BOHN’S STANDARD LIBRARY
—————
THE POEMS OF HEINE
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
LONDON: PORTUGAL ST., LINCOLN’S INN.
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE POEMS OF HEINE
COMPLETE
TRANSLATED INTO THE ORIGINAL METRES
WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE
BY
EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING, C.B.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1908
[Reprinted from Stereotype plates.]
CONTENTS.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
A NEW edition of this work having been called for, owing to the first edition having been for some time out of print, I have taken advantage of the opportunity to add translations of a remarkable collection of Poems by Heine, published for the first time since the appearance of my work in 1859. They consist of as many as twelve hundred lines, described partly as “Early Poems,” which will be found at the beginning of the volume, and partly as “Posthumous Poems,” which are placed at the end. The metres of the original have been again retained throughout.
Various errors discovered by me in the first edition have now been corrected; and it only remains for me to express my thanks for the kind manner in which the critical and the general public, both in England and abroad, have received the work, and for the indulgence extended by them to its many imperfections.
E. A. B.
PREFACE.
IT may perhaps be thought that I exhibit something of the brazen-facedness of a hardened offender in venturing once more (but, I hope, for the last time) to present myself to the public in the guise of a translator,—and, what is more, a translator of a great poet. The favourable reception, however, that my previous translations of the Poems of Schiller and Goethe have met with at the hands of the public, may possibly be admitted as some excuse for this new attempt to make that public acquainted with the works of a third great German minstrel. Comparatively little known and little appreciated in England, the name of Heine is in Germany familiar as a household word; and while, on the one hand, many of his charming minor poems have become dear to the hearts of thousands and tens of thousands of his fellow-countrymen, and are sung alike in the palace and the cottage, in the country and the town, on the other his sterner works have done much to influence the political and religious tendencies of the modern German school.
Having prefixed to this Volume a brief memoir of Heine, accompanied by a few observations on his various works and their distinguishing characteristics, I will here confine myself to stating that I have adhered with the utmost strictness to the principles laid down by me for my guidance in the case of the previous translations attempted by me,—those principles being (1) As close and literal an adherence to the original as is consistent with good English and with poetry, and (2) the preservation throughout the work of the original metres, of which Heine presents an almost unprecedented variety. I have, on the occasion of my former publications, fully explained my reasons for adopting this course, and will not weary the reader with repeating them. I have sufficient evidence before me of the approval of the public in this respect to induce me to frame my translation of Heine’s Poems on the same model.
In addition to thus preserving both the language and the metre of the original, I have in one other respect endeavoured to reproduce my author precisely as I found him, and that is in the important particular of completeness. There are doubtless many poems written by Heine that one could wish had never been written, and that one would willingly refrain from translating. But the omission of these would hide from the reader some of Heine’s chief peculiarities, and would tend to give him an incomplete if not incorrect notion of what the poet was. A translator no more assumes the responsibility of his author’s words than a faithful Editor does, and he goes beyond his province if he omits whatever does not happen to agree with his own notions.
In claiming for the present work (extending over more than 20,000 verses) the abstract merits of literalness, completeness, and rigid adherence to the metrical peculiarities of the original, it is very far from my intention to claim any credit for the manner in which I have executed that difficult task, or to pretend that I have been successful in it. That is a question for the reader alone to decide. The credit of conscientiousness and close application in the matter is all that I would venture to assert for myself. All beyond is left exclusively to the candid, and, I would fain hope, generous, appreciation of those whom I now voluntarily constitute my judges.
HEINRICH HEINE.
ALTHOUGH little more than three years have elapsed since Heinrich Heine was first numbered amongst the dead, his name has long been enrolled in the lists of fame. Even during his lifetime he had the good fortune,—and, in a poet, the most unusual good fortune,—of being generally accepted as a Representative Man, and of passing as the National Bard of Young Germany. Although perhaps scarcely entitled to rank with Goethe and Schiller in the very highest order of poets, the name of Heine will assuredly always occupy a prominent place amongst the minstrels not only of Germany, but of the world.
It is only recently that his works have been for the first time published in an absolutely complete form, the poetry extending over more than two of the six volumes of which they consist. Universally known and read in his native land, and highly popular in France, which was for so many years his adopted country, the works of Heine are to the generality of Englishmen (as stated in the Preface) almost entirely unknown. As the present volume is, as far as I am aware, the only attempt that has been made to bring the far-famed poems of Heine in their integrity before the English reader,[1] it seems desirable to preface it by a brief sketch of his life, so that in seeing what Heine is as a poet, we may be able to form some idea as to who he was as a man. One who has been compared in turns to Aristophanes, Rabelais, Burns, Cervantes, Sterne, Jean Paul, Voltaire, Swift, Byron, and Béranger (and to all these has he been likened), can be of no common stamp. The discrepancies both as to facts and dates that occur between the various biographies of Heine are, however, so numerous, that it has been no easy task to avoid error in the following brief sketch of his life.
Heinrich (or Henry) Heine was born in the Bolkerstrasse, at Dusseldorf, on the 12th of December, 1799; but, singularly enough, the exact date of his birth was, until recently, unknown to his biographers, who, on the authority of a saying of his own, assigned it to the 1st of January, 1800, which he boasted made him “the first man of the century.” In reply, however, to a specific inquiry addressed to him by a friend on this subject a few years before his death, he stated that he was really born on the day first mentioned, and that the date of 1800 usually given by his biographers was the result of an error voluntarily committed by his family in his favour at the time of the Prussian invasion, in order to exempt him from the service of the king of Prussia.
By birth he was a Jew, both of his parents having been of that persuasion. He was the eldest of four children, and his two brothers are (or were recently) still alive, the one being a physician in Russia, and the other an officer in the Austrian service. The famous Solomon Heine, the banker of Hamburg, whose wealth was only equalled by his philanthropy, was his uncle. His father, however, was far from being in opulent circumstances. When quite a child, he took delight in reading Don Quixote, and used to cry with anger at seeing how ill the heroism of that valiant knight was requited. He says somewhere, speaking of his boyish days, “apple-tarts” were then my passion. Now it is love, truth, freedom, and “crab-soup.” He received his earliest education at the Franciscan convent in his native town, and while there had the misfortune to be the innocent cause of the death by drowning of a schoolfellow, an incident recorded in one of the poems in his “Romancero.” He mentions the great effect produced upon him by the sorrowful face of a large wooden Christ which was constantly before his eyes in the Convent. Even at that early age the germs of what has been called “his fantastic sensibility, the food for infinite irony,” seem to have been developing themselves. A visit of the Emperor Napoleon to Dusseldorf when he was a boy affected him in a singular manner, and had probably much to do with the formation of those imperialist tendencies which are often to be noticed in his character and writings. He was next placed in the Lyceum of Dusseldorf, and in 1816 was sent to Hamburg to study commerce, being intended for mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he was removed to the University at Bonn which had been founded in the previous year, and there he had the advantage of studying under Augustus Schlegel. He seems, however, to have remained there only six months, and to have then gone to the University of Göttingen, where, as he tells us, he was rusticated soon after matriculation. He next took up his abode at Berlin, where he applied himself to the study of philosophy, under the direction of the great Hegel, whose influence, combined with that of the works of Spinosa, undoubtedly had much to do with the formation of Heine’s mind, and also determined his future career. From this time we hear no more of his turning merchant; and it is from the date of his residence at Berlin that we may date the rise of that spirit of universal indifference and reckless daring that so strongly characterizes the writings of Heine. Amongst his associates at this period may be mentioned, in addition to Hegel, Chamisso, Varnhagen von Ense and his well-known wife Rachel, Bopp the philologist, and Grabbe, the eccentricities of whose works were only equalled by the eccentricities of his life.
