Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,And in one place will never stay;The hair from off thy face with kissesShe strokes, and then she flies away.Misfortune to her heart, however,To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;She says she’s in a hurry never,Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,And in one place will never stay;The hair from off thy face with kissesShe strokes, and then she flies away.Misfortune to her heart, however,To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;She says she’s in a hurry never,Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,And in one place will never stay;The hair from off thy face with kissesShe strokes, and then she flies away.
Misfortune to her heart, however,To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;She says she’s in a hurry never,Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
In former days, in my life’s young morning,I wore a garland my brow adorning;How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!The garland was fill’d with a magical power.While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;I fled from the envy of mortals rude,I fled to the wood’s green solitude.To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoymentWith spirits and beasts was my sole employment.The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,Without any fear approach’d me all.They all approach’d me without any terror,In this they knew they committed no error;That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,But how the remaining gentry of stationThat lived in the forest treated me well,I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,That airy race, with their charming gabble!’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.With May dance and May games amused they me highlyAnd tales of the court narrated they slily,For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’enOf lovely Titania, the faery queen.If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springingRose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,With long silver veils and fluttering hair,The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.And yet at times was much less alarmingThe noise that they made; these elfins charmingBefore my feet lay quietly,Their heads reclining on my knee.Some foreign romances they trill’d,—for exampleI’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;A hymn of praise they sang also with graceOn me and my noble human face.They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,Many critical matters inquiring after,For instance: “On what particular plan“Did God determine on fashioning man?“Is each individual’s soul altogether“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass“That almost every man is an ass?”The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)Was not in the slightest degree ever hurtBy the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,Which love to help man. I prefer most of allThe race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;I let them not see that I had descriedWhy they their feet so carefully hide.They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;And fancy that nobody else can know it;Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,That to teaze them about it I never could dare.Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,We all have something that needs concealing;No Christians, we fancy, have ever descriedWhere we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.Salamanders for me had never attractions,I learnt very little respecting their actionsFrom other wood spirits. They pass’d me by nightLike fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.A golden crown, with rubies all over,The head of each of their number doth cover;The whole of these vain conceited elvesQuite absolute monarchs consider themselves.That they are not burnt in the fire is trulyA great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;And yet the uninflammable wightIs far from being a true fire-sprite.The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;But as my welfare they always have sought,Their origin really to me matters nought.In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,And also to pluck on Midsummer nightThe root that makes one invisible quite.They taught me the stars and strange signs—how astraddleTo ride on the winds without any saddle,And Runic sentences, able to callThe dead from out of their silent graves all.They also taught me the whistle mysteriousThat serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,And makes him give us the spurge, to showWhere secret treasures are hidden below.The words that ’tis needful for people to mutterWhen digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heartThe treasure-digger’s wonderful art.For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,The income from which came duly to hand.O charming time, when the heaven’s high archesWith fiddles were hung, when elfin marchesAnd nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad playMy story-drunk heart enchanted all day!O charming time, when into auspiciousTriumphal arches the foliage deliciousAppear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.That charming time has utterly vanish’d,And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fairThat I was then wont on my head to wear.The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,A churchyard blue, its deities gone;I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their gracesHorns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;While hid in the thicket, the trembling roeIs licking her wounds with tearful woe.And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are bidingIn clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;My dear little friends, I’m returning again,But reft of my garland and joy I remain.O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’dStands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,—She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,And then she fled with a terrified mien,As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
In former days, in my life’s young morning,I wore a garland my brow adorning;How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!The garland was fill’d with a magical power.While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;I fled from the envy of mortals rude,I fled to the wood’s green solitude.To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoymentWith spirits and beasts was my sole employment.The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,Without any fear approach’d me all.They all approach’d me without any terror,In this they knew they committed no error;That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,But how the remaining gentry of stationThat lived in the forest treated me well,I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,That airy race, with their charming gabble!’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.With May dance and May games amused they me highlyAnd tales of the court narrated they slily,For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’enOf lovely Titania, the faery queen.If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springingRose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,With long silver veils and fluttering hair,The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.And yet at times was much less alarmingThe noise that they made; these elfins charmingBefore my feet lay quietly,Their heads reclining on my knee.Some foreign romances they trill’d,—for exampleI’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;A hymn of praise they sang also with graceOn me and my noble human face.They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,Many critical matters inquiring after,For instance: “On what particular plan“Did God determine on fashioning man?“Is each individual’s soul altogether“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass“That almost every man is an ass?”The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)Was not in the slightest degree ever hurtBy the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,Which love to help man. I prefer most of allThe race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;I let them not see that I had descriedWhy they their feet so carefully hide.They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;And fancy that nobody else can know it;Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,That to teaze them about it I never could dare.Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,We all have something that needs concealing;No Christians, we fancy, have ever descriedWhere we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.Salamanders for me had never attractions,I learnt very little respecting their actionsFrom other wood spirits. They pass’d me by nightLike fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.A golden crown, with rubies all over,The head of each of their number doth cover;The whole of these vain conceited elvesQuite absolute monarchs consider themselves.That they are not burnt in the fire is trulyA great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;And yet the uninflammable wightIs far from being a true fire-sprite.The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;But as my welfare they always have sought,Their origin really to me matters nought.In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,And also to pluck on Midsummer nightThe root that makes one invisible quite.They taught me the stars and strange signs—how astraddleTo ride on the winds without any saddle,And Runic sentences, able to callThe dead from out of their silent graves all.They also taught me the whistle mysteriousThat serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,And makes him give us the spurge, to showWhere secret treasures are hidden below.The words that ’tis needful for people to mutterWhen digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heartThe treasure-digger’s wonderful art.For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,The income from which came duly to hand.O charming time, when the heaven’s high archesWith fiddles were hung, when elfin marchesAnd nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad playMy story-drunk heart enchanted all day!O charming time, when into auspiciousTriumphal arches the foliage deliciousAppear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.That charming time has utterly vanish’d,And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fairThat I was then wont on my head to wear.The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,A churchyard blue, its deities gone;I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their gracesHorns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;While hid in the thicket, the trembling roeIs licking her wounds with tearful woe.And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are bidingIn clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;My dear little friends, I’m returning again,But reft of my garland and joy I remain.O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’dStands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,—She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,And then she fled with a terrified mien,As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
In former days, in my life’s young morning,I wore a garland my brow adorning;How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!The garland was fill’d with a magical power.
