That word so teeming with sadness_The poems of Heine; Complete Translated into the original metres; with a sketch of his life

They would carry, my loved one, to thee

Thou wouldst hear it at every moment,

Wouldst hear it where’er thou mightst be.

As soon as thine eyelids at nighttime

Are peacefully closèd in sleep,

My word would straightway pursue thee

Far into thy visions most deep.

63.

Thou hast pearls, thou hast diamonds also,

Hast all that mortals adore;

Thine eyes are among the fairest,--

My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?

Upon thine eyes so beauteous

I’ve written many a score

Of sweet immortal ballads,--

My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?

And with thine eyes so beauteous

Hast thou tormented me sore,

And brought me to utter perdition,--

My loved one, what wouldst thou have more?

64.

He who for the first time loveth,

Though ’tis hopeless, is a God;

But the man who hopeless loveth

For the second time’s--a fool.

I, a fool like this, am loving

Once more, with no love responsive;

Sun and moon and stars are laughing,

I, too, join the laugh and--die.

65.

Never match’d the timid coldness

Of thy spirit, from the first,

With my love’s untutor’d boldness,

Which through rocks delights to burst.

Thou in love dost love the highway,

And I see thee walk through life

With thy husband taking thy way,

As an honest teeming wife!

66.

Counsel they gave me, and good instruction,

Pour’d on me honours, by way of seduction

Said I had only to wait for a while,

And their protection upon me should smile.

Spite the protection they bid me hold cherish’d,

I before long should of hunger have perish’d,

Had I not happen’d a good man to see,

Who took an interest kindly in me.

Good man indeed! for he gives me my food;

Never can I forget conduct so good.

Pity I cannot with kisses reply,

For the good man is no other than--I!

67.

This young man, so good and worthy,

Cannot be too much respected;

Oft he gives me wine and oysters,

Gives me liquors well selected.

Coat and trousers fit him neatly,

His cravat is still more sightly;

And so comes he every morning

For my health to ask politely.

Of my wide-spread glory speaks he,

Of my talents and my graces;

Eagerly at my disposal

All his services he places.

And in company at evening,

With a face as if inspired

He declaims before the ladies

All my poems so admired.

O it is indeed most pleasant

Such a young man to discover

In the present day, when surely

All things good will soon be over.

68.

I dreamt that I was Lord of all,

And sat in heaven proudly;

The angels, ranged around my throne,

All praised my verses loudly.

And cakes I ate, and comfits too,

In value many a florin;

And Cardinal I drank the while,

And had no need of scorin’.

Plagued by ennui, I long’d to be

On earth, with all its evil;

And were I not the Lord of all,

I’d fain have been the devil.

Thou long-legg’d Angel, Gabriel, go,

And hasten downward thither,

And find my worthy friend Eugene,

And bring him to me hither.

Within the College seek him not,

But o’er a glass of brandy;

Seek for him not in Hedwig’s Church,

But at Miss Meyer’s so handy.

The Angel then spread out his wings,

And with his whole soul in it

Flew down, and seized my worthy friend,

And brought him in a minute.

Ay, youth, I am the Lord of all,

And rule o’er every nation;

I always told thee I should come

To power and reputation.

Each day I work such miracles

As greatly would delight thee;

The town of A---- I’ll happy make

To-day, and so excite thee.

The paving-stones upon the road

Shall all be now converted,

And, lo, an oyster, fresh and clear,

In each shall be inserted.

A constant shower of lemon-juice

Like dew, shall serve as pickle,

And in the gutters of the streets

The finest wine shall trickle.

How all the A--er’s straight rejoice,

And to the banquet hasten!

The judges from the gutter drink

As if it were a basin.

And how at this divine repast

Rejoice the poets needy!

Lieutenants lick the streets quite dry,

And ensigns poor and greedy.

The ensigns and lieutenants are

Wise in their generation;

They always think the present time

The weightiest in creation.

69.

From beauteous lips compell’d to part, and carried

Away from beauteous arms fast clasp’d around me,

Yet one more day I gladly would have tarried,

When came the post-boy with his steeds, and found me.

Child, this is very life, an endless wailing,

An endless farewell-taking, endless parting;

Is then thy heart to clasp mine unavailing?

Could not thine eye retain me, e’en at starting?

70.

We travelled alone in the gloomy

Post-chaise the whole of the night;

Each lean’d on the other’s bosom,

And jested with hearts so light.

When morning dawn’d upon us,

My child, how we did stare,

For the blind passenger,[24] Amor,

Was sitting between us there!

71.

Heaven knows where the haughty hussy

May have will’d to pitch her tent;

Swearing, with the rain fast falling,

All the city through I went.

From one tavern to another

Ran I swiftly in the rain,

And to every surly waiter

Did I turn myself in vain.

Then I saw her at a window,

Nodding, tittering as well:

Could I tell that thou wouldst live in,

Maiden, such a grand hotel?

72.

Like darkling visions the houses

Are standing all in a row;

Deep hidden in my mantle,

In silence I onward go.

The high cathedral tower

The hour of twelve doth proclaim:

My love, with her charms and kisses,

Awaits me with rapturous flame.

The moon is my attendant,

And kindly gleams in the sky,

And when I arrive at her dwelling,

I joyfully call up on high:

I thank thee, my olden companion,

That thou hast thus lighted my way;

I now at length can release thee,

Light the rest of the world now, I pray

And find’st thou some mortal enamour’d,

In solitude mourning his fate,

As me thou of old time didst comfort,

Him also O comfort thou straight!

73.

O what falsehood lies in kisses!

In mere show what joy’s convey’d!

In betrayal, O what bliss is!

Sweeter still to be betray’d!

Though thou mayst resist me, fairest,

Yet I know what thou allowest;

I’ll avow whate’er thou swearest,

I will swear what thou avowest.

74.

Upon thy snowy bosom

My head all-softly I lay,

And secretly can listen

To what thy heart doth say.

The blue hussars are blowing,

And riding in at the gate;

To-morrow my heart-beloved one

Will surely desert me straight.

If thou wilt desert me to-morrow,

At least to-day thou art mine,

And in thine arms so beauteous

With twofold bliss I’ll recline.

75.

The blue hussars are blowing,

And riding out at the gate;

I come then, my loved one, and bring thee

A nosegay of roses straight.

Those were indeed wild doings,

Much folk and warlike display!

By far too many were quarter’d

Within thy bosom that day.

76.

I in youthful years did languish,

Suffer’d many a bitter anguish

From love’s fiery glow.

Wood is now so dear, the fire

Will for lack of fuel expire--

_Ma foi!_ ’tis better so.

Think of this, O youthful fair one!

Chase away the tears that wear one,

And all foolish love’s alarms;

If thy life may not have perish’d,

O forget thy love once cherish’d--

_Ma foi!_ within my arms.

77.

The eunuchs controverted,

When I raised up my voice;

They grumbled and asserted

My singing was not choice.

And then they all raised sweetly

Their voicelets petty and shrill;

They sang so finely and neatly,

Like crystal sounded their trill.

They sang of love’s fierce yearning,

Of loving effusions and love,

To tears the ladies all turning,

With tunes so adapted to move.

78.

I left you at first in July at the warmest,

In January now I find you once more;

In the midst of the heat you then were complaining,

And now you are cool’d, and cold to the core.

I shall soon leave again, and when next I’m returning

Neither warm shall I find you, nor yet quite cold;

I shall walk o’er your grave with silent composure,

While my own heart within me is wretched and old.

79.

Art thou then indeed so hostile,

Art thou tow’rds me changed so sadly?

I by all means shall lament it,

Thou hast treated me so badly.

O ungrateful lips, how could ye

Speak with malice cruel-hearted

Of the man who ofttimes kiss’d you

Lovingly, in days departed?

80.

Ah! once more the eyes are on me,

Which did greet me once with gladness,

And the lips once more address me,

Which once sweeten’d life’s long sadness.

E’en the voice I hear, whose accents

Charm’d me, as they sweetly falter’d;

I alone am not the same one,

Having home return’d, all-alter’d.

By those arms so white and beauteous

Lovingly embraced and closely,

To her heart I now am clinging,

Dull of feeling and morosely.

81.

On the walls of Salamanca

Soft refreshing winds are playing;

There, with my belovèd Donna,

On a summer’s eve I’m straying.

Round the fair one’s slender body

Doth my arm with rapture linger,

And her bosom’s haughty motion

Feel I with a loving finger.

Yet a whisper fraught with sorrow

Through the linden trees is moving,

And, beneath, the dusky millstream

Murmurs sad dreams, disapproving.

“Ah, Señora! a foreboding

“Tells me, I shall hence be driven

“On the walls of Salamanca

“Ne’er again to walk ’tis given.”

82.

Thy voice and thine eye, when we first saw each other,

Convinced me thou saw’st me with heart not estranged;

And had it not been for thy tyrant mother,

I think that we kisses should straight have exchanged.

To-morrow again I depart from the city,

And on, in my olden course, wander I;

At the window my fair one is lurking in pity,

And friendly greetings I throw up on high.

83.

Over the mountains the sun mounts in splendour,

Afar sound the bells of the lambs as they stray;

My loved one, my lamb, my sun bright and tender,

How gladly once more would I see thee to-day!

I gaze up on high, with looks fond and loving--

My child, fare thee well, I must wander from thee;

In vain! for her curtain is still and unmoving--

She slumbering lieth and dreameth of me.

84.

At Halle, in the market

Two mighty lions are standing.

Thou lion-scorn of Halle,

Methinks they’ve tamed thee finely!

At Halle, in the market,

A mighty giant’s standing.

He hath a sword, and moves not,

He’s turn’d to stone by terror.

At Halle, in the market,

A mighty church is standing.

The students of each faction

Have there a place for praying.

85.

Glimm’ring lies the summer even

Over wood and verdant meadows,

And the gold moon, fragrance shedding,

Gleameth from the azure heaven.

Crickets at the brook with shrillness

Chirp; there’s motion in the water,

And the wand’rer hears a splashing,

And a breathing in the stillness.

Yonder at the lone stream sparkling,

See, the beauteous elf is bathing;

Arm and neck, so white and lovely,

Glisten in the moonbeams darkling.

86.

On the strange roads night is lying,

Heart is sick and limbs are weary;

But the moonbeams, softly vying,

Shed their light like blessings cheery.

Ah, sweet moon! thy radiant splendour

Scares away each terror nightly;

All my woes dissolve, and tender

Dew o’erflows my eyelids lightly.

87.

Death nothing is but cooling night,

And life is nought but sultry day;

Darkness draws nigh, I slumber

Wearied by day’s bright light.

Over my bed ariseth a tree,

There sings the youthful nightingale;

She sings of love exulting,

In dreams ’tis heard by me.

88.

“Say, where is thy beauteous mistress,

“Whom thou sangest in the hour

“When thy heart was pierced so strangely

“By the flames of magic power?”

All those flames are now extinguish’d,

And my heart is cold and weary,

And this book’s the urn that holdeth

My love’s ashes sad and dreary.

89.

Full long have I my head tormented

With ceaseless thinking, day and night;

And yet thy darling eyes compel me

To love thee, in my own despite.

Now stand I, where thine eyes are gleaming,

Charm’d by their sweet expressive light;

That I should love again thus deeply

I scarcely can believe aright.

90.

When thou hast become my wedded wife

Thy joy shall know no measure;

Thou’lt live in happiness all thy life,

In uninterrupted pleasure.