Heine’s first volume of poetry, entitled “Gedichte” or Poems, was published in 1822, the poems being those which, under the name of “Youthful Sorrows,” now form the opening of his “Book of Songs.” Notwithstanding the extraordinary success afterwards obtained by this latter work, his first publication was very coldly received. Some of the poems in it were written as far back as 1817,[2] and originally appeared in the Hamburg periodical “Der Wachter” or “Watchman.” Offended at this result, he left Berlin and returned to Göttingen in 1823, where he took to studying law, and received the degree of Doctor in 1825. He was baptized into the Lutheran Church in the same year, at Heiligenstadt, near that place. He afterwards said jocularly that he took this course to prevent M. de Rothschild treating him too fa-millionairely. It is to be feared, however, from the tone of all his works, that his nominal religious opinions sat very lightly upon him through life. He writes as follows on this subject in 1852: “My ancestors belonged to the Jewish religion, but I was never proud of this descent; neither did I ever set store upon my quality of Lutheran, although I belong to the evangelical confession quite as much as the greatest devotees amongst my Berlin enemies, who always reproach me with a want of religion. I rather felt humiliated at passing for a purely human creature,—I whom the philosophy of Hegel led to suppose that I was a god. How proud I then was of my divinity! What an idea I had of my grandeur! Alas! that charming time has long passed away, and I cannot think of it without sadness, now that I am lying stretched on my back, whilst my disease is making terrible progress.”
Previous to this date, and whilst living at Berlin, Heine published (in 1823) his only two plays, “Almanzor” and “Ratcliff,” which were equally unsuccessful on the stage and in print, and which are certainly the least worthy of all his works. Between these two plays he inserted a collection of poetry entitled “Lyrical Interlude,” which attracted little attention at the time. In the year 1827, however, he republished this collection at Hamburg, in conjunction with his “Youthful Sorrows,” giving to the whole the title of the “Book of Songs.” In proportion to the indifference with which his poems had been received on their first appearance, was the enthusiasm which they now excited. They were read with avidity in every direction, especially in the various universities, where their influence upon the minds of the students was very great. In the year 1852, this work had reached the tenth edition.
Heine’s next great work, his “Reisebilder,” or Pictures of Travel, written partly in poetry and partly in prose, was published at Hamburg at various intervals from 1826 to 1831, and, as its name implies, is descriptive of his travels in different countries, especially in England and Italy. The poetical portion of the “Reisebilder,” the whole of which is translated in this volume, is divided into three parts,—“The Return Home,” the “Hartz-Journey,” and “The Baltic,” written between 1823 and 1826. This work again met with an almost unprecedented success, and from the date of its publication and that of the “Book of Songs,” may be reckoned the commencement of a new era in German literature. These remarkable poems exhibit the whole nature of Heine, free from all disguise. The striking originality, the exuberance of fancy, and, above all, the singular beauty and feeling of the versification that characterize nearly the whole of them, stand out in as yet unheard-of contrast to the intense and bitter irony that pervades them,—an irony that spared nobody, that spared nothing, not even the most sacred subjects being exempt from the poet’s mocking sarcasm. This characteristic of Heine only increased as years passed on. In the later years of his life, which were one long-continued agony, his bodily sufferings offer some excuse, it may be, for what would otherwise have been inexcusable in the writings of a great poet. There was doubtless much affectation in the want of all religious and political faith that is so signally apparent in the works of Heine, and yet they betray a real bitterness of feeling that cannot be mistaken. At every page may be traced the malicious pleasure felt by him in exciting the sympathy and admiration of the reader to the highest pitch, and then with a few words,—with the last line or the last verse of a long poem, it may be,—rudely insulting them, and dashing them to the ground. No better parody of this favourite amusement of Heine can be given than by citing two well-known verses of Dr. Johnson:
“Hermit old in mossy cell,
“Wearing out life’s evening gray,
“Strike thy pensive breast, and tell
“Where is bliss, and which the way?”
Thus I spake, and frequent sigh’d,
Scarce repress’d the falling tear,
When the hoary sage replied:
“Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”
The exuberance of Heine’s heart, as has been well said, was only equalled by the dryness of his spirit; a real enthusiasm was blended with an unquenchable love of satire; “his exquisite dilettanteism made him adore the gods and goddesses of Greece at the expense even of Christianity.” In short, qualities scarcely ever found in combination, were combined in him; in one weak, suffering body two distinct and opposite natures, each equally mighty, were united. Perhaps the best name ever applied to him is that of the “Julian of poetry.”
The French Revolution in 1830 determined Heine’s future life. He was then living at Berlin again, after having resided at Hamburg and Munich. He now turned politician and newspaper writer. His Essay on Nobility was written at this time. He presently (in May 1831) went to live in Paris, where he resided until his death, with the exception of making one or two short visits to his native land. Though the fact is not exactly stated, there can be no doubt that he received some very broad hints from the authorities of Prussia to leave that country. From that time, France became his adopted fatherland, and he himself was thenceforward more of a Frenchman than a German. The Germans have indeed always reproached him as being frivolous and French; he has often been called the Voltaire of Germany; but Thiers perhaps described him the most accurately when he spoke of him as being “the wittiest Frenchman since Voltaire.” He wrote French as fluently as German; and the translations of his various works that were published in Paris in the Revue des deux Mondes and the Bibliothèque Contemporaine, or as separate works, were either written by himself, or by his personal friends under his own immediate superintendence.