While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;I fled from the envy of mortals rude,I fled to the wood’s green solitude.
To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoymentWith spirits and beasts was my sole employment.The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,Without any fear approach’d me all.
They all approach’d me without any terror,In this they knew they committed no error;That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.
None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,But how the remaining gentry of stationThat lived in the forest treated me well,I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.
How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,That airy race, with their charming gabble!’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.
With May dance and May games amused they me highlyAnd tales of the court narrated they slily,For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’enOf lovely Titania, the faery queen.
If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springingRose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,With long silver veils and fluttering hair,The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!
They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.
And yet at times was much less alarmingThe noise that they made; these elfins charmingBefore my feet lay quietly,Their heads reclining on my knee.
Some foreign romances they trill’d,—for exampleI’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;A hymn of praise they sang also with graceOn me and my noble human face.
They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,Many critical matters inquiring after,For instance: “On what particular plan“Did God determine on fashioning man?
“Is each individual’s soul altogether“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass“That almost every man is an ass?”
The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)Was not in the slightest degree ever hurtBy the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.
While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,Which love to help man. I prefer most of allThe race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.
They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;I let them not see that I had descriedWhy they their feet so carefully hide.
They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;And fancy that nobody else can know it;Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,That to teaze them about it I never could dare.
Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,We all have something that needs concealing;No Christians, we fancy, have ever descriedWhere we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.
Salamanders for me had never attractions,I learnt very little respecting their actionsFrom other wood spirits. They pass’d me by nightLike fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.
They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.
A golden crown, with rubies all over,The head of each of their number doth cover;The whole of these vain conceited elvesQuite absolute monarchs consider themselves.
That they are not burnt in the fire is trulyA great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;And yet the uninflammable wightIs far from being a true fire-sprite.
The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.
When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;But as my welfare they always have sought,Their origin really to me matters nought.
In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,And also to pluck on Midsummer nightThe root that makes one invisible quite.
They taught me the stars and strange signs—how astraddleTo ride on the winds without any saddle,And Runic sentences, able to callThe dead from out of their silent graves all.
They also taught me the whistle mysteriousThat serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,And makes him give us the spurge, to showWhere secret treasures are hidden below.
The words that ’tis needful for people to mutterWhen digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heartThe treasure-digger’s wonderful art.
For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,The income from which came duly to hand.
O charming time, when the heaven’s high archesWith fiddles were hung, when elfin marchesAnd nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad playMy story-drunk heart enchanted all day!
O charming time, when into auspiciousTriumphal arches the foliage deliciousAppear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.
That charming time has utterly vanish’d,And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fairThat I was then wont on my head to wear.
The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.
The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,A churchyard blue, its deities gone;I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.
From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their gracesHorns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;While hid in the thicket, the trembling roeIs licking her wounds with tearful woe.
And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are bidingIn clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;My dear little friends, I’m returning again,But reft of my garland and joy I remain.
O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’dStands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.
The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.
I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,—She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,And then she fled with a terrified mien,As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
’Twas on Hubert’s day—the year wasThirteen hundred, three and eighty—That the king a banquet gave usIn the castle at Segovia.These state banquets just the same areEverywhere, and at the tablesOf all princes sov’reign tediumYawns with uncontested vigour.Everywhere the same silk rabble,Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;Different only are the sauces.Whispers all the time and buzzingLull the senses like the poppy,Till the sound of trumpets wakes usFrom our state of chewing deafness.Near me, by good luck, was sittingDon Diego Albuquerque,From whose lips the conversationFlow’d in one unbroken torrent.He with wondrous skill relatedBloody stories of the palace,Of the times of old Don Pedro,Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.When I ask’d him why Don PedroCaused his brother Don FredregoTo be secretly beheaded,With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:Ah, Señor! the tales believe notJingled on their vile guitars byBalladsingers and muledriversIn posadas, beershops, taverns.And believe not what they chatterOf the love of Don FredregoAnd Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,Donna Blanca of Bourbon.’Twas not to the husband’s jealousFeelings, but to his low envyThat as victim fell Fredrego,Chief of Calatrava’s order.For the crime Don Pedro neverWould forgive him, was his glory,—Glory such as Donna FamaLoves with trumpet-tongue to herald—Never could Don Pedro pardonHis magnanimous high spirit,Or the beauty of his person,Which was but his spirit’s image.Still within my memory blossomsThat slim graceful hero-flower;Ne’er shall I forget those lovelyDream-like, soft and youthful features.They were just of that descriptionThat the fairies take delight in,And a fable-seeming secretSpoke from all those features plainly.Blue his eyes were, their enamelBeing dazzling as a jewel,But a jewel’s staring hardnessSeem’d reflected in them likewise.Black his hair was in its colour,Bluish black, and strangely glistening,And in fair luxuriant tressesFalling down upon his shoulders.In the charming town of CoimbraWhich he from the Moors had taken,For the last time I beheld him,In this world,—unhappy prince!He was coming from Alcanzor,Through the narrow streets fast ridingMany a fair young