And I will very patient be

E’en ’neath thy reviling and curses;

But we must part most certainly

If thou abusest my verses.

91.

Little by thee comprehended,

Little knew I thee, good brother;

When we in the mud descended

Soon we understood each other.

92.

Near me dwelleth Don Henriques,

As the “handsome” known and fêted;

Our apartments are adjoining,

By a thin wall separated.

Salamanca’s dames are blushing

As he in the streets is walking

Rattling spurs, mustachios twirling,

With his dogs behind him stalking.

But at evening’s silent hour he

All alone at home is sitting,

His guitar his fingers twanging,

Sweet dreams through his fancy flitting.

On the chords with vigour plays he,

His wild phantasies beginning--

O it drives me mad to hear him

Keeping up his wretched dinning.

_THE HARTZ-JOURNEY._

1824.

PREFACE.

In black coats and silken stockings,

White and courtly frills they hide them,

Gentle speeches and embraces--

Had they only hearts inside them!

Hearts within the breast, and love, too,

In the heart, yea, love all-burning;

Ah! I’m sick of their false prating

Of love’s sorrows and love’s yearning.

I’ll ascend the distant mountains

Where the peaceful huts are standing,

Where the breezes free are blowing,

And the bosom free’s expanding.

I’ll ascend the distant mountains

Where the dusky firs are springing,

And the haughty clouds are roaming,

Brooks are murmuring, birds are singing.

Fare ye well, ye polish’d chambers,

Polish’d lords and dames beguiling;

To the mountains now ascending

I’ll look down upon you, smiling.

On the mountain stands the cottage

Of the aged mountaineer;

There the dark-green fir is rustling,

And the golden moon shines clear.

In the cottage stands an arm-chair,

Richly carved and wondrously;

He that on it sits is happy,

And the happy one am I!

On the footstool sits the maiden,

On my knee her arms repose;

Eyes are like two stars all azure,

Mouth is like the purple rose.

And the stars so sweet and azure,

Large as heaven, she on me throws,

And she puts her lily-finger

Mocking on the purple rose.

No, we’re seen not by the mother,

For with industry she spins;

The guitar the father playing,

Some old melody begins.

And the maiden whispers softly,

Softly, in a tone suppress’d;

Many a most important secret

She to me hath soon confess’d:

“Since the death of aunt, however,

“We can’t go to see the sight

“Of the shooting-match at Goslar,

“Which was such a great delight.

“Whereas here ’tis very lonely

“On the mountain-top, you know;

“All the winter we’re entirely

“As though buried in the snow.

“And I am a timid maiden,

“And as fearful as a child

“Of the wicked mountain spirits,

“Who at night roam fierce and wild”--

Sudden is the sweet one silent,

Terrified by what she said,

And her little eyes she covers

With her little hands in dread.

Louder roars outside the fir-tree,

And the spinning-wheel loud hums;

Meanwhile the guitar is tinkling,

And the olden tune it strums:

“Fear thee not, my little darling,

“At the wicked spirits’ might;

“Angels keep, my little darling,

“Safe watch o’er thee, day and night.”

Fir-tree with green finger’s knocking

At the window small and low,

And the moon, the yellow list’ner,

Through it her sweet light doth throw.

Father, mother, gently snoring,

In the neighbouring chamber sleep,

Yet we two are gaily talking,

So that wide awake we keep.

“That thou’rt wont to pray too often,

“Is a thing I’ll credit ne’er,

“For thy lips’ convulsive quiv’ring

“Ill accords with thoughts of prayer.

“Ay, that quiv’ring, cold and evil,

“Every time affrights me sore,

“Yet thine eyes’ mild lustre husheth

“Thy sad anguish evermore.

“I, too, doubt if thou believest

“All that is the Christian’s boast;

“Dost believe in God the Father,

“In the Son and Holy Ghost?”--

Ah, my child! when yet an infant

Sitting on my mother’s knee,

I believed in God the Father,

Ruling all things wondrously;

Who the beauteous earth created,

And the men that on it move;

Who to suns, moons, stars predestined

All their tracks wherein to rove.

When, my child, I grew still bigger

Many more things I conceived,

And my reason wax’d yet stronger,

And I in the Son believed.

In the Son beloved, who, loving,

Open’d to us love’s door wide,

And who in reward, as usual,

By the mob was crucified.

Now that I am grown, have read much,

Wander’d over many a coast,

Doth my heart swell, and in earnest

I believe the Holy Ghost.

He hath done the greatest marvels,

And still greater doeth he;

He hath burst the tyrants’ strongholds,

Servants from their yoke set free.

Olden deadly wounds he healeth,

And renews the olden law:

All men equal are, and noble

From the earliest breath they draw.

Every evil cloud he chaseth,

Drives the brain’s dark weft away,

That corrupteth love and pleasure,

Grinning at us night and day.

Thousand knights well arm’d for battle

Hath the Holy Ghost ordain’d,

All his pleasure to accomplish,

All by mighty zeal sustain’d.

See, their trusty swords are gleaming!

See, their noble banners wave!

Ah, my child! hast thou seen ever

Knights like this, so proud and brave?

Now, my child, look on me boldly,

Kiss me, look upon me nigh!

Such a daring knight, my fair one,

Of the Holy Ghost am I!

Silently the moon is hiding

In the dark green fir-tree’s rear,

And our lamp within the chamber

Flickers faint, with glimmer drear.

But my azure eyes are beaming

With a light that brighter plays,

And the purple rose is glowing,

And the darling maiden says:

“Little elves and little people

“Pilfer all our bread and bacon;

“In the drawer at night they’re lying,

“But by morning all is taken.

“Next our cream the little people

“From the milk are wont to sup,

“Leaving, too, the bowl uncover’d,

“And the cat the rest drinks up.

“And the cat a witch indeed is,

“For she crawls, while night-storms lower,

“Up the spirit-mountain yonder

“To the ancient ruin’d tower.

“There a castle erst was standing,

“Full of joy and glittering arms;

“Knights and squires, in merry torch-dance,

“Mingled with the ladies’ charms.

“Then a wicked old enchantress

“Men and castle too bewitch’d;

“Nought remaineth but the ruins,

“Where the owls their nest have pitch’d.

“Yet my late aunt used to tell us:

“If the proper word is said

“At the proper hour at nighttime

“At the proper place o’erhead,

“Then the ruins will be changèd

“To a castle fair once more,

“Knights and squires and ladies gaily

“Will be dancing as of yore.

“Him by whom that word is spoken

“Men and castle will obey;

“Drums and trumpets will proclaim him,

“Heralding his sov’reign sway.”

Thus the charming legends issue

From the mouth so like a rose,

While an azure starry radiance

From her sweet eyes overflows.

Round my hand the little maiden

Twines her golden hair with glee,

Calls by pretty names my fingers,

Kisses, laughs, then mute is she.

All within that silent chamber

On me looks with trusting eye;

Table, cupboard,--I could fancy

I had seen them formerly.

Like a friend the house-clock prattles,

The guitar scarce audibly

Of itself begins to tinkle,

And as in a dream sit I.

Now’s the proper place discover’d,

Now the proper hour hath sounded;

If the proper word I utter’d,

Maiden, thou wouldst be astounded.

If that word I straightway utter’d,

Midnight would grow dim and quake,

Fir and streamlet roar more loudly,

And the aged mountain wake.

Lute’s soft strains and pigmy music

From the mountain’s clefts would burst,

And a flowering wood shoot from them

As in joyous spring-time erst.

Flowers, all-hardy magic flowers,

Leaves of size so fabulous,

Fragrant, varied, hasty-quiv’ring,

As though passion stirr’d them thus.

Roses, wild as flames all-glowing,

Dart from out the mass like gems;

Lilies, like to crystal arrows,

Upward shoot tow’rd heaven their stems.

And the stars, like suns in greatness

Downward gaze with yearning glow;

In the lily’s giant-calix

They their gushing radiance throw.

Yet ourselves, my darling maiden,

Alter’d more than all we seem;

Gold and silk and torches’ lustre

Joyously around us gleam.

Thou, yea thou, becom’st a princess,

To a castle turns this cot;

Knights and squires and ladies gaily

Dance with rapture, tiring not.

Thee and all, both men and castle,

I, yea I, have gain’d to-day;

Drums and trumpets loud proclaim me,

Heralding my sov’reign sway!

Shepherd boy’s a king,--on green hills

As a throne he sitteth down

O’er his head the sun all-radiant

Is his ever golden crown.

At his feet the sheep are lying,

Gentle fawners, streak’d with red;

Calves as cavaliers attend him,

Proudly o’er the pastures spread.

Kids are all his court-performers,

With the birds and cows as well,

And he has his chamber-music

To the sound of flute and bell.

And it sounds and sings so sweetly,

And the time so sweetly keep

Waterfall and nodding fir-trees,

And the king then goes to sleep.

In the meantime acts as ruler

His prime minister, the hound,

While his loud and surly barking

Echoes all the country round.

Sleepily the young king murmurs:

“’Tis a heavy task to reign;

“Ah! right gladly would I find me

“With my queen at home again!

“In my queen’s arms soft and tender

“Calmly rests my kingly head,

“And my vast and boundless kingdom

“In her dear eyes lies outspread.”

Brighter in the East ’tis growing

Through the sun’s soft glimm’ring motion;

Far and wide the mountain-summits

Float within the misty ocean.

With the speed of wind I’d hasten,

If I seven-league boots had only,

Over yonder mountain-summits

To my darling’s dwelling lonely.

Gently would I draw the curtain

From the bed wherein she’s lying,

Gently would I kiss her forehead,

And her mouth, with rubies vying,

Still more gently would I whisper

In her lily-ear so tender:

“Think in dreams, we love each other,

“And our love will ne’er surrender.”

I Am the princess Ilse,

And dwell in Ilsenstein;

Come with me to my castle,

And there ’midst pleasures be mine.

Thy head I’ll softly moisten

With my pellucid wave;

Thou shalt forget thine anguish,

Poor sorrow-stricken knave!

Within my arms so snowy,

Upon my snowy breast,

Shalt thou repose, and dream there

Of olden legends blest.

I’ll kiss thee and embrace thee,

As I embraced and kiss’d

The darling Kaiser Henry,

Who doth no longer exist.

None live except the living,

The dead are dead and gone;

And I am fair and blooming,

My laughing heart beats on.

And as my heart is beating,

My crystal castle doth ring;

The knights and maidens are dancing,

The squires all-joyfully spring.

The silken trains are rustling,

The spurs of iron are worn,

The dwarfs beat drum and trumpet,

And fiddle and play the horn.

But thee shall my arm hold warmly

As Kaiser Henry it held;

I held him fast imprison’d,

When loudly the trumpet’s note swell’d.

_THE BALTIC._

PART I. 1825.

1. EVENING TWILIGHT.

By ocean’s pallid strand

Sat I, tormented in spirit and lonely.

The sun sank lower and lower, and threw

Red glowing streaks upon the water,

And the snowy, spreading billows,

By the flood hard-press’d,

Foam’d and roar’d still nearer and nearer--

A wonderful sound, a whisp’ring and piping,

A laughing and murmuring, sighing and rushing,

Between times a lullaby-home-sounding singing,--

Methinks I hear some olden tradition,

Primeval, favourite legend,

Which I erst as a stripling

Learnt from the neighbours’ children,

When we, on the summer evenings,

On the house-door’s steps all cower’d

Cosily for quiet talking,

With our little hearts all attentive,

And our eyes all wisely curious;--

Whilst the bigger maidens,

Close by their fragrant flowerpots

Sat at the opposite window

Rosy their faces,

Smiling, illumed by the moon.