Some of his more important prose works were written soon after he took up his abode in Paris. He wrote, in 1831, a series of articles for the Augsburg Gazette on the State of France, which he subsequently collected and published both in French and German. In 1833 appeared his well-known “History of Modern Literature in Germany,” republished afterwards under the title of “The Romantic School,” and in French under that of “L’Allemagne.” This may be looked upon as his most remarkable prose work, and as the one that most exhibits his characteristic peculiarities. The following lively description of it is from the pen of an eminent French critic: “According to M. Heine, the whole of the intellectual movement of Germany since Lessing and Kant has been a death-struggle against Deism. This struggle he describes with passion, and it may be said that he heads it in person. He ranges his army in order of battle, he gives the signals, and marches the Titans against heaven,—Kant, Fichte, Hegel, all those formidable spirits whose every thought is a victory, whose every formula is a cosmogonic bouleversement. Around them, in front or behind, are grouped a crowd of writers, theologians and poets, romance writers and savans. If one of the combatants stops short, like Schelling, the author overwhelms him with invectives. If a timid and poetic band of dreamers, such as Tieck, Novalis, Brentanc, and Arnim, try to bring back this feverish Germany to the fresh poetry of the middle ages, he throws himself upon them and disperses them, like those Cobolds in the ‘Book of Songs’ who overthrew the angels of paradise. And when the philosophical conflict is over, he predicts its consequences with a sort of savage delirium.... He compares Kant to the bloodthirsty dictators of ’93, and proclaims the gospel of pantheism. His theory of the intellectual history of the Germans is altogether false, and should only be consulted as an illustration—alas, too positive!—of the fever at once mystical and sensual of a certain period of our age.” This book produced a perfect storm of fury in Germany. “Denounced by Menzel and the pietists as an emissary of Modern Babylon, cursed by the austere teutomaniacs as a representative of Parisian corruption, Heine was not the less suspected by the democrats, who accused him of treason. To this was added official persecution.”
Proceeding to his next work, the publication of his “Salon,” consisting of an interesting series of essays, &c., commenced at Hamburg in 1834, its fourth and last volume not appearing till 1840. A long essay on the Women of Shakespeare appeared in 1839, and in 1840 a violent personal attack on his old friend, the republican poet Börne, then only recently dead,—a work which, with all its talent, did great injury to his reputation. His remaining great prose work, entitled “Lutezia,” or Paris, consists of a collection of valuable articles on French politics, arts, and manners, written by him as the correspondent of the Augsburg Gazette between 1840 and 1844. The only other writings of his in prose that need be specified, entitled respectively “Confessions,” “Dr. Faust,” and the “Gods in Exile,” were written a few years before his death.
After the publication of the “Reisebilder,” Heine’s next poetical production was the charming poem of “Atta Troll,” which appeared in 1841, written in a simple trochaic metre,—“four-footed solemn trochees,” as he himself expresses it. This poem has been described as the work of a German Ariosto, combining gaiety and poetry, irony and imagination in perfect proportions. Much worldly wisdom is to be learnt from the instructive history of Atta Troll, the dancing bear of the Pyrenees. The striking interlude in it of the vision of Herodias amongst the spirit huntsmen should not be overlooked.
The marriage of Heine seems to have taken place at about this period. His wife, who is often spoken of in his poems in terms of deep affection, and whose name was Mathilde, was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic, and they were married according to the rites of that church. With all his love for Madame Heine, however, he seems to have been very jealous of her, and it is recorded that on one occasion he took it into his head that she had run away from him. He was reassured by hearing the voice of her favourite parrot “Cocotte,” which led him to say, that she would never have gone off without taking “Cocotte” with her. In spite of the bitterness of spirit that pervades all his writings, it is clear that he possessed deep natural affections. His mother survived him; and though almost entirely separated from her for the last twenty-five years of his life, he often introduces her name in his works with expressions of filial reverence. His last visit to Germany in the winter of 1843 seems to have been for the special purpose of visiting her at Hamburg, where she resided. His friends fancied that the “old woman at the Dammthor” (one of the gates of Hamburg), of whom he used to speak, was a myth, but she was no other than his mother. Nothing can be more charming than the manner in which he speaks of both her and his wife in the beautiful little poem called “Night Thoughts.” ([See page 179].)
In 1844 he published a fresh collection of poems under the title of “New Poems,” to which was added as an appendix “Germany, a Winter Tale.” The former of these was subsequently added by him to his “Book of Songs,” and will be found in its place accordingly in the present volume, as well as his “New Spring,” which formed a part of the same work. The “Germany” is one of his most remarkable works, and contains an account of his journey to Hamburg the previous winter to see his mother that has just been referred to. None of his productions are more thoroughly impregnated with the spirit of satire. Every stage of his journey, from its commencement at the Prussian frontier, to its termination at Hamburg, gives occasion for the display of his wit and sarcastic raillery. It will be seen that many of the passages in the poem were struck out of the original edition by the official Censors. Perhaps the most amusing portions are the episode of the author’s adventures in the Cavern of Kyffhauser with the famous Emperor Barbarossa (not omitting their little conversation respecting the guillotine), and the rencontre with the Goddess Hammonia in the streets of Hamburg, and his subsequent tête-à-tête with her. The extravagance (slightly coarse it must be confessed) of the latter scene is quite worthy of Rabelais, though the poet takes care to tell us that it is intended to imitate Aristophanes. The remonstrances to the King of Prussia, with which the poem concludes, should also not he passed over.
In the year 1848, after a premonitory attack in 1847 that passed away, that terrible disease which eventually destroyed Heine’s life, first assailed him in an aggravated form. Commencing with a paralysis of the left eyelid, it extended presently to both eyes and finally terminated in paralysis and atrophy of the legs. The last time he ever left his house was in May, 1848. For eight long years he was confined to his couch, to use his own expression, in a state of “death without its repose, and without the privileges of the dead, who have no need to spend money, and no letters or books to write.” But despite his bodily sufferings, his good spirits never seemed to leave him, his love of raillery did but increase, and little did that public whose interest he continued to excite by the wonderful products of his genius know of his distressing state.
In the years 1850 and 1851, in the midst of his fearful malady, Heine composed his last great poetical work entitled “Romancero.” This singular volume is divided into three Books, called respectively “Histories,” “Lamentations,” and “Hebrew Melodies.” The first of these contains a large number of romantic ballads and poems of the most dissimilar character, but all bearing the stamp of the author’s peculiar genius; the second opens with several miscellaneous pieces, including some literary satires, and concludes with twenty pieces bearing the lively title of “Lazarus,” and comprising, as some one has observed, the journal of his impressions as a sick man. The “Hebrew Melodies” are subdivided into three, entitled by Heine “Princess Sabbath,” “Jehuda ben Halevy,” a poem itself in three parts, and “Disputation.” The Jewish descent and Jewish sympathies of the poet are plainly discernible in these Melodies, the most interesting of which, and probably the best of the whole collection contained in the “Romancero,” is that which sets forth the life of Jehuda ben Halevy, the great Hebrew poet of the middle ages. Some critics rank this poem amongst Heine’s very best productions. The concluding piece, “Disputation,” is in Heine’s wildest style, and seems written for the express purpose of destroying the pleasure excited by the one that precedes it. In none of his works is his mocking spirit more plainly discernible. “It is the most Voltairian scene ever imagined by the sceptical demon of his mind.” No one can read this polemical poem without seeing how little Heine himself cared for any received form of religion,—for the Christian faith as professed by him, or the Jewish faith into which he was born. The piece terminates in Heine’s favourite manner, namely, with an unexpected joke in the last line.