Moorish maidenEyed him from her latticed window.O’er his head his helm-plume floatedGallantly, and yet his mantle’sRigid Calatrava crossScared away all loving fancies.By his side, and gaily waggingWith his tail, his favourite AllanSprang,—a beast of proud descent,And whose home was the Sierra.He, despite his size gigantic,Was as nimble as a reindeer;Noble was his head to look at,Though the fox’s it resembled.Snow-white and like silk in softness,Down his back his long hair floated,And with rubies bright incrustedWas his broad and golden collar.It was said this collar hid theTalisman fidelity;Never did the faithful creatureLeave the side of his dear master.O that fierce fidelity!It excites my startled feelings,When I think how ’twas made publicHere, before our frighten’d presence.O that day so full of horror!Here, within this hall, it happen’d,And as I to-day am sitting,At the monarch’s table sat I.At the high end of the table,Where to-day young Don HenricoGaily tipples with the flowerOf Castilian chivalry,On that day there sat Don PedroDarkly silent, and beside him,Proudly radiant as a goddess,Sat Maria de Padilla.At the table’s lower end, whereHere to-day we see the ladyWith the linen frill capacious,Like a white plate in appearance.Whilst her yellow face is gildedWith a smile of sour complexion,Like the citron that is lyingOn the plate already mention’d,—At the table’s lower end hereWas a place remaining empty;Some great guest of lofty stationSeem’d the golden seat to wait for.Don Fredrego was the guest, forWhom the golden seat was destined;Yet he came not,—ah! now know weBut too well why thus he tarried.Ah! that selfsame hour the wickedDeed of blood was consummated,And the innocent young heroSuddenly attack’d and baselyBy Don Pedro’s myrmidons,Tightly bound, and quickly hurriedTo a dreary castle dungeonLighted only by some torches.Executioners stood ready,And their bloody chief was with them,Who, upon his axe while leaning,Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,“Now must thou for death prepare thee;“Just one quarter of an hour“Still is left for thee to pray in.”Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,And he pray’d with pious calmness,And then said: “I now have finish’d,”And received the stroke of death.In the very selfsame momentThat the head roll’d on the pavement,Faithful Allan, who had follow’dAll unseen, sprang quickly to it.With his teeth the head straight seized heBy the long luxuriant tresses,And with this much valued bootyShot away with speed of magic.Agonizing shouts resoundedEverywhere as on he hasten’d,Through the passages and chambers,Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.Since the banquet of BelshazzarNever company at tableWas so utterly confoundedAs was ours that fill’d this hall then,When the monstrous creature leapt in,With the head of Don Fredrego,Which he with his teeth was draggingBy the dripping bloody tresses.On the seat which, being destinedFor his master, still was empty,Sprang the dog and like a plaintiffHeld the head before our faces.Ah! it was the well-remember’dHero’s features, but still palerAnd more solemn now when dead,And all-fearfully encircledBy the locks in black luxuriance,Which stood up as did the savageSerpent-headdress of Medusa,Turning into stone through terror.Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,Wildly stared we on each other,And each tongue was mute and palsiedBoth by etiquette and horror.But Maria de PadillaBroke the universal silence;Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,She forebodingly lamented:“Now it will be said ’twas I that“Brought about this cruel murder;“Rancour will assail my children,“My poor innocent young children!—”Don Diego interruptedAt this place his tale, observingThat the company had risen,And the court the hall was leaving.Kind and courteous in his manners,Then the knight became my escort,And we rambled on togetherThrough the ancient Gothic castle.In the crossway which conductedTo the kennels of the monarch,Which proclaimed themselves alreadyBy far growling sounds and yelpings,There I noticed, built up stronglyIn the wall, and on the outsideFirmly fasten’d by strong iron,Like a cage, a narrow cell.And inside it sat two humanFigures, two young boys appearing;By the legs securely fetter’d,On the dirty straw they squatted.Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,Scarcely older seem’d the other;Fair and noble were their faces,But through sickness thin and sallow.They were clothed in rags, half naked,And their wither’d bodies offer’dPlainest signs of gross ill-treatment;Both with fever shook and trembled.From the depth of their deep mis’ryThey upon me turn’d their glances;White and spirit-like their eyes were,And I felt all terror-stricken.“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”I exclaim’d, with hasty actionDon Diego’s hand tight grasping,Which was trembling as I touch’d it.Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,Look’d if any one was listening,Deeply sigh’d, and said, assumingA mere worldling’s jaunty accents:These are children of a monarch,Early orphan’d, and their fatherWas Don Pedro, and their motherWas Maria de Padilla.After the great fight at Narvas,Where Henrico TranstamaraFreed his brother, this Don Pedro,From his crown’s oppressive burden,And from that still greater burdenWhich by men is Life entitled,Don Henrico’s victor-kindnessAlso reach’d his brother’s children.Under his own care he took them,As becomes a kindly uncle,And in his own castle gave themFree of charge, both board and lodging.Narrow is indeed the chamberThat he there allotted to them;Yet in summer it is coolish,And not over cold in winter.For their food, they live on ryebread,As delicious in its flavourAs if Ceres’ self had baked itFor her dear child Proserpina.Oftentimes he also sends themQuite a bowl-full of garbanzos,And the youngsters in this mannerLearn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.Yet not always is it Sunday,And garbanzos come not always,And the upper huntsman treats themTo a banquet with his whip.For this worthy upper huntsman,Who is with the care entrustedOf the pack of hounds, togetherWith the cage that holds the nephews,Is the most unhappy husbandOf that acid CitronellaWith the frill so white and plate-like,Whom we saw to-day at table;And she scolds so loud, that oftenOn the whip her husband seizes,Hither hastens, and chastisesFirst the dogs, and then the children.But the king is very angryWith his conduct, and commandedThat his nephews should in futureNever like the dogs be treated.He will not entrust to anyMercenary fist the dutyOf correcting them, but do itWith his own right hand henceforward.—Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,For the castle SeneschalNow approach’d us, and politelyAsk’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—