2. SUNSET.

The glowing ruddy sun descends

Down to the far up-shuddering

Silvery-grey world-ocean;

Airy images, rosily breath’d upon,

After him roll, and over against him,

Out of the’ autumnal glimmering veil of clouds,

With face all mournful and pale as death,

Bursteth forth the moon,

And behind her, like sparks of light,

Misty-broad, glimmer the stars.

Once in the heavens there glitter’d,

Join’d in fond union,

Luna the goddess and Sol the god,

And around them the stars all cluster’d,

Their little, innocent children.

But evil tongues then whisper’d disunion,

And they parted in anger,

That glorious, radiant pair.

Now, in the daytime, in splendour all lonely,

Wanders the Sun-god in realms on high,--

On account of his majesty

Greatly sung-to and worshipp’d

By haughty, bliss-harden’d mortals.

But in the night-time,

In heaven wanders Luna,

Unhappy mother,

With all her orphan’d starry children,

And she gleams in silent sorrow,

And loving maidens and gentle poets

Devote to her tears and songs.

The gentle Luna! womanly minded,

Still doth she love her beautiful spouse.

Towards the evening, trembling and pale,

Peeps she forth from the light clouds around,

And looks at the parting one mournfully,

And fain would cry in her anguish: “Come!

Come! the children all long for thee--”

But the disdainful Sun-god,

At the sight of his spouse, ’gins glowing

With still deeper purple,

In anger and grief,

And inflexibly hastens he

Down to his flood-chilly widow’d bed.

* * * * *

Evil and backbiting tongues

Thus brought grief and destruction

E’en ’mongst the godheads immortal.

And the poor godheads, yonder in heaven,

Wander in misery,

Comfortless over their endless tracks,

And death cannot reach them,

And with them they trail

Their bright desolation.

But I, the mere man,

The lowly-planted, the blest-with-death one,

I sorrow no longer.

3. THE NIGHT ON THE STRAND.

Starless and cold is the night,

The ocean boils;

And over the sea, flat on its belly,

Lies the misshapen Northwind;

With groaning and stifled mysterious voice,

A sullen grumbler, good-humour’d for once,

Prates he away to the waves,

Telling many a wild tradition,

Giant-legends, murderous-humorous,

Primeval Sagas from Norway,

And the while, far echoing, laughs he and howls he

Exorcists’ songs of the Edda,

Grey old Runic proverbs,

So darkly-daring, and magic-forcible,

That the white sons of Ocean

Spring up on high, all exulting,

In madden’d excitement.

Meanwhile, along the flat shore,

Over the flood-moisten’d sand,

Paces a stranger, whose heart within him

Is wilder far than wind and waters;

There where he walks

Sparks fly out, and shells are crackling,

And he veils himself in his dark-grey mantle,

And quickly moves on through the blustering night;--

Guided in safety by yon little light,

That sweetly, invitingly glimmers,

From the lone fisherman’s cottage.

Father and brother are out on the sea,

And all all alone is staying

Within the hut the fisherman’s daughter,

The wondrously lovely fisherman’s daughter.

By the hearth she’s sitting,

And lists to the water-kettle’s

Homely, sweet foreboding humming,

And shakes in the fire the crackling brushwood

And on it blows,

So that the lights, all ruddy and flickering,

Magic-sweetly are reflected

On her fair blooming features,

On her tender, snowy shoulder,

Which, moving gently, peeps

From out her coarse grey smock,

And on her little, anxious hand,

Which fastens firmer her under-garment,

Over her graceful hip.

But sudden, the door bursts open,

The nightly stranger entereth in;

Love-secure, his eye reposes

On the snowy, slender maiden,

Who, trembling, near him stands,

Like to a startled lily;

And he throws his mantle to earth,

And laughs and speaks:

“See now, my child, I’ve kept my word,

“And I come, and with me hath come

“The olden time, when the gods from the heavens

“Came down to earth, to the daughters of mortals,

“And the daughters of mortals embraced they,

“And from them there issued

“Sceptre-bearing races of monarchs,

“And heroes, wonders of earth.

“But start not, my child, any longer

“Because of my godhead,

“And I pray thee give me some tea mix’d with rum

“For ’tis cold out of doors,

“And amid such night breezes

“Freeze even we, we godheads immortal,

“And easily catch the divinest of colds,

“And a cough that proves quite eternal.”

4. POSEIDON.

The sun’s bright rays were playing

Over the wide-rolling breadth of the sea;

Far in the roadstead glitter’d the ship

Destined to home to convey me.

But a propitious wind was yet wanting,

And I sat on the white downs all calmly

Hard by the lonely strand,

And I read the song of Odysseus,

The olden, ever-youthful song,

From out whose sea-beflutter’d leaves

Joyfully rose to meet me

The breath of the deities,

And the shining spring-time of mortals,

And the blooming heaven of Hellas.

My generous heart accompanied truly

The son of Laërtes in wanderings and troubles,

Placed itself with him, spirit-tormented,

At guestly hearths,

Where beauteous queens were spinning their purple,

And help’d him to lie, and succeed in escaping

From giants’ caverns and nymphs’ embraces,

Follow’d him down to Cimmerian night,

And in tempest and shipwreck,

And with him endured unspeakable torments.

Sighing spake I: “Thou wicked Poseidon,

“Thine anger is fearful;

“I myself am anxious

“As to my own return.”

Scarce breath’d I these words,

When the sea foam’d on high,

And out of the snowy billows arose

The sedge-becrowned head of the seagod,

And scornfully cried he:

“Fear not, little poet!

“I’ll not for one moment endanger

“Thy poor little vessel,

“And thy dear life shall not be tormented

“By any critical tossing.

“For thou, little poet, hast never annoy’d me,

“No single turret was injured by thee

“In Priam’s sacred fortress,

“No single hair didst thou e’er singe

“In the eye of my son Polyphemus,

“And thou hast ne’er been advised or protected

“By the goddess of wisdom, Pallas Athene!”

Thus cried Poseidon,

And sank ’neath the ocean again;

And at the vulgar seaman’s wit

Laugh’d under the water

Amphitrite, the clumsy fishwoman,

And the silly daughters of Nereus.

5. HOMAGE.

Ye songs! O my trusty numbers!

Up, up! and on with your arms

Bid the trumpet to blow,

And raise high on my shield

The youthful maiden,

Who’s now to rule my heart,

My undivided heart, as queen.

Hail to thee, youthful queen!

From the sun on high

Tear I his sparkling ruddy gold,

And of it weave a diadem

For thine anointed head.

From the fluttering blue-silken heaven’s veil,

Wherein night’s diamonds are gleaming,

Cut I a costly piece,

And hang, as coronation mantle,

Upon thy regal shoulders.

I give to thee, as courtiers,

Some well-bedizen’d sonnets,

Haughty terzinas and courtly stanzas;

My wit shall serve thee as footman,

And as court-fool my phantasy,

As herald, the laughing tears on my scutcheon,

My humour shall serve thee.

But I, O my queen,

Before thee kneel down,

In homage, on red velvet cushion,

And to thee hand over

The small bit of reason,

Which, out of compassion, was left me

By her who last govern’d thy kingdom.

6. DECLARATION.

Onward glimmering came the evening,

Wilder tossèd the flood,

And I sat on the strand, regarding

The snowy dance of the billows,

And soon my bosom swell’d like the sea;

A deep home-sickness yearningly seized me

For thee, thou darling form,

Who everywhere surround’st me,

And everywhere call’st me,

Everywhere, everywhere,

In the moan of the wind, in the roar of the ocean,

In the sigh within my own breast.

With brittle reed I wrote on the sand:

“Agnes, I love thee!”

But wicked billows soon pour’d themselves

Over the blissful confession,

Effacing it all.

Ah too fragile reed, all fast-scatter’d sand,

Ah fugitive billows, I’ll trust you no more!

The heavens grow darker, my heart grows wilder

And with vigorous hand from the forests of Norway

Tear I the highest fir-tree,

And plunge it deep

In Etna’s glowing abyss, and thereafter

With fire-imbued giant-pen

I write on the dark veil of heaven:

“Agnes, I love thee!”

Every night gleams thenceforward

On high that eternal fiery writing,

And all generations of farthest descendants

Read gladly the heavenly sentence:

“Agnes, I love thee!”

7. IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT.

The sea its pearls possesseth,

And heaven its stars containeth,

But, O my heart, my heart,

My heart its love hath also.

Vast is the sea and the heavens,

Yet vaster is my heart,

And fairer than pearls or the stars

Glitt’reth and beameth my love.

Thou little youthful maiden,

Come to my heart so vast;

My heart and the sea and the heavens

For very love are dying.

* * * * *

’Gainst the azure veil of heaven,

Where the beauteous stars are twinkling,

Fain I’d press my lips with ardour,

Press them wildly, madly weeping.

Yonder stars the very eyes are

Of my loved one, thousand-changing

Glimmer they and greet me kindly

From the azure veil of heaven.

Tow’rd the azure veil of heaven,

Tow’rd the eyes of my beloved one,

Lift I up my arms in worship,

And I pray, and thus beseech them:

Beauteous eyes, ye lights of mercy,

O make happy my poor spirit,

Let me die, and as my guerdon,

Win both you and all your heaven!

* * * * *

From those heavenly eyes above me

Light and trembling sparks are falling

Through the night, and then my spirit

Loving-wide and wider stretcheth.

O ye heavenly eyes above me!

Weep yourselves into my spirit,

That my spirit may run over

With those tears so sweet and starry!

* * * * *

Cradled by the ocean billows,

And by thoughts that seem like visions,

Silent lie I in the cabin,

In the dark bed in the corner.

Through the open hatchway see I

There on high the stars all-radiant,

Those sweet eyes so dearly cherish’d

Of my sweet and dearly loved one.

Those sweet eyes so dearly cherish’d

Far above my head are watching,

And they tinkle and they beckon

From the azure veil of heaven.

Tow’rd the azure veil of heaven

Gaze I many an hour with rapture,

Till a white and misty curtain

From me hides those eyes so cherish’d.

’Gainst the boarded side of the ship,

Where my dreaming head is lying,

Rave the billows, the furious billows.

They roar and they murmur

Thus soft in my ear:

“O foolish young fellow!

“Thine arm is short, and the heavens are wide,

“And yonder stars are firmly nailed there;

“In vain is thy yearning, in vain is thy sighing,

“The best thou can’st do is to sleep!”

* * * * *

I dreamt, and dreaming saw a spacious heath,

Far overspread with white, with whitest snow,

And ’neath that white snow buried I was lying,

And slept the lonesome, chilly sleep of death.

Yet from on high, from out the darkling heavens,

Look’d down upon my grave those eyes all-starry,

Those eyes so sweet! In triumph they were gleaming

In calm and radiant but excessive love.

8. STORM.

The tempest is raging,

It floggeth the billows,

And the billows, fierce-foaming and rearing,

Rise up on high, and with life are all heaving

The snowy watery mountains,

And the small bark climbs o’er them,

Labouring hastily,

And suddenly plungeth it down

In the black, wide-gaping abyss of the flood.--

O sea!

Mother of beauty, the foam-arisen one!

Grandmother of love! O spare me!

Already flutters, corpse-scenting,

The snowy, spirit-like sea-mew,

And wetteth his beak ’gainst the mast,

And longs,--eager to taste,--for the heart

Which proclaimeth the fame of thy daughter,

And which thy grandson, the little rogue,

Chose for his plaything.