The collection entitled “Latest Poems” was written three years afterwards. Its name shows that the end was now not far off. The hand of a master is still visible in all these poems, the most interesting of which is perhaps the “Slave Ship,” one of the most powerful productions of Heine’s pen. In the year 1855, he published a French translation of his “New Spring” in the Revue des deux Mondes. And now the end really arrived.
On the 17th February, 1856, Henry Heine was at length released from his sufferings in his house in the Avenue Matignon, No. 3, as appears from the obituary notice. The smallness of the attendance at his funeral would seem to show that there was some truth in the saying that he had many admirers but few friends. The only names of note that are recorded as having been present on the occasion are Mignet, Gautier, and Dumas. And this was the man who was recognized as the successor of Goethe in the throne of poetry in Germany, and whose songs were already household words in all parts of that country! His humour did not leave him till the very last. A few days before his death Hector Berlioz called on him just as a tiresome German professor was leaving the room after wearying him with his uninteresting conversation. “I am afraid you will find me very stupid, my dear fellow! The fact is, I have just been exchanging thoughts with Dr. ——” was his remark. Only a day or two before he expired, he sent back to the printer the last proofs of a new edition of the “Reisebilder.”
Heine left a singular will behind him, in which he begged that all religious solemnities should be dispensed with at his funeral, and that, although he called himself a Lutheran, no Lutheran minister should officiate on the occasion. He added that this was not a mere freak of a freethinker, for that he had for the last four years dismissed all the pride with which philosophy had filled him, and felt once more the power of religious truth. He also begged for forgiveness for any offence which, in his ignorance, he might have given to good manners and morals.
When the private papers of Louis Philippe fell into the hands of the populace at the sack of the Tuileries in February, 1848, it was discovered that Heine had for many years enjoyed a pension of some 200l. a year on the Civil List. This discovery gave an opening to the republicans for violent attacks on him; but there does not appear to have been anything in the circumstances of the case to make this transaction discreditable to either the giver or the receiver of the pension.
Heine is described as having lived in the simplest manner, occupying three small rooms on the third floor, the ménage comprising, in addition to his wife and himself, no one but an old negress as a servant, and “Cocotte,” who has been already alluded to.
Heine is beyond question the greatest poet that has appeared in Germany since the death of Goethe. Enough has been said in the course of this brief sketch of his life to show the singular, the unprecedented character of his genius, and to illustrate that combination in his person of two separate natures that we have stated to exist. What more touching trait of character was ever heard of, than the simple fact that although the last eight years of his life were spent in a state of intolerable agony, he left his mother in ignorance of his sufferings to the very last! Yes, when stricken with total blindness, and when dying literally by inches, all his letters to the “old woman at the Dammthor” were written in the most cheerful, happy tone, and he made her believe that his only reason for employing an amanuensis instead of writing with his own hand was that he had a slight affection in his eyes, which would be cured with a little care!
The following appreciation of the character of Heine, written while he was still alive, but when the shades of darkness and death were slowly gathering round him, may serve as a fitting termination to these few pages:—“It may be said that Heine bears within him all the misery of a mighty literature that has fallen from his ideal. Let this be his excuse. But now his eyes are closing on this perishable world, whose contradictions and wretchedness provoked his painful gaiety; another world is opening on his mind. There, no more misery, no more irritating contrasts, no more revolting disenchantments; there, all problems are resolved, all struggles cease. If irony, in the case of a capricious and ardent intelligence, could be the faithful mirror of things below, there is no room save for confidence and respect in that spiritual world that his soul’s looks are fast discovering. He sought for serenity in that light raillery which enveloped the whole universe, and played his part in it with grace; but this serenity was incomplete and false, and often suffered his ill-cured sorrows to break forth. True serenity is a higher thing; it is to be found in the intelligence and adoration of that ideal which nothing can affect, that truth which no shadow can obscure.” And so with these words of kindly sympathy, Heinrich Heine,—farewell!
EARLY POEMS.
SONGS OF LOVE.
1. LOVE’S SALUTATION.
Darling maiden, who can be
Ever found to equal thee?
To thy service joyfully
Shall my life be pledged by me.
Thy sweet eyes gleam tenderly,
Like soft moonbeams o’er the sea;
Lights of rosy harmony
O’er thy red cheeks wander free.
From thy small mouth, full of glee,
Rows of pearls peep charmingly;
But thy bosom’s drapery
Veils thy fairest jewelry.
Pure love only could it be
That so sweetly thrill’d through me,
When I whilome gazed on thee,
Darling maid, so fair to see.
2. LOVE’S LAMENT.
On night’s secrecy relying,
Silently I breathe my woes;
From the haunts of mortals flying,
Where the cup of pleasure flows.
Down my cheeks run tears all burning,
Silently, unceasingly;
But my bosom’s fiery yearning
Quench’ed by tears can never be.
When a laughing urchin, gaily
Many a merry game I play’d;
In life’s sunshine basking daily,
Knowing nought of grief or shade.
For a garden of enjoyment
Was the world I then lived in,
Tending flowers my sole employment,
Roses, violets, jessamine.
By the brook’s side, on the meadow,
Sweetly mused I in those days;
Now I see a pale thin shadow,
When upon the brook I gaze.
Pale and thin my grief hath made me,
Since mine eyes upon her fell;
Secret sorrows now pervade me,
Wonderful and hard to tell.
Deep within my heart I cherish’d
Angel forms of peace and love,
Which have fled, their short joys perish’d,
To their starry home above.
Ghastly shadows rise unbidden,
Black night round mine eyes is thrown;
In my trembling breast is hidden
A sad whisp’ring voice unknown.
Unknown sorrows, unknown anguish
Toss me wildly to and fro,
And I pine away and languish,
Tortured by an unknown glow.
But the cause why I am lying
Rack’d by fiery torments now,—
Why from very grief I’m dying,—
Love, behold!—The cause art thou!
3. YEARNING.
With sweetheart on arm, all my comrades with joy
Beneath the linden trees move;
But I, alas, poor desolate boy,
In utter solitude rove
Mine eye grows dim, my heart is oppress’d,
When happy lovers I see;
For a sweetheart by me is also possess’d,
But, alas, far distant is she.