’Twas on Hubert’s day—the year wasThirteen hundred, three and eighty—That the king a banquet gave usIn the castle at Segovia.These state banquets just the same areEverywhere, and at the tablesOf all princes sov’reign tediumYawns with uncontested vigour.Everywhere the same silk rabble,Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;Different only are the sauces.Whispers all the time and buzzingLull the senses like the poppy,Till the sound of trumpets wakes usFrom our state of chewing deafness.Near me, by good luck, was sittingDon Diego Albuquerque,From whose lips the conversationFlow’d in one unbroken torrent.He with wondrous skill relatedBloody stories of the palace,Of the times of old Don Pedro,Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.When I ask’d him why Don PedroCaused his brother Don FredregoTo be secretly beheaded,With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:Ah, Señor! the tales believe notJingled on their vile guitars byBalladsingers and muledriversIn posadas, beershops, taverns.And believe not what they chatterOf the love of Don FredregoAnd Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,Donna Blanca of Bourbon.’Twas not to the husband’s jealousFeelings, but to his low envyThat as victim fell Fredrego,Chief of Calatrava’s order.For the crime Don Pedro neverWould forgive him, was his glory,—Glory such as Donna FamaLoves with trumpet-tongue to herald—Never could Don Pedro pardonHis magnanimous high spirit,Or the beauty of his person,Which was but his spirit’s image.Still within my memory blossomsThat slim graceful hero-flower;Ne’er shall I forget those lovelyDream-like, soft and youthful features.They were just of that descriptionThat the fairies take delight in,And a fable-seeming secretSpoke from all those features plainly.Blue his eyes were, their enamelBeing dazzling as a jewel,But a jewel’s staring hardnessSeem’d reflected in them likewise.Black his hair was in its colour,Bluish black, and strangely glistening,And in fair luxuriant tressesFalling down upon his shoulders.In the charming town of CoimbraWhich he from the Moors had taken,For the last time I beheld him,In this world,—unhappy prince!He was coming from Alcanzor,Through the narrow streets fast ridingMany a fair young Moorish maidenEyed him from her latticed window.O’er his head his helm-plume floatedGallantly, and yet his mantle’sRigid Calatrava crossScared away all loving fancies.By his side, and gaily waggingWith his tail, his favourite AllanSprang,—a beast of proud descent,And whose home was the Sierra.He, despite his size gigantic,Was as nimble as a reindeer;Noble was his head to look at,Though the fox’s it resembled.Snow-white and like silk in softness,Down his back his long hair floated,And with rubies bright incrustedWas his broad and golden collar.It was said this collar hid theTalisman fidelity;Never did the faithful creatureLeave the side of his dear master.O that fierce fidelity!It excites my startled feelings,When I think how ’twas made publicHere, before our frighten’d presence.O that day so full of horror!Here, within this hall, it happen’d,And as I to-day am sitting,At the monarch’s table sat I.At the high end of the table,Where to-day young Don HenricoGaily tipples with the flowerOf Castilian chivalry,On that day there sat Don PedroDarkly silent, and beside him,Proudly radiant as a goddess,Sat Maria de Padilla.At the table’s lower end, whereHere to-day we see the ladyWith the linen frill capacious,Like a white plate in appearance.Whilst her yellow face is gildedWith a smile of sour complexion,Like the citron that is lyingOn the plate already mention’d,—At the table’s lower end hereWas a place remaining empty;Some great guest of lofty stationSeem’d the golden seat to wait for.Don Fredrego was the guest, forWhom the golden seat was destined;Yet he came not,—ah! now know weBut too well why thus he tarried.Ah! that selfsame hour the wickedDeed of blood was consummated,And the innocent young heroSuddenly attack’d and baselyBy Don Pedro’s myrmidons,Tightly bound, and quickly hurriedTo a dreary castle dungeonLighted only by some torches.Executioners stood ready,And their bloody chief was with them,Who, upon his axe while leaning,Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,“Now must thou for death prepare thee;“Just one quarter of an hour“Still is left for thee to pray in.”Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,And he pray’d with pious calmness,And then said: “I now have finish’d,”And received the stroke of death.In the very selfsame momentThat the head roll’d on the pavement,Faithful Allan, who had follow’dAll unseen, sprang quickly to it.With his teeth the head straight seized heBy the long luxuriant tresses,And with this much valued bootyShot away with speed of magic.Agonizing shouts resoundedEverywhere as on he hasten’d,Through the passages and chambers,Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.Since the banquet of BelshazzarNever company at tableWas so utterly confoundedAs was ours that fill’d this hall then,When the monstrous creature leapt in,With the head of Don Fredrego,Which he with his teeth was draggingBy the dripping bloody tresses.On the seat which, being destinedFor his master, still was empty,Sprang the dog and like a plaintiffHeld the head before our faces.Ah! it was the well-remember’dHero’s features, but still palerAnd more solemn now when dead,And all-fearfully encircledBy the locks in black luxuriance,Which stood up as did the savageSerpent-headdress of Medusa,Turning into stone through terror.Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,Wildly stared we on each other,And each tongue was mute and palsiedBoth by etiquette and horror.But Maria de PadillaBroke the universal silence;Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,She forebodingly lamented:“Now it will be said ’twas I that“Brought about this cruel murder;“Rancour will assail my children,“My poor innocent young children!—”Don Diego interruptedAt this place his tale, observingThat the company had risen,And the court the hall was leaving.Kind and courteous in his manners,Then the knight became my escort,And we rambled on togetherThrough the ancient Gothic castle.In the crossway which conductedTo the kennels of the monarch,Which proclaimed themselves alreadyBy far growling sounds and yelpings,There I noticed, built up stronglyIn the wall, and on the outsideFirmly fasten’d by strong iron,Like a cage, a narrow cell.And inside it sat two humanFigures, two young boys appearing;By the legs securely fetter’d,On the dirty straw they squatted.Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,Scarcely older seem’d the other;Fair and noble were their faces,But through sickness thin and sallow.They were clothed in rags, half naked,And their wither’d bodies offer’dPlainest signs of gross ill-treatment;Both with fever shook and trembled.From the depth of their deep mis’ryThey upon me turn’d their glances;White and spirit-like their eyes were,And I felt all terror-stricken.“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”I exclaim’d, with hasty actionDon Diego’s hand tight grasping,Which was trembling as I touch’d it.Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,Look’d if any one was listening,Deeply sigh’d, and said, assumingA mere worldling’s jaunty accents:These are children of a monarch,Early orphan’d, and their fatherWas Don Pedro, and their motherWas Maria de Padilla.After the great fight at Narvas,Where Henrico TranstamaraFreed his brother, this Don Pedro,From his crown’s oppressive burden,And from that still greater burdenWhich by men is Life entitled,Don Henrico’s victor-kindnessAlso reach’d his brother’s children.Under his own care he took them,As becomes a kindly uncle,And in his own castle gave themFree of charge, both board and lodging.Narrow is indeed the chamberThat he there allotted to them;Yet in summer it is coolish,And not over cold in winter.For their food, they live on ryebread,As delicious in its flavourAs if Ceres’ self had baked itFor her dear child Proserpina.Oftentimes he also sends themQuite a bowl-full of garbanzos,And the youngsters in this mannerLearn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.Yet not always is it Sunday,And garbanzos come not always,And the upper huntsman treats themTo a banquet with his whip.For this worthy upper huntsman,Who is with the care entrustedOf the pack of hounds, togetherWith the cage that holds the nephews,Is the most unhappy husbandOf that acid CitronellaWith the frill so white and plate-like,Whom we saw to-day at table;And she scolds so loud, that oftenOn the whip her husband seizes,Hither hastens, and chastisesFirst the dogs, and then the children.But the king is very angryWith his conduct, and commandedThat his nephews should in futureNever like the dogs be treated.He will not entrust to anyMercenary fist the dutyOf correcting them, but do itWith his own right hand henceforward.—Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,For the castle SeneschalNow approach’d us, and politelyAsk’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—
’Twas on Hubert’s day—the year wasThirteen hundred, three and eighty—That the king a banquet gave usIn the castle at Segovia.