In vain my entreaties and prayers!

My cry dies away in the blustering storm,

In the wind’s battle-shout;

It roars and pipes and crackles and howls,

Like a madhouse of noises!

And, between times, I audibly hear

Harp-strains alluring,

Songs all wild and yearning,

Spirit-melting and spirit-rending,

And the voice I remember!

Far away, on the rock-coast of Scotland,

Where the old grey castle projecteth

Over the wild raging sea,

There at the lofty and archèd window,

Standeth a woman, beauteous but ill,

Softly-transparent and marble-pale,

And she’s playing her harp and she’s singing,

And the wind through her long locks forceth its way

And beareth her gloomy song

Over the wide and tempest-toss’d sea.

9. CALM AT SEA.

Calm at sea! His beams all radiant

Throws the sun across the water,

And amid the heaving jewels,

Furrows green the ship is tracing.

Near the steersman lies the boatswain

On his stomach, snoring gently;

Near the mast, the sails repairing,

Squats the cabin-boy, all-tarry.

But behind his cheeks so dirty

Red blood springs, a mournful quiv’ring

Round his wide mouth plays, and sadly

Stare his eyes, so large and handsome.

For the captain stands before him,

Raving, cursing, “thief” exclaiming:

“Thief! a herring you have stolen

“From the barrel, O you rascal!”

Calm at sea! From out the waters

Lifts himself a clever fishkin;

In the sun his head he warmeth,

Splashing with his tail so gaily.

But the sea-mew, soaring over,

Shooteth down upon the fishkin,

And his sudden prize fast holding

In his bill, again mounts upward.

10. THE OCEAN SPECTRE.

But I upon the ship’s edge was lying,

And gazed with my eyes all dreamy

Down on the glassy pellucid water,

And gazed yet deeper and deeper--

Till, deep in the ocean’s abysses,

At first like a glimmering mist,

Then, bit by bit, with hues more decided,

Domes of churches and towers appeared,

And at last, clear as sunlight, a city,

Antiquarian Netherlandish,

And swarming with life.

Reverent men, in garments of black,

With snowy frills and chains of honour,

And lengthy swords and lengthy faces,

Over the crowded market are pacing

Tow’rd the high-stair’d council-chamber,

Where Emperors’ stony images

Keep guard with sceptre and sword:--

Hard by, in front of the long row of houses,

With mirror-like glistening windows,

Stand the lindens all trimm’d into pyramids,

And silken rustling maidens are wandering,

A golden band round their slender bodies,

Their blooming faces neatly surrounded

By head-dresses velvet and black,

From whence their abundant locks are escaping.

Gay young fellows, in Spanish costume,

Proudly are passing and nodding.

Aged women,

In garments all brown and strange-looking,

Psalm-book and rosary in hand,

Hasten with tripping step

Tow’rd the cathedral church,

Impell’d by the sound of the bells,

And the rushing notes of the organ.

Mysterious awe seizeth me too,

Caused by the distant sound;

A ne’er-ending yearning and sadness deep

Steal o’er my heart,

My scarcely-heal’d heart;

It seems as though its bitter wounds

By dear lips were kiss’d open,

And once again were bleeding

With drops hot and ruddy,

Which long and slowly downward fall

Upon an ancient house below

In yon deep-ocean city,

Upon an ancient and high-gabled house,

Where sits in lonely melancholy

A maiden at the window,

Her head on her arm reclined,

Like to some poor, forgotten child,

And I know thee, thou poor, forgotten child.

Thus deep, thus deep, then

Thou hidd’st thyself from me

In some childish conceit,

And couldst not reascend,

And sattest strange, among strange people,

Five hundred years,

And I meanwhile, with soul full of grief,

Sought thee over all the earth,

And ever sought thee,

Thou ever-beloved one,

Thou long-time-lost one,

Thou finally-found one,--

I’ve found thee at last, and again behold

Thy countenance sweet,

Thine eyes so prudent and faithful,

Thy smile so dear--

And never again will I leave thee,

And downward hasten I to thee,

And with wide-spreading arms

Throw myself down on thy heart.

But just in time

I was seized by the foot by the Captain,

And torn from the side of the ship,

While he cried, laughing bitterly:

“Why, Doctor, are you mad?”

11. PURIFICATION.

Remain thou in thy ocean-depths,

Delirious dream,

That erst so many a night

My heart with false joy hast tormented,

And now, an ocean-spectre,

E’en in bright daylight threaten’st me--

Remain below, eternally,

And I’ll throw down to thee there

All my sins and my sorrows,

And folly’s cap and bells

That round my head so long have rattled,

And the cold and glistening serpent-skin

Of hypocrisy,

Which so long hath twined round my spirit,

My sickly spirit,

My God-denying, angel-denying

Unhappy spirit--

Hoiho! hoiho! Here comes the wind!

Over the plain so destructive when smooth

Hastens the ship,

And my rescued spirit rejoices.

12. PEACE.

High in the heavens there stood the sun

Cradled in snowy clouds,

The sea was still,

And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,

Dreamily musing,--and half in waking

And half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,

The Saviour of man.

In streaming and snowy garment

He wander’d, giant-great,

Over land and sea;

His head reach’d high to the heavens,

His hands he stretch’d out in blessing

Over land and sea;

And as a heart in his bosom

Bore he the sun,

The sun all ruddy and flaming,

And the ruddy and flaming sunny-heart

Shed its beams of mercy

And its beauteous, bliss-giving light,

Lighting and warming

Over land and sea.

Sounds of bells were solemnly drawing

Here and there, like swans were drawing

By rosy bands the gliding ship,

And drew it sportively tow’rd the green shore,

Where men were dwelling, in high and turreted

O’erhanging town.

O blessings of peace! how still the town!

Hush’d was the hollow sound

Of busy and sweltering trade,

And through the clean and echoing streets

Were passing men in white attire,

Palm-branches bearing,

And when two chanced to meet,

They view’d each other with inward intelligence,

And trembling, in love and sweet denial,

Kiss’d on the forehead each other,

And gazed up on high

At the Saviour’s sunny-heart,

Which, glad and atoningly

Beam’d down its ruddy blood,

And three times blest, thus spake they:

“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”

* * * * *

Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,

What wouldst thou not give for it,

My dearest friend!

Thou who in head and loins art so weak,

And so strong in thy faith,

And the Trinity worship’st in Unity,

And the dog and the cross and the paw

Of thy lofty patroness daily kissest,

And hast work’d thy way upward by canting

As an Aulic Counsellor, Magistrate,

And at last as a Government Counsellor

In the pious town[25]

Where flourish both sand and religion,

And the patient water of sacred Spree

Washes souls and dilutes the tea--

Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,

My dearest friend!

Thou hadst borne it up high, to the market-place,

Thy countenance pallid and blinking

Had been dissolved in devotion and lowliness,

And her Serene Highness,

Enchanted and trembling with rapture,

Had with thee sunk in prayer on the knee,

And her eyes, beaming brightly,

Had promised, by way of increase of salary,

A hundred Prussian dollars sterling,

And thou, with folded hands, wouldst have stammer’d:

“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”

PART II. 1826.

1. SEA SALUTATION.

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!

Hail to thee ten thousand times

From hearts all exulting,

As formerly hail’d thee

Ten thousand Grecian hearts,

Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,

World-renown’d Grecian hearts.

The billows were heaving,

They heaved and they bluster’d,

The sun shed hastily downwards

His light so sportive and rosy-hued;

The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mews

Flutter’d along, loud screaming,

The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,

And afar there resounded triumphantly:

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!

Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,

Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmering

Over thy heaving billowy-realm,

And olden remembrance again tells me stories

Of all the darling, beautiful playthings,

Of all the glittering Christmas presents,

Of all the ruddy coral branches,

The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shells

Which thou mysteriously dost keep

Down yonder in bright crystal house.

O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands!

Like to a wither’d flower

In the tin case of a botanist,

Lay in my bosom my heart;

Methought whole winters long I sat

An invalid, in darksome sick-room,

And now I suddenly leave it,

And with dazzling rays am I greeted

By emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,

And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,

And the youthful flowers upon me gaze

With eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;

There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,

And the birds in the azure heavens are singing--

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Thou valiant retreating heart!

How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thou

Hard press’d by the Northern barbarian women

From large victorious eyes

Shot they their burning arrows;

With words both crooked and polish’d

They threatened to cleave my breast,

With cuniform billets-doux harass’d they

My poor distracted brain--

In vain I held my shield to resist them,

The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,

And by the Northern barbarian women

Back to the sea was I driven,

And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,

The darling life-saving sea,

Thalatta! Thalatta!

2. THUNDERSTORM.

Heavily lies on the ocean the storm,

And through the darksome wall of clouds

Quivers the forkèd lightning flash,

Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,

Like a thought from the head of Cronion.

Over the desert, far-heaving water

Afar the thunders are rolling,

The snowy billowy horses are springing,

Which Boreas’ self did engender

Out of the beautiful mares of Erichton,

And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,

Like shadowy corpses by Styx,

By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.

Poor, but merry little ship,

Yonder dancing the strangest dance!

Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,

Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;

The one is piping, another is blowing,

The third is beating the hollow double-bass--

And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,

And on the compass is steadily looking,

That trembling soul of the vessel,

And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;

“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,

And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”

3. THE SHIPWRECKED ONE.

Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms,

And I myself, like to a corpse

Thrown up by the growling sea,

Lie on the strand,

The dreary, naked strand.

Before me, the watery waste is heaving

Behind me lie but sorrow and misery,

And over me high are passing the clouds,

The formless grey-hued daughters of air,

Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,

Draw up the water,

And wearily drag it and drag it,

Then spill it again in the sea,

A mournful and tedious business,

And useless as e’en my own life.

The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,

Olden remembrances over me drift,

Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,

Painfully sweet come to light.

In the North a woman is living,

A beauteous woman, royally fair.

Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,

By an alluring white robe is embraced;

Her dark and flowing tresses,

Like to a blissful night, are streaming

Down from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,

And dreamily-sweetly form ringlets

Over her sweet pale face;

And out of her sweet pale face,

Large and o’erpowering, beams an eye

Like a black sun in radiance.

O thou black sun, how often,

Enchantingly often, I drank from thee

Wild flames of inspiration,

And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,--

Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smile

Round the high-contracted haughty lips,

And the high-contracted haughty lips

Breath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,

And tender as the rose’s fragrance--

And then my spirit ascended,

And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!

Peace, ye billows and sea-mews!

All is now over, happiness, hope,

Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,

A lonely and shipwreckèd man,

And press my countenance glowing

Deep in the humid sand.

4. SUNSET.

The beauteous sun

Hath calmly descended down to the sea;

The heaving waters already are dyed

By dusky night;

Nought but the evening’s red

With golden light still spreadeth o’er them,

And the rushing force of the flood

’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billows

Which merrily, hastily skip,

Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkins

Whom the singing sheep-boy at even

Homeward doth drive.

“How fair is the sun!”--

So spake, after long silence, my friend,

Who with me wander’d along the strand,

And half in sport and half in sad earnest

Assured he me that the sun was only

A lovely woman,[26] whom the old sea-god

Out of convenience married;

All the day long she joyously wander’d

In the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,

And glitt’ring with diamonds,

And all-beloved and all-admired

By every mortal creature,

And every mortal creature rejoicing

With her sweet glances’ light and warmth;

But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.