I have borne it for years, with a heart fit to break,
But no longer can bear with the pain;
So pack up my bundle, my pilgrim’s staff take,
And start on my travels again.
And onward I go for hundreds of miles,
Till I come to a city renown’d;
A noble river beneath it smiles,
With three stately towers ’tis crown’d.
And now my late sorrows no longer annoy,
Made happy at last is my love;
For there, with my sweetheart on arm, I with joy
Can beneath the sweet linden trees rove.
4. THE WHITE FLOWER
In father’s garden there silently grows
A flow’ret mournful and pale;
The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes,
Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale.
The poor pale flower looks still
Like a young bride that’s ill.
Pale flow’ret gently saith to me—
“Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!”
I answer pale flow’ret—“That must not be,
I never will take thee away.
I seek with anxious care
A purple flow’ret fair.”
Pale flow’ret saith—“Seek here, seek there,
Seek e’en till the day of thy death,
But still that purple flow’ret fair
Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith.
“But, prythee, pluck me now,
I am as ill as thou.”
Thus whispers pale flow’ret, beseeching me sore;
I tremblingly pluck her, and lo!
I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more,
Mine inward eye brightly doth glow.
Mute angel-rapture blest
Now fills my wounded breast.
5. PRESENTIMENT.
Yonder, where the stars glow nightly,
We shall find those joys smile brightly
Which on earth seem far away.
Only in Death’s cold embraces
Life grows warm, and light replaces
Night’s dark gloom at dawn of day.
6.
When I am with my sweetheart kind,
A happy youth am I;
So great the wealth within my mind,
I the whole world could buy.
But when her swanlike arms I quit,
In that sad hour of pain,
Away my boasted wealth doth flit,
And I am poor again.
7.
I would the songs I’m singing
Had little flow’rets been;
I’d send them to my sweetheart
For her to smell, I ween.
I would the songs I’m singing
Were kisses all unseen;
I’d send them all in secret
Upon her cheeks to glean.
I would the songs I’m singing
Were little peas so green;
I’d make some capital pea-soup
All in a soup-tureen!
8.
Of peace, and happiness, and heart,
Thou, loved one, long time hast bereft me;
And of the gifts that thou hast left me
Not one of these doth form a part.
For peace, heart, happiness, hast thou
To me a life-long sorrow given,
With bitter words commingled even,—
O take these back, my loved one, now.
9.
Remember’st thou those fiery glances
In which his trust the novice plac’d?
That long-denied first kiss of passion
The ardent lover stole in haste?
O glances, ye experienced fish-hooks,
On which the fish is captive brought!
O kiss, thou charming rod of honey,
With which the bird is limed and caught!
10.
Thou spak’st and gav’st a lock to me
Of thy dear silken hair;
“Wear this, and I for ever thee
“Within my heart will wear.”
Full oft have heart and hair been call’d
To act this loving part.
Now say: is not thy head yet bald?
And full thy little heart?
11.
You, loved one, assured me so strongly,
I wellnigh fancied it true;
That you asserted it was so,
Was no sign of folly in you.
But that I almost believed it,
’Tis this that I so rue.
12.
I’ve seen full many a tragedy play’d,
Extracting my tears like magic;
But ’mongst them all, that touching scene
Had an end by far the most tragic,
Wherein thou tookedst the principal part,
While I at thy feet was panting,—
How well thou actedst the innocent one,
Thou actress most enchanting!
13.
Ask not what I have, my loved one,—
Ask me rather what I am;
For but little wealth I boast of,
But I’m gentle as a lamb.
Do not ask me how I’m living,
But for what, that ask of me;
For I live in want, and lonely,
Yet I live alone for thee.
Do not ask me of my pleasures,
Ask not of my bitter smart;
Pleasure ever flies his presence
Who doth own a broken heart.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
GERMANY. 1815.
Let me sing Germania’s glory!
Hearken to my noblest strains!
While my spirit tells the story,
Thrilling bliss runs through my veins.
Time’s book is before me lying,
All things that have happened here,
Good with Evil ever vying—
All before my gaze stands clear.
From the Frenchman’s distant nation
Hell approach’d, with impious hand,
Bringing shame and desecration
On our much-loved German land.
All our faith and virtue soiling,
All our heavenly yearnings fled,
All we deemed of worth, despoiling,—
Giving sin and pain instead.
German shame to gild refusing,
Dark the German sun soon grew,
And a mournful voice accusing
Pierced the German oak trees through.
Now the sun once more is glancing,
And the oak trees roar with joy;
The avengers are advancing,
Shame and sorrow to destroy.
And deceit’s proud altars hateful
Totter, fall with hideous sound;
Every German heart is grateful,
Free is German holy ground.
See’st the glare yon mount illuming?
Say, what can that wild flame be?
Yes! that fire proclaims the blooming
Image pure of Germany.
From the night of sin emerging
Germany uninjured stands;
Wildly is the spot still surging,
Where that fair form burst her bands.
On the old oak’s stems in splendour
Glorious blossoms fast unfold;
Foreign blossoms fall, and tender
Breezes greet us as of old.
All that’s virtuous is returning,
All that’s good appears once more
And the German, fondly yearning,
Is exulting as of yore.
Ancient manners, ancient German
Virtues, and heroic deeds!
Valiantly each son of Hermann[3]
Waves his sword and proudly bleeds.
Heroes never doves engender,
Lionlike is Hermann’s race;
Yet may love’s religion tender
Well near valour take its place.
Germans through their sorrows lonely
Learnt Christ’s gentle word to prize;
Their land ’genders brethren only,
And humanity is wise.
Once again returns the glorious
Noble love of minstrel’s song,
Well becoming the victorious
Breasts of German heroes strong,
As they to the war are going
With the Frank to cross the sword,
To take signal vengeance glowing
For their perfidy abhorr’d.
And at home, no labour heeding,
Woman plies her gentle hand,
Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding
In defence of fatherland.
In her black dress robed, entrancing
Looks the beauteous German dame,
Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing,
Diamond-girded, too, her frame.
But a nobler, prouder feeling
Through me at her vision thrills,
When, beside the sick-bed kneeling,
Acts of mercy she fulfils.
Heavenly angels she resembles
When the last draught she supplies
To the wounded man, who trembles,
Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies.
He to whom to die ’tis given
On the battle-field, is blest;
But a foretaste ’tis of heaven,
Dying on a woman’s breast.
Poor, poor sons of France! Fate ever
Unto you unkind has been;
On the Seine’s banks, beauty never
Save in search of gold is seen.
German women! German women!
What a charm the words convey!
German women! German women!
Flourish on for many a day!
All our daughters like Louisa,
All our sons like Frederick be!
Hear me in the grave, Louisa!
Ever flourish Germany!
DREAM. 1816.