These state banquets just the same areEverywhere, and at the tablesOf all princes sov’reign tediumYawns with uncontested vigour.
Everywhere the same silk rabble,Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;Different only are the sauces.
Whispers all the time and buzzingLull the senses like the poppy,Till the sound of trumpets wakes usFrom our state of chewing deafness.
Near me, by good luck, was sittingDon Diego Albuquerque,From whose lips the conversationFlow’d in one unbroken torrent.
He with wondrous skill relatedBloody stories of the palace,Of the times of old Don Pedro,Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.
When I ask’d him why Don PedroCaused his brother Don FredregoTo be secretly beheaded,With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:
Ah, Señor! the tales believe notJingled on their vile guitars byBalladsingers and muledriversIn posadas, beershops, taverns.
And believe not what they chatterOf the love of Don FredregoAnd Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,Donna Blanca of Bourbon.
’Twas not to the husband’s jealousFeelings, but to his low envyThat as victim fell Fredrego,Chief of Calatrava’s order.
For the crime Don Pedro neverWould forgive him, was his glory,—Glory such as Donna FamaLoves with trumpet-tongue to herald—
Never could Don Pedro pardonHis magnanimous high spirit,Or the beauty of his person,Which was but his spirit’s image.
Still within my memory blossomsThat slim graceful hero-flower;Ne’er shall I forget those lovelyDream-like, soft and youthful features.
They were just of that descriptionThat the fairies take delight in,And a fable-seeming secretSpoke from all those features plainly.
Blue his eyes were, their enamelBeing dazzling as a jewel,But a jewel’s staring hardnessSeem’d reflected in them likewise.
Black his hair was in its colour,Bluish black, and strangely glistening,And in fair luxuriant tressesFalling down upon his shoulders.
In the charming town of CoimbraWhich he from the Moors had taken,For the last time I beheld him,In this world,—unhappy prince!
He was coming from Alcanzor,Through the narrow streets fast ridingMany a fair young Moorish maidenEyed him from her latticed window.
O’er his head his helm-plume floatedGallantly, and yet his mantle’sRigid Calatrava crossScared away all loving fancies.
By his side, and gaily waggingWith his tail, his favourite AllanSprang,—a beast of proud descent,And whose home was the Sierra.
He, despite his size gigantic,Was as nimble as a reindeer;Noble was his head to look at,Though the fox’s it resembled.
Snow-white and like silk in softness,Down his back his long hair floated,And with rubies bright incrustedWas his broad and golden collar.
It was said this collar hid theTalisman fidelity;Never did the faithful creatureLeave the side of his dear master.
O that fierce fidelity!It excites my startled feelings,When I think how ’twas made publicHere, before our frighten’d presence.
O that day so full of horror!Here, within this hall, it happen’d,And as I to-day am sitting,At the monarch’s table sat I.
At the high end of the table,Where to-day young Don HenricoGaily tipples with the flowerOf Castilian chivalry,
On that day there sat Don PedroDarkly silent, and beside him,Proudly radiant as a goddess,Sat Maria de Padilla.
At the table’s lower end, whereHere to-day we see the ladyWith the linen frill capacious,Like a white plate in appearance.
Whilst her yellow face is gildedWith a smile of sour complexion,Like the citron that is lyingOn the plate already mention’d,—
At the table’s lower end hereWas a place remaining empty;Some great guest of lofty stationSeem’d the golden seat to wait for.
Don Fredrego was the guest, forWhom the golden seat was destined;Yet he came not,—ah! now know weBut too well why thus he tarried.
Ah! that selfsame hour the wickedDeed of blood was consummated,And the innocent young heroSuddenly attack’d and basely
By Don Pedro’s myrmidons,Tightly bound, and quickly hurriedTo a dreary castle dungeonLighted only by some torches.
Executioners stood ready,And their bloody chief was with them,Who, upon his axe while leaning,Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:
“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,“Now must thou for death prepare thee;“Just one quarter of an hour“Still is left for thee to pray in.”
Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,And he pray’d with pious calmness,And then said: “I now have finish’d,”And received the stroke of death.
In the very selfsame momentThat the head roll’d on the pavement,Faithful Allan, who had follow’dAll unseen, sprang quickly to it.
With his teeth the head straight seized heBy the long luxuriant tresses,And with this much valued bootyShot away with speed of magic.
Agonizing shouts resoundedEverywhere as on he hasten’d,Through the passages and chambers,Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.
Since the banquet of BelshazzarNever company at tableWas so utterly confoundedAs was ours that fill’d this hall then,
When the monstrous creature leapt in,With the head of Don Fredrego,Which he with his teeth was draggingBy the dripping bloody tresses.
On the seat which, being destinedFor his master, still was empty,Sprang the dog and like a plaintiffHeld the head before our faces.
Ah! it was the well-remember’dHero’s features, but still palerAnd more solemn now when dead,And all-fearfully encircled
By the locks in black luxuriance,Which stood up as did the savageSerpent-headdress of Medusa,Turning into stone through terror.
Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,Wildly stared we on each other,And each tongue was mute and palsiedBoth by etiquette and horror.
But Maria de PadillaBroke the universal silence;Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,She forebodingly lamented:
“Now it will be said ’twas I that“Brought about this cruel murder;“Rancour will assail my children,“My poor innocent young children!—”
Don Diego interruptedAt this place his tale, observingThat the company had risen,And the court the hall was leaving.
Kind and courteous in his manners,Then the knight became my escort,And we rambled on togetherThrough the ancient Gothic castle.