Once more returneth she home

To the moist house and desert arms

Of her grey-headed spouse.

“Believe me”--here added my friend,

With laughter and sighing and laughter again:

“They’re living below in the tenderest union!

“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,

“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,

“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves

“How the old man’s abusing his wife:

“‘Thou round wench of the universe!

“Beaming coquettish one!

“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,

“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’

“After this curtain lecture

“As a matter of course the proud sun

“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,

“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god

“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,

“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,

“To recover his breath and his senses.

“I saw him myself, in the night just past,

“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;

“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,

“And a lily-white nightcap,

“And a face all wither’d and dry.”

5. THE SONG OF THE OCEANIDES.

Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling,

And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,

Sits there a man on the dreary strand,

And looks, with death-chilly look, up on high

Tow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,

And looks on the spacious billowy main,

And over the spacious billowy main

Like airy sailors, his signs are floating,

Returning again despondingly,

For they have found fast closèd the heart

Wherein they fain would anchor--

And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,

Startled away from their sandy nests,

Flutter around him in flocks,

And he speaks unto them these laughing words:

“Ye black-leggèd birds,

“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,

“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,

“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,

“Your life is bitter as is your food!

“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!

“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,

“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;

“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:

“Loving and being loved!

“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden!

“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,

“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,

“And darkens, and for me doth yearn--I assure you!

“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,

“And sighing descends she down to the garden,

“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,

“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them

“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,

“So worthy of love--I assure you!

“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,

“My darling form around her sports blissfully,

“And then at morning at breakfast

“Upon her glistening bread and butter

“Sees she my countenance smiling,

“And she eats it for love--I assure you!”

Thus is he boasting and boasting,

And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,

Like old ironical chuckling;

The mists of twilight rise up on high;

Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,

Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;

High are roaring the billows of ocean,

And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,

Mournful as whispering gales of wind,

Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,

The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,

And loudest of all the voice so enthralling

Of Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,

And they’re sighing and singing:

“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!

“Thou sorrow-tormented one!

“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,

“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,

“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart

“Through grief turn’d to stone!

“Within thy head ’tis now night,

“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy

“And thou boastest of sorrow!

“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!

“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,

“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire

“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,

“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,

“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,

“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,

“And to him came with a comforting song.

“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!

“But thou art more powerless even than he,

“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,

“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,

“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,

“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,

“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off

“Into eternal night.”

Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides,

The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,

Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it--

Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,

And night ’gan to yawn,

And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.

6. THE GODS OF GREECE.

Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair light

Like liquid gold, the ocean gleams:

Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,

Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;

In the starless clear azure heavens

Hover the snowy clouds,

Like colossal figures of deities

Of glittering marble.

No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be!

’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,

Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,

But now, tormented and perish’d,

Like monster spectres are moving along

Over the midnight heaven.

Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed I

The airy pantheon,

The solemnly mute and fearfully moving

Figures gigantic.

He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven;

Snow-white are the locks of his head,

Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;

He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,

And in his face lie misfortune and grief,

And yet without change his olden pride.

Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,

When thou didst take pleasure divinely

In youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!

But even the Gods can reign not for ever,

The younger press hard on their elders,

As thou didst once on thy grey-headed father

And all thy Titan uncles hard press,

Jupiter Parricida!

Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!

Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,

Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,

And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,

And fixed is now thy beaming eye,

And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,

And never more thy vengeance can reach

The God-impregnated virgin,

And the wonder-working son of the deity.

Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!

With shield and wisdom couldest thou not

Avert the destruction of deities?

Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!

Erst the golden one! now the silver one!

True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,

Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,

And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,

Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;

To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,

Venus Libitina!

No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,

Yonder, the terrible Ares;

And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,

The stripling. His lyre is silent

That sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.

Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,

And truly, the lame one! no longer

Fills he the office of Hebe,

And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,

The nectar delicious--And long is extinguish’d

The inextinguishable laughter of deities.

O ye Gods, I never could love you,

For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,

And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.

Yet holy compassion and shuddering pity

Stream through my heart,

When I now behold you on high,

Godheads deserted,

Dead and night-wandering shadows,

Misty and weak, scared by the very wind--

And when I bethink me how airy and cowardly

The godheads are, who overcame you,

The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.

The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,

Then over me steals a glorious resentment,

And fain would I break the new-born temples,

And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,

For you, and your good ambrosial rights,

And before your lofty altars,

The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,

Fain would I kneel down and pray,

And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.--

For evermore, ye ancient deities,

Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,

To join yourselves to the side of the victor,

And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,

And in combats of deities deem I it right

To take the part of the vanquish’d deities.

* * * * *

Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’d

Yon pale cloudy figures on high,

And on me they gazed like dying ones,

Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.

The moon, too, hid herself

Behind the clouds that darkly came over her;

High up roarèd the sea,

And then triumphantly stood in the heavens

The stars all-eternal.

7. QUESTIONS.

By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d sea

Standeth a youth,

His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,

And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:

“O answer me life’s hidden riddle,

“The riddle primeval and painful,

“Over which many a head has been poring,

“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,

“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,

“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other

“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals--

“Tell me what signifies man?

“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?

“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”

The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal,

The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,

The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,

And a fool is awaiting an answer.

8. THE PHŒNIX.

There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,

He flies tow’rd the east,

Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,

Where the spices so fragrant are growing,

And palms are waving and wells are cooling--

And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singeth

She loves him, she loves him!

His image she bears in her little bosom,

And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,

Nor knows it herself!

But in her vision, before her he stands,

She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,

And calls on his name,

And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,

And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement--

She loves him! she loves him!

9. ECHO.

’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deck

Stood I and heard I the song of the bird.

Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,

The white and curling billows were springing;

Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,

With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,

The nomads bold of the Baltic.

Over my head, in the azure eterne,

Snowy clouds were fluttering on,

While sparkled the sun everlasting,

The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,

Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;

And heaven and ocean and with them my heart

In echo resounded:

She loves him! She loves him!

10. SEA-SICKNESS.

The dark-grey clouds of the afternoon

Deeper are sinking fast over the sea,

Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,

And between them the ship drives on.

Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast,

And make observations respecting myself,

Primeval, ash-grey observations,

Which Father Lot of old did make

When he had drunk too much of the grape,

And afterwards found himself amiss.

At times I bethink me of olden stories:

How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden days

In stormy journeys the comforting image

Religiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;

How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,

The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistress

Press’d to their lips and then were comforted--

But I am sitting, and chew with vexation

An ancient herring, the comforter salty

After hard drinking or indigestion!

All this time the ship is fighting

With the furious, heaving flood;

Now like a rearing battle-steed stands it

On its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;

Now it plunges headforward down again

In the howling abyss of the waters;

Again, as though carelessly love-faint,

Thinks it to lay itself down

On the black breast of the billow gigantic,

Who mightily onward roars,

And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,

In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,

And covers me over with foam.

All this swaying and hov’ring and tossing

Is quite unendurable!

In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek for

The German coast. But, alas, nought but water!

Evermore water, fast-moving water!

As the winter-wanderer at evening

Longs for a comforting warm cup of tea,

So now doth long my heart for thee,

My German Fatherland!

For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’d

With whims and hussars and horrible verses,

And lukewarm slender treatises;

For ever may thy stately zebras

Feed upon roses instead of on thistles;

For ever may thy noble baboons

In idle adornment trick themselves out,

And think themselves better than all the other

Lowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;

For ever may thy assemblage of snails

Look on themselves as immortal,

Because they creep so slowly along,

And may they daily collect men’s opinions

Whether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?

And hold for a long time grave consultations

How the Egyptian sheep to improve,

So that their wool may be better in quality,

And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,

Without a distinction--

For evermore may folly and wrong

Cover thee, Germany, utterly!

Still am I yearning for thee,

For thou art _terra firma_ at least!

11. IN HARBOUR.

Happy the man who arrives safe in harbour,

And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,

And now so warmly and quietly sits,

In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!

See how the world is truly and lovingly

In the bumper fully depicted,

And how the heaving microcosm

Sunnily flows to the thirsty heart!

All I discern in the glass,

Olden and new traditions of nations,

Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]

Citron forests and watch-parades,

Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,

But most of all the form of my loved one,

That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.

O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one!

Thou art a very rose,

Not like the rose of fair Schiras,

The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;

Not like the rose of Sharon,

The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;

But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]

That is the rose of all roses,

The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,

And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,

Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.

And did the head of the cellar of Bremen

Not hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,

I surely had tumbled!

The worthy man! we sat together,

And drank like brethren,

We spoke of lofty mysterious things,

We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,

And he did convert me to love’s religion,

I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,

And every wretched poet I pardoned

As I myself for pardon would hope;

I wept with devotion, and lastly

The doors of the place were unto me open’d

Where the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,

Silently preach, though understood plainly

By every nation.

True men indeed!

In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,

Inwardly are they more radiant and fairer

Than all the haughty priests of the temple,

And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,

All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;

Ever my wont is to say

Not amongst the mere common people,

No, in the best and politest society,

Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.

Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round me

The palm-trees of Bethel!

How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!

How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,

While my immortal soul also is reeling,

And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,

I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylight

By the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.

Thou worthy head of the cellar of Bremen!

See where sit on the roofs of the houses

The angels, all well-drunken and singing;

The glowing sun high up in the heavens

Is nought but the red and drunken nose

Which the World-Spirit sticks out,

And round the World-Spirit’s red nose

Whirleth the whole of the drunken world.

12. EPILOGUE.

As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalks

So do the thoughts in the spirit of man

Grow up and waver;

But the gentle thoughts of the poet

Are as the red and blue-colour’d flowers

Merrily blooming between them.

Red and blue-colour’d flowers!

The surly reaper rejects you as useless,

Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,

Even the needy traveller,

Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,

Shaketh his head,

And calleth you pretty weeds;

But the rustic virgin,

The twiner of garlands,

Doth honour and pluck you,

And with you decketh her beauteous locks,

And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,

Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,

Or to the silent beech-tree,

Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth sound

Than pipes or than fiddles.

MONOLOGUE.

(From Book “Le Grand.”)

In olden legends, golden castles stood

Where harps were sounding, beauteous maidens danced,

And spruce attendants flash’d, and jessamine

And rose and myrtle shed their fragrance round--

And yet one single word of disenchantment

Made all this splendour in a moment vanish,

And nought remain’d behind but olden ruins

And croaking birds of night and drear morass.

So have I, too, with but one single word,

All Nature’s blooming glories disenchanted.

There lies she now, as lifeless, cold, and pale

As some bedizen’d regal corpse might be,

Whose cheekbones have been colour’d red by art,

And in whose hand a sceptre hath been placed.

His lips however wither’d look and yellow,

For they forgot to dye them red as well;

And mice are springing o’er his regal nose,

And ridicule the pond’rous golden sceptre.

ATTA TROLL,

A SUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

CAPUT I.

Hemm’d close in by gloomy mountains

Proudly o’er each other rising,

Lull’d to sleep by wildly-dashing

Cataracts, like some fair vision,

In the valley lies the charming

Cauterets. Its snow-white houses

All have balconies; upon them

Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.

Laughing loudly, downward look they

On the chequer’d noisy market,

Where there dance a male and female

Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.

Atta Troll and his dear wife ’tis

(Her they call the swarthy Mumma),

Who are dancing, and with wonder

The Biscayans are rejoicing.

Stately, and with solemn grandeur,

Dances noble Atta Troll;

Yet his shaggy partner’s wanting

Both in dignity and manners.