Son of folly, dream thou ever,
When thy thoughts within thee burn;
But in life thy visions never
To reality will turn.
Once in happier days chance bore me
To a high mount on the Rhine;
Smiling lay the land before me,
Gloriously the sun did shine.
Far below, the waves were singing
Wild and magic melodies;
In my inmost heart were ringing
Blissful strains in wondrous wise.
Now, when gazing from that station
On the land—how sad its doom!
I but see a pigmy nation
Crawling on a giant’s tomb.
So-call’d men wear silken raiment,
Deem themselves the nation’s flower;
Honours now are gain’d by payment,
Rogues possess both wealth and power.
Of descent they boast, not merit,
’Tis their dress that makes them men;
Old coats now alone the spirit
Of old times bring back again;
When respect and virtue holy
Modestly went hand in hand;
When the youth with deference lowly
By the aged took his stand;
When a hand-shake was more valid
Than an oath or written sheet;
When men, iron-clad, forth sallied,
And a heart inside them beat.
Our fair garden borders nourish
Many a thousand flow’rets fair;
In the fostering soil they flourish,
While the sun smiles on them there.
But the flower most fair, most golden,
In our gardens ne’er is known,—
That one which, in days now olden,
On each rocky height was grown;
Which, in cold hill-fortress dwelling,
Men endued with iron frame
Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,—
Hospitality its name.
Weary wanderer, never clamber
To the mountain’s fort-crown’d brow;
’Stead of warm and friendly chamber,
Cold, hard walls receive thee now.
From the watch-tower blow no warders
Not a drawbridge is let fall;
For the castle’s lord and warders
In the cold tomb slumber all.
In dark coffins, too, are sleeping
Those dear maids bards sang of old;
Shrines like these within them keeping
Greater wealth than pearls and gold.
Strange soft whispers there are blended
Like sweet minnesinger’s lays;
To those dark vaults has descended
The fair love of olden days.
True, I also prize our ladies,
For they blossom like the May;
And delightful, too, their trade is,—
’Tis to dance, stitch, paint all day.
And they sing, in rhymes delicious,
Of old love and loyalty,
Feeling all the time suspicious
Whether such things e’er could be.
In their simple minds, our mothers
Used to think in days of yore,
That the gem above all others
Fair, man in his bosom bore.
Very different from this is
What their daughters wisdom call;
In the present day our misses
Love the jewels most of all.
Lies, deceit, and superstition
Rule,—life’s charms are thrown aside,
Whilst Rome’s sordid base ambition
Jordan’s pearls has falsified.
To your dark domain return you,
Visions of far happier days;
O’er a time which thus doth spurn you,
Vain laments no longer raise!
THE CONSECRATION.
Lonely in the forest chapel,
At the image of the Virgin,
Lay a gentle, pallid stripling,
Bent in humble adoration.
O Madonna! Let me ever
On the threshold here be kneeling;
Thou wilt never drive me from thee,
To the world so cold and sinful.
O Madonna! Sunny radiance
Round thy head’s bright locks is gleaming,
And a mild sweet smile is playing
Round thy fair mouth’s holy roses.
O Madonna! Thine eyes’ lustre
Lightens me like stars in heaven;
While life’s bark doth drift at random,
Stars lead on for ever surely.
O Madonna! Without wavering
I have borne thy test of sorrow,
On kind love relying blindly,
In thy glow alone e’er glowing.
O Madonna! This day hear me,
Full of mercy, rich in wonders!
Grant me then a sign of favour,
Just one little sign of favour.
Then presently happen’d a marvellous wonder.
The forest and chapel were parted insunder;
The boy understood not the miracle strange,
For all around him did suddenly change.
In a brilliant hall there sat the Madonna,
Her rays were gone, as he gazed upon her;
She bore the form of a lovely maid,
Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.
And see! from her fair and flowing tresses
She steals a lock, as she thus addresses
In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy:
The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!
What attests this consecration?
Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding
Its sublime illumination,
O’er the wide horizon spreading?
Angels up and down are moving,
Loudly do their pinions flutter;
Breathing music strange and loving,
Sweet the melodies they utter.
Well the stripling knows the yearning
Through his frame that now doth quiver;
To that land his footsteps turning,
Where the myrtle blooms for ever.
THE MOOR’S SERENADE.
To my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Bosom run, ye tears all burning!
Then will her sweet heart for Abdul
’Gin to beat with tender yearning.
Round my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Ear disport, ye tears of anguish!
Then will her fair head in vision
Sweet for Abdul’s love straight languish.
O’er my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing!
Then will her sweet hand bear on it
Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.
Sorrow is, alas, born voiceless,
In its mouth no tongue is growing,
It hath only tears and sighing,
And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.
DREAM AND LIFE.
The day was glowing, my heart, too, glow’d,
In silence I bore my sorrow’s load;
When night arrived, I hastened then
To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.
I softly approach’d, and mute as the grave,
While tears my cheeks did secretly lave,
I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair,
And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.
By the rose I joyfully fell asleep,
When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep;
The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d;
A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.
She gave me soon a rich golden store,
To a golden cottage the prize I bore;
Strange goings-on in the cottage I found,—
Small elves are dancing in graceful round.
Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
And closely their hands together are press’d;
And soon as a dance has come to a close,
Another begins, and each merrily goes.
And the music they dance to thus sounds in my ear:
“The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear,
“The whole of thy life was only a dream,
“And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”
The dream is over, the sun is up,
I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup.
Alas! in the place of the glimmering light,
A nasty insect meets my sight.
THE LESSON.
Mother tells little bee,
Yonder wax taper flee;
But for his mother’s prayers
Little bee little cares.
Round the light hovers he,
Humming all merrily;
Mother’s cry hears not he,
Little bee! Little bee!
Youthful one! Foolish one!
Poor little simpleton!
In the flame rusheth he,
Little bee! Little bee!
Now the flame flickers high,
In the flame he must die:
’Ware of the maidens, then,
Sons of men! Sons of men!
TO FRANCIS V. Z——.
I’m drawn to the North by a golden star;
Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far;
To poetry ever faithful abide,
And never desert that charming bride.
As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast
The German language so fair and blest;
And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand
O listen awhile at that Northern strand;
And list till thou hearest a ringing remote
That over the silent waters doth float.
When this thou hearest, expect ere long
The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song.
Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord,
And give me news that may pleasure afford;
How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go,
And with the others whom I loved so;
And how it fares with the lovely girl
Who set so many young hearts in a whirl,
And filled so many with yearnings divine—
The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine.
And give me news of my fatherland too,
If still ’tis the land of affection true;
If still the old God in Germany lives,
And none to the Evil One homage now gives.
And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings,
And joyous stories with it thus brings
Far over the waves to the distant strand,
The bard will rejoice in the far North land.