In the crossway which conductedTo the kennels of the monarch,Which proclaimed themselves alreadyBy far growling sounds and yelpings,
There I noticed, built up stronglyIn the wall, and on the outsideFirmly fasten’d by strong iron,Like a cage, a narrow cell.
And inside it sat two humanFigures, two young boys appearing;By the legs securely fetter’d,On the dirty straw they squatted.
Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,Scarcely older seem’d the other;Fair and noble were their faces,But through sickness thin and sallow.
They were clothed in rags, half naked,And their wither’d bodies offer’dPlainest signs of gross ill-treatment;Both with fever shook and trembled.
From the depth of their deep mis’ryThey upon me turn’d their glances;White and spirit-like their eyes were,And I felt all terror-stricken.
“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”I exclaim’d, with hasty actionDon Diego’s hand tight grasping,Which was trembling as I touch’d it.
Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,Look’d if any one was listening,Deeply sigh’d, and said, assumingA mere worldling’s jaunty accents:
These are children of a monarch,Early orphan’d, and their fatherWas Don Pedro, and their motherWas Maria de Padilla.
After the great fight at Narvas,Where Henrico TranstamaraFreed his brother, this Don Pedro,From his crown’s oppressive burden,
And from that still greater burdenWhich by men is Life entitled,Don Henrico’s victor-kindnessAlso reach’d his brother’s children.
Under his own care he took them,As becomes a kindly uncle,And in his own castle gave themFree of charge, both board and lodging.
Narrow is indeed the chamberThat he there allotted to them;Yet in summer it is coolish,And not over cold in winter.
For their food, they live on ryebread,As delicious in its flavourAs if Ceres’ self had baked itFor her dear child Proserpina.
Oftentimes he also sends themQuite a bowl-full of garbanzos,And the youngsters in this mannerLearn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.
Yet not always is it Sunday,And garbanzos come not always,And the upper huntsman treats themTo a banquet with his whip.
For this worthy upper huntsman,Who is with the care entrustedOf the pack of hounds, togetherWith the cage that holds the nephews,
Is the most unhappy husbandOf that acid CitronellaWith the frill so white and plate-like,Whom we saw to-day at table;
And she scolds so loud, that oftenOn the whip her husband seizes,Hither hastens, and chastisesFirst the dogs, and then the children.
But the king is very angryWith his conduct, and commandedThat his nephews should in futureNever like the dogs be treated.
He will not entrust to anyMercenary fist the dutyOf correcting them, but do itWith his own right hand henceforward.—
Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,For the castle SeneschalNow approach’d us, and politelyAsk’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,The watchman, the crier nightly,Who once on the banks of the Seine with theeUsed to ramble in converse sprightly?Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,Where the darksome clouds were scudding;A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,That in your bosoms were budding.Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?No longer he thinks of destroying;By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is heAs a reader to tyrants employing.But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,“Shortsighted as every poet;“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,“But his object’s to kill him,—I know it.“So Matzerath’s[78]poems he reads him each day“A dagger is each line in it;“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,“May die of ennui any minute.”
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,The watchman, the crier nightly,Who once on the banks of the Seine with theeUsed to ramble in converse sprightly?Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,Where the darksome clouds were scudding;A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,That in your bosoms were budding.Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?No longer he thinks of destroying;By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is heAs a reader to tyrants employing.But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,“Shortsighted as every poet;“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,“But his object’s to kill him,—I know it.“So Matzerath’s[78]poems he reads him each day“A dagger is each line in it;“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,“May die of ennui any minute.”
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,The watchman, the crier nightly,Who once on the banks of the Seine with theeUsed to ramble in converse sprightly?
Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,Where the darksome clouds were scudding;A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,That in your bosoms were budding.
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?No longer he thinks of destroying;By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is heAs a reader to tyrants employing.
But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,“Shortsighted as every poet;“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,“But his object’s to kill him,—I know it.
“So Matzerath’s[78]poems he reads him each day“A dagger is each line in it;“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,“May die of ennui any minute.”
From the Neckar he departed,With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,And as play-director startedIn fair Munich’s city next.All that country’s very pretty,And they in perfection here,In this fancy-stirring city,Brew the very best of beer.But ’tis said the poor DirectorRambles, like a Dante, glum,Melancholy as a spectre,Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.Comedies no longer heeds he,Nor the very worst of rhyme;Wretched tragedies oft reads he,Not once smiling all the time.Oft herself some fair one flattersShe will cheer his sorrowing heart;But his coat of mail soon shattersEvery love-directed dart.All in vain his friends endeavourTo enliven him and sing:“In thy life rejoice thee ever,“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”Is there nought can raise thy spiritsIn this fair and charming town,Which, among its many merits,Boasts such men of great renown?It is true, that it has latelyLost full many a man of worthWhom we miss and valued greatly,Chorus-leaders and so forth.Would that Massmann left us never!He would surely have some dayBy his antics strange but cleverDriven all thy cares away.Schelling’s[79]loss is very serious,And can never be replaced,A philosopher mysterious,And a mimic highly graced.That the founder of WalhallaWent away, and left behindAll his manuscripts,—by Allah!That was really too unkind!With Cornelius[80]also perish’dAll his pupils whatsoe’er;They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,And their strength was in their hairFor their prudent Master plantedIn their hair some magic springs,And it seem’d, as if enchanted,To be full of living things.Apropos! The arch-notoriousPriest, as Dollingerius known,—That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—Has he from the Isar flown?In Good Friday’s sad processionI beheld him in his place;’Mongst the men of his professionHe had far the gloomiest face.On Monácho MonachorumNow-a-days the cap doth fitOf virorum obscurorum,Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]At his name thy dull eye flashes;Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!There the cowls are, here the lash is,—Strike away as formerly!Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,As at sight of every cowlUlrich did; he smote them stoutly,And they fearfully did howl.Old Erasmus could not masterHis loud laughter at the joke;And this fortunate disasterHis tormenting ulcer broke.Old and young laugh,—all the cityIn the general shout concur,And they sing the well-known ditty:“Gaudeamur igitur!”When those dirty monks we’re catching,We are overwhelm’d with fleas;Hutten thus was always scratching,And was never at his ease.“Alea jacta est!” howeverWas the brave knight’s battle shout,Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,Both the priests and rabble rout.Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?Wake to action on the Isar,And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.Call thy long legs transcendentalInto full and active play;Vulgar be the monks or gentle,If they’re monks, then strike away!He however sigh’d, and wringingBoth his hands he thus replied:My long legs, so apt at springing,Are with Europe stupified.And my corns are twitching sadly,Tight the German shoes I’ve on;Where the shoe is pinching badlyKnow I now,—so pray begone!