Yes, I have a shrewd suspicion

That she is too much accustom’d

To the vulgar shameless dances

At the Grand’-Chaumière at Paris.

E’en the excellent bear-leader,

Who with chain conducts the couple

Seems the immorality

Of her dance to notice plainly.

And he oft bestows upon her

With his whip fast-falling lashes,

And the swarthy Mumma howls then,

And awakes the mountain echoes.

This bear-leader six Madonnas

Wears upon his pointed hat,

To protect his head from bullets

Or from lice perchance it may be.

O’er his shoulder there is hanging,

Many-hued, an altar covering,

Doing office as a mantle;

Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.

He had been a monk when younger,

Then became a robber-captain;

Then, to join the two vocations,

Took the service of Don Carlos.

When Don Carlos had to scamper

With the knights of his round table,

And his paladins were driven

To pursue some honest calling,

(Thus Schnapphahnski turn’d an author)

Then our knight became bear-leader,

And across the country travell’d

Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.

And in sight of all the people,

In the market, they must dance now;

Atta Troll must in the market

Of this city dance in fetters!

Atta, Troll, who once was dwelling

Like a haughty desert-monarch

On the airy mountain, dances

In a valley to the rabble!

And for filthy lucre merely

He must dance, who formerly

In the majesty of terror

Felt himself so high exalted!

When his younger days recalls he,

His lost lordship of the forest,

Then growl forth despairing noises

From the soul of Atta Troll.

Gloomy looks he, like a swarthy

Moorish prince of Freiligrath;[29]

As the latter drums but badly,

So with rage he badly dances.

But instead of pity, wakes he

Only laughter. Even Juliet

From the balcony laughs downward

At his leaps of desperation.--

Juliet has not in her bosom

Any feelings; French by nation,

Outwardly she lives; her outside

Is delightful and enchanting.

Her sweet looks compose a blissful

Net of rays, within whose meshes

Is our heart fast held in prison,

Like a fish, and gently struggles.

CAPUT II.

That a swarthy Freiligrathian

Moorish prince with anxious longing

On the big drum’s skin should rattle,

Till with violence ’tis broken,

Is a very drum-affecting

And a drumskin-breaking matter--

But just fancy the confusion

When a bear has burst his fetters!

Both the music and the laughter

Straight are hush’d; with screams of terror

Rush the people from the market,

Pale as death turn all the ladies.

Yes, from out his slavish fetters

Atta Troll has freed himself

Suddenly, and springing wildly,

Through the narrow streets he hastens--

(Each one civilly makes way),

Up the rocks he nimbly clambers,

Then looks down, as if in scorn,--then

Vanishes within the mountains.

On the empty market stand now

Swarthy Mumma, and bear-leader

All alone. In angry fury

On the ground his hat he flingeth,

Trampling on it,--the Madonnas

Trampling also, tears the covering

From his ugly naked body,

Swears at such ingratitude,

Such black bear’s ingratitude!

For he constantly had treated

Atta Troll in friendly fashion,

And instructed him in dancing.

All he had to him was owing,

E’en his very life. In vain they

Offer’d him a hundred dollars

For the skin of Atta Troll!

Then upon the poor black Mumma,

Who, a form of silent sorrow,

On her hinder paws imploring,

Stood before the much enraged one,

Fell the much enraged one’s fury

With redoubled strength. He beats her,

Calls her even Queen Christina,

Madame Muñoz and Putana.--

All this happen’d in a beauteous

Sultry summer afternoon,

And the night which then succeeded

To that day was quite superb.

Almost half that night consumed I

On the house’s balcony;

Juliet was beside me standing,

Gazing on the stars above us.

Sighing said she: “Ah, in Paris

“Fairest are the stars of all,

“When they on a winter evening

“In the street mud are reflected!”

CAPUT III.

Summer-night’s dream! All-fantastic,

Aimless is my song. Yes, aimless

As our love and as our living,

As Creator and creation!

His own will alone obeying,

Galloping along or flying,

Revels in the realms of fable

My belovèd Pegasus.

He’s no serviceable, virtuous

Carthorse of the citizens,

Nor a battle-steed of party,

With pathetic neighs and stamping!

Golden-mounted are the hoofs all

Of my white and wingèd charger,

Cords of pearls the guiding reins are,

And at will I let him wander.

Bear me whereso’er thou wouldest!

Over steep and merry hill-paths,

Where cascades with mournful shrieking

Warn ’gainst madness’s abysses!

Bear me on through silent valleys,

Where the solemn oaks are standing,

While primeval sweet traditions

From their knotted roots have birth!

Let me drink there, while I moisten

My dim eyes,--ah, now I languish

For the sparkling wondrous water

That imparts both sight and knowledge!

All my blindness goes! my gaze

Pierces to the deepest rock-cleft,

To the cave of Atta Troll,

And I understand his language!

Strange ’tis how familiar to me

This bear-language now appeareth!

In my dear home have I never

Heard those sounds in earlier days?

CAPUT IV.

Ronceval, thou noble valley!

Whensoe’er I hear thy name,

That blue flower so long departed

O’er my bosom sheds its fragrance!

Then the glitt’ring dream-world rises

Which for thousand years had faded,

And the mighty spirit-eyes

Gaze upon me, till I’m awe-struck!

Rattling sounds awake. There struggle

Saracen and Frankish knight;

As though bleeding and despairing

Ring Orlando’s bugle-notes

In the vale of Ronceval,

Hard beside Orlando’s gap--

Christen’d thus, because the hero,

Seeking how to force a passage,

With his trusty sword Duranda

Struck with such death-dealing fury

On the wall of rock, that plainly

To this day are seen its traces--

There within a gloomy hollow,

Close surrounded by a thicket

Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden,

Lies the cave of Atta Troll.

In the bosom of his fam’ly

Rests he after all the hardships

Of his flight and the distresses

Of his public show and travels.

Sweet the meeting! all his young ones

Found he in that happy cavern

Where with Mumma he begot them,--

Four his sons, and daughters two.

Well-lick’d maidens were the latter,

Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters

Brown the youths, the youngest only

With the single ear is black.

Now this youngest was the darling

Of his mother, who when playing

Happen’d once to bite his ear off,

And for very love she ate it.

He’s a very genial stripling,

At gymnastics very clever,

And he turns a somersault

Like the posture-master Massmann.

Sprig of autochthonic humour,

He his mother-tongue loves only,

And has never learnt the jargon

Of the Grecian and the Roman.

Fresh and free and good and merry,

Soap he holds in detestation,

(Luxury of modern washing,)

Like the posture-master Massmann.

But our young friend is most genial

Where upon the tree he clambers,

Which along the steepest rock-side

From the deep abyss upriseth,

And extendeth to the summit,

When the family at night-time

Gather all around their father,

Toying in the evening coolness.

Then the old one loves to tell them

What he in the world has witness’d;

How he many men and cities

Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,

Like Laertes’ noble offspring,

But in one thing still unlike him,--

Namely, that his wife went with him,

His dear black Penelope.

Atta Troll then also tells them

Of the wondrous approbation

That he, by his skill in dancing,

Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.

He assured them young and old

Had exultingly admired him,

When he danced upon the market

To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.

In particular the ladies,

Those dear connoisseurs of all things,

Had with vehemence applauded,

And had ogled him with favour.

O the vanity of Artists!

Our old dancing bear with simpers

Calls to mind the time when late he

To the public show’d his talent.

Overcome by self laudation,

He would fain by act exhibit

That he’s no mere boaster only,

But a really first-rate dancer.

From the ground then sudden springs he,

On his hinder paws upstanding,

And, as formerly, he dances

The gavotte, his favourite dance.

Mute, with muzzles gaping open,

The young bears look on with wonder,

While their father in the moonlight

Capers here and there thus strangely.

CAPUT V.

In the cavern, by his young ones,

Sick at heart, upon his back lies

Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he

At his paws, and sucks, and growls:

“Mumma, Mumma, swarthy jewel,

“Whom I out of life’s wide ocean

“Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean

“Once again I now have lost thee!

“Shall I ne’er again behold thee,

“Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only,

“Where, set free from earthly trammels,

“Thy dear soul is glorified?

“Would that I, alas! could once more

“Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle,

“My dear Mumma, which so sweetly

“Stroked me over, as with honey!

“Would that I again could snuffle

“That sweet smell, thy own peculiar,

“O my dear and swarthy Mumma,

“Charming as the scent of roses!

“But, alas! my Mumma’s pining

“In the fetters of those rascals,

“Who, the name of men adopting,

“Deem themselves creation’s masters.

“Death and hell! These men unworthy

“Aristocracy’s arch-emblems,

“Look down on the an’mal kingdom

“Proudly and disdainfully.

“Take away our wives and children,

“Fetter us, ill-treat us, even

“Kill us, for the sake of selling

“Our poor hide and our poor carcass!

“And they think themselves permitted

“Wicked deeds like this to practise

“‘Gainst us bears especially,

“And the rights of man they call it!

“Rights of man indeed! Fine rights these.

“Tell me who bestow’d them on you?

“Nature certainly ne’er did so,

“For she’s not unnatural!

“Rights of man indeed! Who gave you

“This great privilege, I wonder?

“Reason certainly ne’er did so,

“For she’s not unreasonable!

“Men, pray are ye any better

“Than we others, just for eating

“All your dinners boil’d or roasted?

“In a raw state we eat ours,

“Yet is the result the same

“To us both.--No, food can never

“Make one noble; he is noble

“Who both nobly feels and acteth.

“Men, pray are ye any better

“Just because the arts and science

“With success ye follow? We now

“Never give ourselves the trouble.

“Are there not such things as learnèd

“Dogs, and horses too, who reckon

“Just like councillors of Commerce?

“Do not hares the drum play finely?

“Are not many beavers adepts

“In the art of hydrostatics?

“Were not clysters first invented

“By the cleverness of storks?

“Write not asses criticisms?

“Are not apes all good comedians?

“Is there any greater mimic

“Than Batavia, long tail’d monkey?

“Are not nightingales good singers?

“And is Freiligrath no poet,

“Who can sing of lions better

“Than his countryman the Camel?

“I myself the art of dancing

“Have advanced as much as Raumer

“That of writing. Writes he better

“Than I dance,--yes, I the bear?

“Men, why are ye any better

“Than we others? Upright hold ye,

“It is true, your heads, but in them

“Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.

“Men, pray are ye any better

“Than are we, because your skin is

“Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage

“Ye but share with every serpent.

“Human race, two leggèd serpents!

“Well I see the reason why ye

“Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye

“Hide your serpent-nakedness!

“Children, guard yourselves against these

“Hairless and misshapen creatures!

“My dear daughters, never marry

“Any monster that wears breeches!”

More than this I’ll not report now,

How the bear in his wild mania

For equality, kept reasoning

All about the human race.

For, to say the truth, I also

Am a man, and never will I

Tell again such foolish libels,

Which are, after all, offensive.

Yes, I am a man, and better

Than the other sucking creatures,

And the interests of the race

Ne’er will I renounce promoting.

In the fight with other creatures

Faithfully I’ll ever struggle

For humanity,--the holy

Rights of man that he is born to.

CAPUT VI.

Yet perchance ’tis beneficial

For us men, who form the higher

Kind of livestock, to discover

How they reason down below us.

Yes, below us, in the gloomy

Mournful spheres of fellowship,

In the beasts’ inferior strata,

Brood resentment, misery, pride.

That which natural hist’ry ever,

Equally with common custom,

Has for centuries admitted

Is denied with impious muzzle.