A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.
All I saw and heard when travelling,
All that soul and heart found pleasing,
All that gave me food for cavilling,
All that tedious was or teasing;
Solemn jostlings, wild excitement,
Both of simpletons and sages,—
All shall swell the long indictment
Of my travels in these pages.
Give not travels life twice over?
When at home one lives once only;
Wouldst thou nobler ends discover,
Thou must leave thy closet lonely.
On the world’s wide stage, each player
Is a mimic or a puppet,
Rides his hobby his own way, or
Bids the others clamber up it.
If we’re laughed at by our neighbour,
Riding in this curious fashion,
Let us him in turn belabour,
Jeering him without compassion.
Read these travels in the manner
And the sense in which I’m writing;
Each one has his fav’rite banner
Under which he fancies fighting.
DEFEND NOT.
Defend it not, defend it not,
This wretched world below;
Defend its gaping people not,
Who care for nought but pomp and show.
The tedious ones, defend them not,
Who cause us such ennui;
The learned ones, defend them not,
In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.
The women, too, defend them not,
Though good ones may be there;
The best amongst them scorneth not
The man she loves not, to ensnare.
And then my friends—defend them not:
Count not thyself one now;
For thou those friends resemblest not,—
No! firm, and good, and true art thou.
A PARODY.
Indeed they have wearied me greatly,
And made me exceedingly sad,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
Their terrible discord has scatter’d
What little senses I had,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers,
They most have stirr’d up my bile,
Who write in neither prosaic
Nor true poetical style.
WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN.
Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend,
Thy yearnings may satisfied be;
The fairest of womankind here, friend,
All walking together, thou’lt see.
How charming they look, how delicious,
In gay silken garments all dress’d!
A certain poet judicious
“Walking flowers” has named them in jest.
How very charming each bonnet!
Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams!
Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it!
Each neck, how swanlike it seems!
EVENING SONGS.
1.
Without any aim, forth I sallied,
And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea;
The charming flowers look’d pallid,
And spectre-like gazed upon me.
Upon me they gazed, and to chatter
And tell my dull tale I began;
They ask’d me, what was the matter
With me, poor sad-looking man.
The truth, I valiantly said it,
No love in the world can I find;
And as I have lost all my credit,
With want of cash ’tis combin’d.
2.
And over the pond are sailing
Two swans all white as snow;
Sweet voices mysteriously wailing
Pierce through me as onward they go.
They sail along, and a ringing
Sweet melody rises on high,
And when the swans begin singing,
They presently must die.
3.
When in sorrow, they dare not show it,
However mournful their mood,
For the swan, like the soul of the poet,
By the dull world is ill understood.
And in their death-hour they waken
The air, and break into song;
And, unless my ears are mistaken,
They sing now, while sailing along.
4.
The cloudlets are lazily sailing
O’er the blue Atlantic sea;
And mid the twilight there hovers
A shadowy figure o’er me.
Full deep in my soul it gazes,
With old-time-recalling eye,
Like a glimpse of joys long buried,
And happiness long gone by.
Familiar the vision appeareth,
Methinks I know it full well;
’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary,
Who on earth no longer doth dwell.
She beckons in friendly silence,
And clasps me with gentle despair;
But I seize hold of my glasses,
To have a better stare!
SONNETS.
1. TO AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL.
The worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt—
The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power—
These struggled my life’s marrow to devour;
I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out.
Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour,
And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about;
To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout,
Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower.
O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace,
That as a tree the garden it may grace
Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert.
My nurse used of that garden to assert
That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells,
Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.
2. TO THE SAME.
Contented not with thine own property,
The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal,
The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,—
The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee,
Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal,
The Seine paid tribute to thine industry,
Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary,
Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal.
Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content
With that which seldom unto man is lent;
Instead of adding more, to spend prepare!
And with the treasures which thou with such ease
From North and South accustom’d wert to seize,
Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.
3. TO COUNCILLOR GEORGE S——, OF GOTTINGEN.
Though the demeanour be imperious, proud,
Yet round the lips may gentleness play still;
Though the eye gleam and every muscle thrill,
Yet may the voice with calmness be endow’d.
Thus art thou in the rostrum, when aloud
Thou speak’st of governments and of the skill
Of cabinets, and of the people’s will,
Of Germany’s long strifes and ends avow’d.
Ne’er be thine image blotted from my mind!
In times of barbarous self-love like these,
How doth an image of such greatness please!
What thou, in fashion fatherly and kind,
Spak’st to my heart, while hours flew swiftly by,
Deep in my heart I still bear faithfully.
4. TO J. B. ROUSSEAU.
Thy friendly greetings open wide my breast,
And the dark chambers of my heart unbar;
Home visions greet me like some radiant star,
And magic pinions fan me into rest.
Once more the Rhine flows by me, on its crest
Of waters mount and castle mirror’d are;
On vine-clad hills gold clusters gleam afar,
Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest.
Could I but see thee, truest friend of all,
Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings
The ivy green around a crumbling wall!
Could I but be with thee, and to thy song
In silence listen, while the redbreast sings,
And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!
5.
A torture-chamber was the world to me,
Where I suspended by the feet did hang;
Hot pincers gave my body many a pang,
A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully.
I wildly cried in nameless agony,
From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang,—
A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang,
And presently the coup-de-grace gave she.
My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye,
My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh,
From out my bleeding mouth,—a ghastly sight,
My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight;
My last death-rattle music is the while
To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.
6. THE NIGHT WATCH ON THE DRACHENFELS. TO FRITZ VON B——.
’Twas midnight as we scaled the mountain height,
The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d,
And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d,
They sang of Germany’s renown in fight.
Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright,
The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d,
Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d,
And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight.
And from the ruins there arose low moans,
Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans;
A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully.
Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass
On the high Drachenfels,—but I, alas,
A wretched cold and cough took home with me!
7. IN FRITZ STEINMANN’S ALBUM.
The bad victorious are, the good lie low;
The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry,
Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh,
Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.—
In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow,
Image on image, flower on flower pile high,
In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die,
Unless, before the egg is laid, you know
How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on,
Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con,
And your own trumpet blow with decent pride.
Write for the mob, not for posterity,
Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be,—
You’ll then be by the public deified.
8. TO HER.
The flow’rets red and white that I hold here,
Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound,
Into a lovely nosegay I have bound,
And offer unto thee, my mistress dear.
By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d!
I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear,
Till I have left a sign of love sincere.
Remember me when I my death have found.
Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me;
My life of grief was enviable e’en,—
For in my heart I bore thee lovingly.
And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I
Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen,
Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.
9. GOETHE’S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON-THE MAIN. 1821.
Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear,
Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,
The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed
To build a monument to Goethe here.