From the Neckar he departed,With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,And as play-director startedIn fair Munich’s city next.All that country’s very pretty,And they in perfection here,In this fancy-stirring city,Brew the very best of beer.But ’tis said the poor DirectorRambles, like a Dante, glum,Melancholy as a spectre,Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.Comedies no longer heeds he,Nor the very worst of rhyme;Wretched tragedies oft reads he,Not once smiling all the time.Oft herself some fair one flattersShe will cheer his sorrowing heart;But his coat of mail soon shattersEvery love-directed dart.All in vain his friends endeavourTo enliven him and sing:“In thy life rejoice thee ever,“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”Is there nought can raise thy spiritsIn this fair and charming town,Which, among its many merits,Boasts such men of great renown?It is true, that it has latelyLost full many a man of worthWhom we miss and valued greatly,Chorus-leaders and so forth.Would that Massmann left us never!He would surely have some dayBy his antics strange but cleverDriven all thy cares away.Schelling’s[79]loss is very serious,And can never be replaced,A philosopher mysterious,And a mimic highly graced.That the founder of WalhallaWent away, and left behindAll his manuscripts,—by Allah!That was really too unkind!With Cornelius[80]also perish’dAll his pupils whatsoe’er;They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,And their strength was in their hairFor their prudent Master plantedIn their hair some magic springs,And it seem’d, as if enchanted,To be full of living things.Apropos! The arch-notoriousPriest, as Dollingerius known,—That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—Has he from the Isar flown?In Good Friday’s sad processionI beheld him in his place;’Mongst the men of his professionHe had far the gloomiest face.On Monácho MonachorumNow-a-days the cap doth fitOf virorum obscurorum,Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]At his name thy dull eye flashes;Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!There the cowls are, here the lash is,—Strike away as formerly!Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,As at sight of every cowlUlrich did; he smote them stoutly,And they fearfully did howl.Old Erasmus could not masterHis loud laughter at the joke;And this fortunate disasterHis tormenting ulcer broke.Old and young laugh,—all the cityIn the general shout concur,And they sing the well-known ditty:“Gaudeamur igitur!”When those dirty monks we’re catching,We are overwhelm’d with fleas;Hutten thus was always scratching,And was never at his ease.“Alea jacta est!” howeverWas the brave knight’s battle shout,Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,Both the priests and rabble rout.Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?Wake to action on the Isar,And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.Call thy long legs transcendentalInto full and active play;Vulgar be the monks or gentle,If they’re monks, then strike away!He however sigh’d, and wringingBoth his hands he thus replied:My long legs, so apt at springing,Are with Europe stupified.And my corns are twitching sadly,Tight the German shoes I’ve on;Where the shoe is pinching badlyKnow I now,—so pray begone!
From the Neckar he departed,With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,And as play-director startedIn fair Munich’s city next.
All that country’s very pretty,And they in perfection here,In this fancy-stirring city,Brew the very best of beer.
But ’tis said the poor DirectorRambles, like a Dante, glum,Melancholy as a spectre,Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.
Comedies no longer heeds he,Nor the very worst of rhyme;Wretched tragedies oft reads he,Not once smiling all the time.
Oft herself some fair one flattersShe will cheer his sorrowing heart;But his coat of mail soon shattersEvery love-directed dart.
All in vain his friends endeavourTo enliven him and sing:“In thy life rejoice thee ever,“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”
Is there nought can raise thy spiritsIn this fair and charming town,Which, among its many merits,Boasts such men of great renown?
It is true, that it has latelyLost full many a man of worthWhom we miss and valued greatly,Chorus-leaders and so forth.
Would that Massmann left us never!He would surely have some dayBy his antics strange but cleverDriven all thy cares away.
Schelling’s[79]loss is very serious,And can never be replaced,A philosopher mysterious,And a mimic highly graced.
That the founder of WalhallaWent away, and left behindAll his manuscripts,—by Allah!That was really too unkind!
With Cornelius[80]also perish’dAll his pupils whatsoe’er;They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,And their strength was in their hair
For their prudent Master plantedIn their hair some magic springs,And it seem’d, as if enchanted,To be full of living things.
Apropos! The arch-notoriousPriest, as Dollingerius known,—That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—Has he from the Isar flown?
In Good Friday’s sad processionI beheld him in his place;’Mongst the men of his professionHe had far the gloomiest face.
On Monácho MonachorumNow-a-days the cap doth fitOf virorum obscurorum,Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]
At his name thy dull eye flashes;Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!There the cowls are, here the lash is,—Strike away as formerly!
Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,As at sight of every cowlUlrich did; he smote them stoutly,And they fearfully did howl.
Old Erasmus could not masterHis loud laughter at the joke;And this fortunate disasterHis tormenting ulcer broke.
Old and young laugh,—all the cityIn the general shout concur,And they sing the well-known ditty:“Gaudeamur igitur!”
When those dirty monks we’re catching,We are overwhelm’d with fleas;Hutten thus was always scratching,And was never at his ease.
“Alea jacta est!” howeverWas the brave knight’s battle shout,Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,Both the priests and rabble rout.
Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?Wake to action on the Isar,And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.
Call thy long legs transcendentalInto full and active play;Vulgar be the monks or gentle,If they’re monks, then strike away!
He however sigh’d, and wringingBoth his hands he thus replied:My long legs, so apt at springing,Are with Europe stupified.
And my corns are twitching sadly,Tight the German shoes I’ve on;Where the shoe is pinching badlyKnow I now,—so pray begone!
Yes! Europa must knock under,—Who could stand against a bull?Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonderGolden rain made her a fool!Sem’le was a victim real,For she innocently thoughtThat a heavenly cloud idealCould not injure her in aught.But poor Leda’s tale notoriousReally stirs up all our spleen;Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,What a goose must she have been!
