draw onHer Majesty’s stockings neatly.A maid of honour curtsying bringsHer Majesty’s robe for the morning;Another with curtsies her petticoat holdsAnd assists at the queen’s adorning.The mistress of the robes with her fanStands by, the time beguiling;And as her head is unhappily gone,With her other end she is smiling.The sun his inquisitive glances throwsInside the draperied casement;But when the apparitions he sees,He starts in fearful amazement.
The plate-glass windows gleam in the sunIn the Tuileries Castle gaily;And yet the well-known spectres of oldStill walk about in it daily.Queen Marie Antoinette still doth hauntThe famous pavilion of Flora;With strict etiquette she holds her courtAt each return of Aurora.Full dress’d are the ladies,—they most of them stand,On tabourets others are sitting,With dresses of satin and gold brocade,Hung with lace and jewels befitting.Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,And from underneath them are peepingTheir high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,—If their heads were but still in their keeping!Not one of the number a head has on,The queen herself in that articleIs wanting, and so Her Majesty boastsOf frizzling not one particle.Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,In dignity so resplendent,Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,The German Cæsar’s descendant,She, curlless and headless, now must walkAmongst her maids of honour,Who, equally headless and void of curls,Are humbly waiting upon her.All this from the French Revolution has sprung,And its doctrines so pernicious,From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,And Voltaire the malicious.Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly thinkThat none of these hapless creaturesHave ever observed how dead they are,How devoid of head and features.The firstdame d’atoura linen shift brings,And makes a reverence lowly;The second hands it to the queen,And both retire then slowly.The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneelBefore the queen discreetly,That they may be able to draw onHer Majesty’s stockings neatly.A maid of honour curtsying bringsHer Majesty’s robe for the morning;Another with curtsies her petticoat holdsAnd assists at the queen’s adorning.The mistress of the robes with her fanStands by, the time beguiling;And as her head is unhappily gone,With her other end she is smiling.The sun his inquisitive glances throwsInside the draperied casement;But when the apparitions he sees,He starts in fearful amazement.
The plate-glass windows gleam in the sunIn the Tuileries Castle gaily;And yet the well-known spectres of oldStill walk about in it daily.
Queen Marie Antoinette still doth hauntThe famous pavilion of Flora;With strict etiquette she holds her courtAt each return of Aurora.
Full dress’d are the ladies,—they most of them stand,On tabourets others are sitting,With dresses of satin and gold brocade,Hung with lace and jewels befitting.
Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,And from underneath them are peepingTheir high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,—If their heads were but still in their keeping!
Not one of the number a head has on,The queen herself in that articleIs wanting, and so Her Majesty boastsOf frizzling not one particle.
Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,In dignity so resplendent,Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,The German Cæsar’s descendant,
She, curlless and headless, now must walkAmongst her maids of honour,Who, equally headless and void of curls,Are humbly waiting upon her.
All this from the French Revolution has sprung,And its doctrines so pernicious,From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,And Voltaire the malicious.
Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly thinkThat none of these hapless creaturesHave ever observed how dead they are,How devoid of head and features.
The firstdame d’atoura linen shift brings,And makes a reverence lowly;The second hands it to the queen,And both retire then slowly.
The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneelBefore the queen discreetly,That they may be able to draw onHer Majesty’s stockings neatly.
A maid of honour curtsying bringsHer Majesty’s robe for the morning;Another with curtsies her petticoat holdsAnd assists at the queen’s adorning.
The mistress of the robes with her fanStands by, the time beguiling;And as her head is unhappily gone,With her other end she is smiling.
The sun his inquisitive glances throwsInside the draperied casement;But when the apparitions he sees,He starts in fearful amazement.