“At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear
“To foreign traders that we’re of his breed,
“That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed,
“And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.”
O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never,
And keep your money in your pockets too;
’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise.
He dwelt amongst you in his infant days,
But half a world now severs him from you,
Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen[4] sever!
10. DRESDEN POETRY.
At Dresden on the Elbe, that handsome city,
Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made,
They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid)
A music-club and music warehouse pretty.
There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty,
Herr Kuhn,[5] Miss Nostitz [5a]—adepts at the trade,—
Spout verses, calling action to their aid.
How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!—more’s the pity!
Next day the paper tells us all the facts,
Bright’s[6] brightness flies, Child’s [6a] childishness is childlike,
The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike.
Arnoldi [5b] takes the cash, as salesman acts;
Then Böttiger [5c] appears, with noise infernal—
’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal!
11. BREADLESS ART.
How soon my poverty would ended be,
Could I the pencil use, and paint away,
The walls of castles proud and churches gay
Adorning with my pictures merrily!
How soon would wealth replace my penury,
Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play.
And with such elegance perform each day,
That lords and ladies all applauded me!
But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part,
For I have follow’d thee alone, alas!
Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art!
When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!)
Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass,
I needs must go without, or drink on credit!
BOOK OF SONGS.
PREFACE.
This is the olden fairy wood!
The linden blossoms smell sweetly,
The strange mysterious light of the moon
Enchants my senses completely.
I onward went, and as I went,
A voice above me was ringing;—
’Tis surely the nightingale’s notes that I hear
Of love and love’s sorrows she’s singing.
She sings of love and love’s sorrows as well,
She sings of smiling and aching,
She sadly exults, she joyfully sobs,
Forgotten visions awaking.
I onward went, and as I went,
I saw before me lying,
On open ground, a castle vast,
With gables in loftiness vying.
The windows were closed, and all things appear’d
To stillness and sadness converted;
It seem’d as though silent death had his home
Within those walls deserted.
A sphinx was lying before the door,
Part comical, part not human;
Its body and paws a lion’s were,
With the breasts and head of a woman.
A woman fair! her white eyes spoke
Of yearnings wild but tender;
Her lips, all mute, were closely arch’d,
And smiled a silent surrender.
The nightingale so sweetly sang,
I found it in vain to resist it—
I kiss’d the beauteous face, and, ah!
Was ruined as soon as I kissed it.
The marble figure with life was fill’d,
The stone began sighing and groaning;
She drank my kisses’ tremulous glow
With thirsty and eager moaning.
She well nigh drank my breath away,
And then, with sensual ardour,
Embraced me, while her lion’s paws press’d
My body harder and harder.
O blissful torment and rapturous woe!
The pain, like the pleasure, unbounded!
For while the mouth’s kisses filled me with joy,
The paws most fearfully wounded.
The nightingale sang: “O beauteous sphinx!
“O loved one, explain the reason
“Why all thy raptures with pains of death
“Are mingled, in cruel treason?
“O beauteous sphinx! explain to me
“The riddle so full of wonder!
“I over it many a thousand years
“Have never ceased to ponder.”
YOUTHFUL SORROWS.
1817-21.
I. VISIONS.
1.
Of love’s wild glow I dreamt in former days,
Of mignonette, fair locks, and myrtle twining,
Of lips so sweet, with bitter words combining,
Of mournful melodies of mournful lays.
The dreams have long been scatter’d far and banish’d,
My dearest vision fled for evermore,
And, save the burning glow I used to pour
Into my tender numbers, all is vanish’d.
Thou ling’rest still, deserted song! Now go,
And seek that long-lost vision; shouldst thou meet it,
On my behalf in loving fashion greet it,—
An airy breath to that dim shade I blow.
2.
A dream both strange and sad to see
Once startled and delighted me;
The dismal vision haunts me still,
And in my heart doth wildly thrill.
There was a garden wondrous fair,—
I fain would wander gladly there;
The beauteous flowers upon me gazed,
And high I found my rapture raised.
The birds were twittering above
Their joyous melodies of love;
The sun was red with rays of gold,
The flowers all lovely to behold.
Sweet fragrance all the herbs exhale,
And sweetly, softly blows the gale;
And all things glisten, all things smile,
And show their loveliness the while.
Amid that bright and flowery land
A marble fountain was at hand,
And there I saw a maiden fair
Washing a garment white with care.
Her cheeks were sweet, her eyes were mild,
Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child,
And as I gazed, she seem’d to be
So strange, yet so well known to me.
The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Water, water, quickly run,
“Let the washing soon be done.”
I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
“For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”
Then spake she quickly: “Ready be!
“I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
And still entranced, ere long I stood
Within a desert, gloomy wood:
To reach the skies the branches sought;
I stood amazed, and thought and thought.
And hark! what hollow echoing sound
Like axe-strokes fills the air around
Through waste and wood I speed apace,
Until I reach an open place.
In the green plain before me spread
A mighty oak tree rear’d its head;
And lo! the maiden, strange to see,
Was felling with an axe the tree.
With blow on blow a song she sings
Unceasing, as the axe she swings:
“Iron glittering, iron bright,
“Hew the oaken chest aright.”
I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine,
“For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”
Then spake she quickly: “Time is short,
“To hew thy coffin is my sport!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
Bleak, dim was all above, beneath,
Around was barren, barren heath:
I felt in strange mysterious mood,
And shuddering inwardly I stood.
And as I roam’d on silently,
A whitish streak soon caught mine eye;
I hasten’d tow’rd it, and when there,
Behold, I found the maiden fair!
On wide heath stood the snowy maid,
Digging the ground with sexton’s spade;
Scarce dared I gaze on her aright,
So fair yet fearful was the sight.
The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Spade, O spade, so sharp and tried,
“Dig a pit both deep and wide.”
I went, and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
“What means the pit that’s lying there?”
Then spake she quickly: “Silent be!
“A cold, cold grave I dig for thee.”
And when the fair maid thus replied,
Its mouth the pit straight opened wide.
And when the pit was full in view,
A chilling shudder pierced me through,
And in the grave so dark and deep
Headlong I fell, and—woke from sleep.
3.
In midnight vision I myself have spied,
As for some festival, in ruffles dress’d,
In a black gala-coat and silken vest;—
My sweet and trusting love with scorn I eyed;
And bow’d low down, and said “Art thou a bride?”
“I wish thee joy, dear Madam, I protest!”
And yet my lips reluctantly express’d
The words so cold and tauntingly applied.
And bitter tears then suddenly ’gan falling
From her dear eyes, and in a sea of weeping
Wellnigh dissolved her image so enthralling.
O lovely eyes, ye stars of love so kindly,
What though ye, when awake, and e’en when sleeping
Deceived me oft, I trust ye still as blindly!