Yes! Europa must knock under,—Who could stand against a bull?Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonderGolden rain made her a fool!Sem’le was a victim real,For she innocently thoughtThat a heavenly cloud idealCould not injure her in aught.But poor Leda’s tale notoriousReally stirs up all our spleen;Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,What a goose must she have been!
Yes! Europa must knock under,—Who could stand against a bull?Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonderGolden rain made her a fool!
Sem’le was a victim real,For she innocently thoughtThat a heavenly cloud idealCould not injure her in aught.
But poor Leda’s tale notoriousReally stirs up all our spleen;Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,
What a goose must she have been!
On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—I with a goose-quill must rehearsePartly in jest, and partly serious,Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.I, who am wont my thoughts to utterUpon thy rosy lips so fairWith kisses that like bright flames splutterUp from my bosom’s inmost lair!O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,E’en by my wife I’m plagued at timesUntil (and other minstrels know it)I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—I with a goose-quill must rehearsePartly in jest, and partly serious,Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.I, who am wont my thoughts to utterUpon thy rosy lips so fairWith kisses that like bright flames splutterUp from my bosom’s inmost lair!O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,E’en by my wife I’m plagued at timesUntil (and other minstrels know it)I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—I with a goose-quill must rehearsePartly in jest, and partly serious,Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
I, who am wont my thoughts to utterUpon thy rosy lips so fairWith kisses that like bright flames splutterUp from my bosom’s inmost lair!
O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,E’en by my wife I’m plagued at timesUntil (and other minstrels know it)I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusionOf golden apples that lie in thy way!The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,But they cannot long the hero delay.A daring beginning is halfway to winning,An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneelingIn the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdonThe bed of Darius of old, and his crown;O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusionOf golden apples that lie in thy way!The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,But they cannot long the hero delay.A daring beginning is halfway to winning,An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneelingIn the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdonThe bed of Darius of old, and his crown;O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusionOf golden apples that lie in thy way!The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,But they cannot long the hero delay.
A daring beginning is halfway to winning,An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneelingIn the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.
Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdonThe bed of Darius of old, and his crown;O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!With rapturous emotionMy bosom heaves and throbs and thrillsAt this delicious notion.Thou wilt repose within mine arms,Whilst with thy fair gold tressesI sport, and thy dear darling headMy shoulder gently presses!Thou wilt repose within mine arms!To truth will turn my vision,And here on earth shall I enjoyThe highest bliss elysian.St. Thomas! Scarce can I believeThe fact, my doubts will lingerUntil upon my rapture’s woundsI lay my eager finger.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!With rapturous emotionMy bosom heaves and throbs and thrillsAt this delicious notion.Thou wilt repose within mine arms,Whilst with thy fair gold tressesI sport, and thy dear darling headMy shoulder gently presses!Thou wilt repose within mine arms!To truth will turn my vision,And here on earth shall I enjoyThe highest bliss elysian.St. Thomas! Scarce can I believeThe fact, my doubts will lingerUntil upon my rapture’s woundsI lay my eager finger.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!With rapturous emotionMy bosom heaves and throbs and thrillsAt this delicious notion.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms,Whilst with thy fair gold tressesI sport, and thy dear darling headMy shoulder gently presses!
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!To truth will turn my vision,And here on earth shall I enjoyThe highest bliss elysian.
St. Thomas! Scarce can I believeThe fact, my doubts will lingerUntil upon my rapture’s woundsI lay my eager finger.
Whither now? my stupid footFain to Germany would guide me;But my reason shakes its headWisely, seeming thus to chide me:“Ended is the war indeed,“But they still keep up courts-martial,“And to writing things esteem’d“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”That’s quite true, and being shotHas for me no great attractions;I’m no hero, and unskill’dIn pathetic words and actions.Fain to England would I go,View’d I not with such displeasureEnglishmen and coals—their smellMakes me sick beyond all measure.To America methinksI would sail the broad seas over;To that place of freedom whereAll alike may live in clover,Did I not detest a landWhere tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,Where they never use spittoons,And so strangely play at skittles.Russia, that vast empire fair,Might be tolerably pleasant,But I should not like the knoutThat’s their usual winter present.Sadly gaze I up on high,Where the countless stars are gleaming,But I nowhere can discernWhere my own bright star is beaming.Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinthIt has got benighted lately,As I on this bustling earthHave myself been wandering greatly.
Whither now? my stupid footFain to Germany would guide me;But my reason shakes its headWisely, seeming thus to chide me:“Ended is the war indeed,“But they still keep up courts-martial,“And to writing things esteem’d“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”That’s quite true, and being shotHas for me no great attractions;I’m no hero, and unskill’dIn pathetic words and actions.Fain to England would I go,View’d I not with such displeasureEnglishmen and coals—their smellMakes me sick beyond all measure.To America methinksI would sail the broad seas over;To that place of freedom whereAll alike may live in clover,Did I not detest a landWhere tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,Where they never use spittoons,And so strangely play at skittles.Russia, that vast empire fair,Might be tolerably pleasant,But I should not like the knoutThat’s their usual winter present.Sadly gaze I up on high,Where the countless stars are gleaming,But I nowhere can discernWhere my own bright star is beaming.Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinthIt has got benighted lately,As I on this bustling earthHave myself been wandering greatly.
Whither now? my stupid footFain to Germany would guide me;But my reason shakes its headWisely, seeming thus to chide me:
“Ended is the war indeed,“But they still keep up courts-martial,“And to writing things esteem’d“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”
That’s quite true, and being shotHas for me no great attractions;I’m no hero, and unskill’dIn pathetic words and actions.
Fain to England would I go,View’d I not with such displeasureEnglishmen and coals—their smellMakes me sick beyond all measure.
To America methinksI would sail the broad seas over;To that place of freedom whereAll alike may live in clover,
Did I not detest a landWhere tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,Where they never use spittoons,And so strangely play at skittles.
Russia, that vast empire fair,Might be tolerably pleasant,But I should not like the knoutThat’s their usual winter present.
Sadly gaze I up on high,Where the countless stars are gleaming,But I nowhere can discernWhere my own bright star is beaming.
Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinthIt has got benighted lately,As I on this bustling earthHave myself been wandering greatly.