That false doctrine by the aged

In the young ones’ ears is grumbled

Which assails both cultivation

And humanity on earth.

“Children!” Atta Troll thus growl’d,

As he hither roll’d and thither

On his carpet-wanting couch:

“Unto us belongs the Future!

“If each bear but thought as I do,

“If all beasts but thought so too,

“With united forces would we

“Take up arms against the tyrants.

“Then the bear would form alliance

“With the horse, the elephant

“Twine his trunk in loving fashion

“Round the valiant ox’s horn.

“Bear and wolf of every colour,

“Goat and monkey, e’en the hare

“For a time would work in common,

“And our triumph would be certain.

“Union, union is the’ essential

“Requisite; alone, we’re conquer’d

“Easily, but join’d together

“We would overreach the tyrants.

“Union! union! and we’ll triumph,

“And Monopoly’s vile sway

“Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish

“A just kingdom for us beasts,

“Full equality for all, then,

“Of God’s creatures, irrespective

“Of their faith, or skin, or odour,

“Be its fundamental maxim!

“Strict equality! Each donkey

“Be entitled to high office;

“On the other hand, the lion

“Carry to the mill the sack.

“As respects the dog, indeed he

“Is a very servile rascal,

“Since for centuries has man

“Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.

“Yet in our free state we’ll give him

“Once again his olden rights,

“His prescriptive birthright, and he

“Soon again will be ennobled.

“Yes, the Jews shall then enjoy too

“All the rights of citizens,

“And by law be made the equals

“Of all other sucking creatures.

“Only dancing in the market

“For the Jew shall not be lawful;

“This amendment I insist on

“In the interest of my art.

“For a sense of style, of rigid

“Plastic art in motion’s wanting

“To that race, who really ruin

“What there is of public taste.”

CAPUT VII.

Gloomy, in his gloomy cavern,

Squats, in his belov’d home-circle,

Atta Troll, the misanthrope,

And he shows his teeth, and growls thus:

“Men, the pert and vulgar fellows!

“Smile away! From all your smiling

“And from your offensive yoke too

“Shall the coming day release us!

“I am always most offended

“By that sour-sweet kind of quiv’ring

“Round the mouth,--these smiles of man

“Find I really past all bearing!

“When I in his pallid visage

“See display’d that fatal quiv’ring,

“All my entrails in my body

“Turn right round with indignation.

“More impertinently even

“Than by words, a man lays open

“By his smile the deepest hidden

“Insolence of his vile spirit.

“They are always smiling! Even

“When by decency is needed

“Real solemnity of feature,--

“E’en in love’s most solemn moment!

“They are always smiling! Even

“When they’re dancing. In this manner

“They degrade this noble science,

“Which should be a kind of worship.

“Yes, the dance throughout all ages

“Was a pious act of faith;

“Solemnly around the altar

“Turn’d the priests in mystic circle.

“Thus in olden time King David

“Danced before the ark of cov’nant;

“Dancing was an act of worship,

“Was a prayer upon the legs!

“I have ever understood thus

“Dancing, when upon the market

“To the people I was dancing,

“Who with their applause repaid me.

“This applause, I must confess it,

“Often made me feel quite happy;

“For extorting admiration

“From one’s foes is very sweet!

“But in their enthusiasm

“Still they smile. The art of dancing

“Powerless is to make them better,

“And they frivolous remain.”

CAPUT VIII.

Many a very virtuous burgher

Smells but badly, whilst the servants

Of a king with ambergris

Or else lavender are scented.

Virgin spirits may be met with

Which of green soap bear the odour,

Whilst the criminal with rose-oil

May have wash’d himself demurely.

Do not therefore turn your nose up,

Gentle reader, if the cave of

Atta Troll may not remind you

Of Arabia’s sweetest spices.

Tarry in that reeking circle,

’Mid those miserable stenches,

Where to his young son the hero

As from out a cloud thus speaks:

“Child, my child, thou youngest offspring

“Of my loins, now place thy one ear

“Close beside thy father’s muzzle,

“And suck in my solemn words!

“Guard against man’s ways of thinking,

“They destroy both soul and body;

“‘Mongst all men there’s no such thing as

“Any ordinary man.

“E’en the Germans, once so noble,

“E’en the very sons of Tuisco,

“Our own primitive relations,

“They too have degenerated.

“They’ve become now faithless, godless,

“Even preaching atheism--

“Child, my child, be on thy guard,

“‘Gainst both Feuerbach and Bauer![30]

“Never be an Atheist,

“Monster void of all respect for

“The Creator--a Creator

“’Twas who made this universe!

“High above us, sun and moon

“And the stars too (both the tail-less

“And all those with tails provided)

“Are reflections of His power.

“Down below us, land and sea

“Are the echo of His glory,

“And each living creature praises

“Evermore His excellencies.

“E’en the smallest silver-louse that

“In the aged pilgrim’s beard

“In life’s pilgrimage is sharer,

“Sings the great Eternal’s praises!

“In yon starry bright pavilion,

“On the golden seat of power,

“World-directing and majestic,

“Sits a mighty polar bear.

“Free from spot and snow-white glitt’ring

“Is his skin; his head is cover’d

“With a crown of diamonds,

“Which illumines all the heavens.

“In his face is harmony,

“And the silent deeds of thinking;

“If he signs but with his sceptre,

“All the spheres resound with singing.

“At his feet bear-saints are sitting

“Piously, who meekly suffer’d

“While on earth, and in their paws they

“Hold the palms of martyrdom.

“Ofttimes one amongst them rises,

“Then another,--by the Spirit

“Seeming mov’d, and straightway dance they

“Their most solemn sacred dance--

“Sacred dance, where mercy’s radiance

“Renders talent quite superfluous,

“And the soul for very rapture

“From the skin attempts to leap!

“O shall I, unworthy Troll,

“E’er partake this great salvation?

“And from earth’s debasing sorrows

“To the realms of bliss soar upwards?

“O shall I, all-drunk with heaven,

“In the stars’ pavilion yonder,

“With the palm and with the glory,

“Dance before the Master’s throne?”

CAPUT IX.

Like the tongue as red as scarlet,

Which a swarthy Freiligrathian

Moorish prince with scornful fury

From his sullen mouth protruded,

So the moon from out the gloomy

Clouds of heaven advanced. Afar off

Cataracts are roaring, sleepless

And morosely through the night.

Atta Troll upon the summit

Of his fav’rite rock stands lonely,

Lonely, and to the abyss

Downward howls he in the nightwind:

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,--

“Him ye christen shaggy bear,

“Growler, Isegrim, and Bruin,

“And heav’n knows how many others.

“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,

“The uncouth and boorish creature,

“I’m the awkward dromedary

“Of your scorn and cruel laughter.

“I’m the butt of all your wit,

“I’m the bugbear, with whose terrors

“Ye at night your children frighten,

“Human children, when they’re naughty.

“I’m the joke of all your idle

“Nurs’ry stories, well I know it,

“And I now proclaim it loudly

“To man’s paltry world below.

“Hear it, hear; a bear am I,

“My descent I’m not ashamed of,

“But am proud of it, as though I

“Sprang from Moses Mendelssohn!”

CAPUT X.

Two dark figures, wild and surly,

And upon their all-fours gliding,

Force their way across the gloomy

Grove of firs at midnight’s hour.

This is Atta Troll, the father,

And his son, young master one-ear.

Where the wood grows somewhat lighter

By the stone of blood they halted.

“This old stone”--growl’d Atta Troll,--

“Is the altar where the Druids

“In the days of superstition

“Human sacrifices offer’d.

“O their cruelty accursèd!

“All the hair upon my back

“Bristles when I think upon it;

“Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!

“Now these men are more enlighten’d,

“And no longer kill each other

“Merely in excessive zeal

“For the interests of heaven.

“’Tis no longer pious fancies,

“Madness, nor enthusiasm,

“But mere vanity and self-love

“Makes them now commit their murders.

“On the good things of the earth

“Eagerly they’re ever seizing;

“’Tis an endless round of fighting,

“For himself each person stealeth!

“Yes! the heritage of all

“Is the individual’s booty;

“Of the rights, then, of possession

“Speaks he, thinking of his own!

“Of his own! Possession’s rights too!

“O, the cruel theft, the lying!

“None but man could have invented

“Such commingled fraud and madness.

“Private property was never

“Made by Nature; pocketless,

“With no pockets in our skins, we

“Ev’ry one the world first entered.

“Not a single one amongst us

“At his birth had such a pocket

“In his body’s outer skin,

“Where he might conceal his robb’ries.

“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being,

“Who with foreign wool so nicely

“Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness

“To provide himself with pockets.

“Pockets! They’re as much ’gainst nature

“As is private property,

“As possession’s rights themselves are--

“Men in fact are but pickpockets!

“Fiercely hate I them! My hatred

“Unto thee, my son, bequeath I;

“Here upon this altar shalt thou

“Swear to man undying hatred!

“Be implacably the death-foe

“Of those wicked vile oppressors

“To the very end of life,--

“Swear it, swear it here, my son!”

And the youngster swore, as once did

Hannibal. The moon, all yellow,

On the stone of blood look’d wildly,

And the pair of misanthropes.

By-and-by we’ll tell the story

How the young bear ever faithful

To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall

In another Epic praise him.

As respects friend Atta Troll,

We will leave him for the present,

Presently to come across him,

All the surer, with a bullet.

All thy stealthy machinations,

Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty,

Now at length are terminated,

And thy hour will sound to-morrow!

CAPUT XI.

Like some drowsy bayaderes

Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring

In their snowy shirts of clouds,

Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.

Yet they soon become enliven’d

By the sun-god stripping from them

All the veil that’s hanging o’er them

Lighting up their naked beauty!

Early in the morn I started

With Lascaro on our journey

Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday

We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.

So they call the bridge which leadeth

Out of France and into Spain,

To the land of west barbarians,

Who’re a thousand years behind us,--

Yes, a thousand years behind us

In all modern civ’lisation;

My barbarians to the eastward

But a hundred years behind are.

Slowly, almost trembling, left I

France’s sacred territory,

Blessèd fatherland of freedom

And the women that I love!

On the middle of the bridge

A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry

Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,

Misery in his eyes was lurking.

An old crazy mandoline

With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;

Shrill the discord which re-echoed

From the rocks, as in derision.

Oftentimes his figure bent he

Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,

Tinkling harder then than ever,

While the following words he sang:

“In the middle of my bosom

“Stands a little golden table;

“Round the little golden table

“Stand four little golden chairs.

“On the golden chairs are sitting

“Little ladies, golden arrows

“In their hair,--at cards they’re playing,

“But ’tis only Clara wins.

“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;

“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,

“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,

“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”

Wand’ring onward, to myself I

Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness

Sits and sings upon yon bridge,

That from France to Spain leads over.

“Is this madman but the emblem

“Of the interchange ’mongst nations

“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s

“Wild and crazy title-page?”

We arrived not until evening

At the wretched small posada,

Where an olla-podrida

In a dirty dish was smoking.

There I swallow’d some garbanzos,

Heavy, large as musket-bullets,

Indigestible to Germans,

Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.

Fit companion to the cooking

Was the bed. With insects pepper’d

It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are

Far the greatest foes of man.

Fiercer than the wrath of thousand

Elephants, I find the hatred

Of one tiny little bug,

When across my bed it crawleth.

One must let them bite in quiet,--

This is bad enough,--still more ’tis

If one crushes them. The stink then

Keeps one all night long in torment.

Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble

Is the fight with noxious vermin,

Who a stench employ as weapons,--

Is a duel with a bug!

CAPUT XII.

How they rave, the race of poets,

E’en the tame ones, singing ever

And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely

“The Creator’s mighty temple--

“Is a temple all whose glories

“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,

“Sun and moon and stars all hanging

“In its cupola as lamps.”

Well and good, my worthy people!

Yet confess that in this temple

Are the stairs uncomfortable,

Bad and inconvenient stairs!

All this up-and-down-stairs going,

Mountain-climbing and this jumping

Over rocks is very tiring

To the legs as well as spirit.

Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,

Pale and lanky, like a taper;

Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,

He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.

Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,

Dead long since, but yet his mother

Old Uraca’s magic science

Kept him living in appearance.--

That accursèd temple-staircase!

It exceeds my comprehension

How my neck escaped from breaking,

Stumbling o’er a precipice.

How the cataracts were shrieking!

How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees

Till they howl’d! The clouds began too

Crashing suddenly--bad weather!

In a little fishing cottage

By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we

Shelter and some trout for luncheon;

Most delicious were the latter.

In an arm-chair was reclining,

Ill and grey, the ferryman;

On him his two pretty nieces,

Like a pair of angels, waited.

Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,

Seeming from a frame descended

Of a Rubens; gold their tresses,

Full of health their eyes, and liquid.

Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,

With a secret slyness in them;

Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,

Giving pleasure to the fancy.

Dear, affectionate young creatures,

Keeping up a sweet discussion,

As to which drink would be relish’d

Most of all by their sick uncle.

If the one the cup should bring him

Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,

Then the other hastes to feed him

With an elder-flow’r decoction.

“I’ll not drink of either of them,”

“Cried impatiently the old man;

“Fetch some wine, that I may offer

“To my guests some better drink!”

Whether it was wine they gave me

At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really

Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick

By the name of Mum they’d call it.

Of the very best black goat-skin

Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;

Yet the old man drank with pleasure,

And he seem’d quite well and joyous.

He recounted the achievements

Of the smugglers and banditti

Merrily and freely living

In the Pyrenean forests.

Many old traditions also

Well he knew: amongst the others

Were the battles of the giants

With the bears in times primeval.

Yes, the bears then and the giants

Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry

Of these mountains and these valleys,

Ere by man they were discover’d.

But when man arrived, the giants

Fled away from out the country

Stupified, for little brains

Are contain’d in heads gigantic.

And ’tis said the silly fellows,

On arriving at the ocean,

And observing how the heavens

In its azure depths were mirror’d,

Cleverly supposed the ocean

To be heaven, and plunged down in it,

Full of godlike confidence,

And were drown’d, the whole together

As respects the bears, however,

They are gradually being

Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly

In the mountain still decreasing.

“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,

“One gives place unto another,

“And when men are put an end to,

“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.

“Yes, the clever little people,

“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,

“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches

“Digging and collecting nimbly.

“How they from their hiding-places

“With their small sly heads keep peeping!

“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,

“And then trembled at the future;

“At the power their gold will give them;

“Ah, I fear lest our descendants

“Fly for refuge, like the stupid

“Giants, to the watery heaven!”

CAPUT XIII.

In the black and rocky caldron

Rest the waters deep of ocean;

Stars, all pale and melancholy,

Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.

Night and silence. Oars are moving.

Like a splashing wondrous secret

Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces

Play the part of ferrymen,

Joyously and nimbly rowing;

Ofttimes glisten in the darkness

Their stout naked arms, illumined

By the stars,--their great blue eyes, too.

By my side Lascaro sitting

Is as pale and mute as usual,

And the fearful thought shoots through me:

Is he but a very corpse then?

I myself,--am I dead also,

And embarking on my journey

With my ghostly comrades by me

To the chilly realm of shadows?

And this lake, can it be Styx’s

Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina,

In default of Charon’s presence,

Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?

No! I am not yet departed

And extinguish’d; in my spirit

Is the living flame of life still

Glowing, blazing and exulting.

And these maidens, gaily pulling

At their oars, and o’er me splashing

With the water dripping from them,

Full of merriment and laughter,--

These two fresh and sprightly damsels

Are most certainly not ghostly

Chambermaids in hell residing,

Waiting-maids of Proserpina!

That I might be fully certain

Of their upper-worldliness,

And by practical experience

Ascertain my own existence,

Hastily my lips applied I

To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,

And then framed this syllogism:

Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!

When we reach’d the shore, again I

Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;

In this coin, and no other,

Would they take the passage-money.

CAPUT XIV.

Violet-colour’d mountain summits

Smile from out the sunny gold-ground;

To the slope a village clingeth,

Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.

When I climb’d up to it, found I

That the old ones all had flown,

And that none were now remaining

Save the young, who could not fly yet;

Pretty boys, and little maidens,

Almost hidden in their scarlet

Or white woollen caps, whilst playing

At a marriage, in the market.

Still they play’d regardless of me,

And I saw how the enamour’d

Mouse-prince knelt pathetically

To the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.

Poor young prince! Alas! he’s married

To the beauty. She morosely

Wrangles, bites him, and then eats him;

When he’s dead, the game is over.

Almost all the day I linger’d

With the children, and we chatted

Like old friends. They fain would ask me

Who I was, and what my business.

“Dear young friends, my native country

“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:

“Bears are found there in abundance,

“And my business is bear-hunting.

“There I’ve torn the skin from many

“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes

“Found myself full sorely handled

“By the paws of Master Bruin.

“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily

“I was forced to keep on wrangling

“In my own dear home, and found it

“Get at length beyond all bearing.

“And accordingly here came I,

“Some more noble prey desiring,

“And I fain would try my forces

“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.

“He’s a noble adversary,

“Worthy of me. Ah! I often

“Have in Germany been victor,

“When my victory ashamed me.”

When I took my leave, around me

Danced the pretty little beings

In a rondo, whilst thus sang they:

“Girofflino, Girofflette!”

Full of charming impudence

Stepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,

Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,

While with pleasing voice thus sang she:

“When the king I chance to meet with,

“Then I make him two low curtsies;

“When the queen I chance to meet with,

“Then I make her curtsies three.

“But whene’er the devil happens

“With his horns to come across me,

“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times--

“Girofflino, Girofflette!”

Sang the chorus, and with bant’ring

Round my legs kept gaily whirling

With their circling dance and sing-song.

Whilst descending to the valley

That sweet echo still pursued me

Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping:

“Girofflino, Girofflette!”

CAPUT XV.

Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,

All-misshapen and distorted,

Gaze upon me like fierce monsters

Turn’d to stone, from times primeval.

Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ring

High above me, like their double;

They’re the pallid counterfeit

Of those wild and stony figures.

In the distance roars the streamlet,

And the wind howls through the fir-trees;

’Tis a noise inexorable,

And as wretched as despair.

Solitude most terrible!

Troops of jackdaws black are sitting

On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,

Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.

Close beside me goes Lascaro,

Pale and silent,--I myself, too,

Looking like incarnate madness,

With grim death as my companion.

Wild and wretched is the country;

Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I

On the roots of yonder stunted

Tree can marks of blood discover.

It o’ershadoweth a cottage,

Which is modestly half-hidden

In the earth; with meek entreaty

Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee.

They who this poor cot inhabit

Are _Cagots_,[31] surviving relics

Of a race that deep in darkness

Lives a sad despised existence.

In the hearts of the Biscayans

Still is rooted fast the loathing

Of Cagots, dark heritage

From dark days of superstition.

In Bagnères cathedral even

Is a narrow grated entrance;

This, the sacristan inform’d me,

Was the door Cagots went in at.

Once to them all other ingress

To the church was interdicted,

And by stealth they had to enter

In God’s holy house, like felons.

There, upon a lowly footstool,

Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there

All alone,--as though infected,

Sever’d from the congregation.

But the consecrated tapers

Of this century flare brightly,

And their lustre scares the evil

Shadows of the middle ages!

So outside remained Lascaro,

Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage

Enter’d, and my hand extended

Kindly to my suff’ring brother.

And I also kiss’d his infant,

Who, close-clinging to the bosom

Of his wife, suck’d greedily,

Looking like a sickly spider.

CAPUT XVI.

When thou see’st yon mountain summits

From a distance, they are gleaming

As though deck’d with gold and purple,

Proud and princely in the sunlight.

But when close at hand, this splendour

Vanishes, and, as in other

Earthly loveliness and glory,

’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.

What to thee seem’d gold and purple

Is, alas! but common snow,

Common snow, which, pale and wretched,

Lives a weary life and lonely.

Just above me heard I plainly

How the hapless snow was crackling,

To the heartless cold winds telling

All the tale of its white sorrows.

“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,

“In the desert waste the hours!

“O these hours that seem quite endless,

“Like eternities hard frozen!

“Hapless snow! O had I only,

“‘Stead of on these mountain summits,

“Fallen into yonder valley,

“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,

“Then should I have softly melted,

“And become a brook, whilst fairest

“Village maidens in my waters

“Would have washed their smiling faces.

“Yes, perchance I should have floated

“To the ocean, there becoming

“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d

“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”

When I heard this pretty language,

Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful

“Whether such a brilliant future

“Would have met thee in the valley.

“Comfort take! But few amongst you

“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen

“Probably in some small puddle,

“And become a piece of dirt!”

Whilst I in this friendly fashion

With the snow held conversation,

Came a shot, and from above me

Fell to earth a tawny vulture.

’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,

Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features

Still continued fix’d and solemn,

His gun-barrel only smoking.

He in silence tore a feather

From the bird’s tail, and then stuck it

On the top of his peak’d felt-hat,

And then hasten’d on as usual.

Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,

As his shadow with the feather

On the white snow of the mountain,

Black and long, was onward moving.

CAPUT XVII.

Like a street there runs a valley,

Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;

Rugged cliffs on either side of’t

Rise to giddy elevation.

On the widest, steepest slope there,

Peers Uraca’s daring cottage

Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;

Thither follow’d I Lascaro.

With his mother held he counsel

In mysterious signal-language,

As to how great Atta Troll

Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d.

For we had explored his traces

Carefully, and he no longer

Could escape us. Now are number’d,

Atta Troll, thy days on earth!

As to whether old Uraca

Was in truth a mighty witch

Of distinction, as the people

In the Pyrenees asserted,

I’ll not venture to determine;

This much know I, her exterior

Was suspicious, and suspicious

Was her red eyes’ constant dripping.

Evil was her look, and squinting,

And the poor cows (’tis reported)

Whom she look’d on, in their udders

Had the milk dried suddenly.

It is even said that many

Fatted swine and strongest oxen

She had put to death, by merely

Stroking with her wither’d hands.

She at times for such offences

Was exposed to accusations

To the justice. But the latter

Was a follower of Voltaire,

Just a modern, shallow worldling,

Void of faith and penetration,

And the’ accusers sceptically

Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.

Publicly Uraca follow’d

Quite an honest occupation,

Namely, selling mountain-simples

And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.

Full her cottage was of suchlike

Curiosities, and frightful

Was the smell of fungi in it,

Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.

There was quite a fine collection

Of the vulture tribe display’d there,

With their wings extended fully,

And their monstrous beaks projecting.

Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mounted

To my head and stupified me?

Wondrous feelings stole across me,

As I gazed upon those birds.

They’re perchance enchanted mortals,

Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,

To the wretched stuff’d condition

Of poor birds have been converted.

Fixedly they gaze upon me,

Sadly, yet with much impatience;

Often they appear to throw

Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.

But the latter, old Uraca,

Close beside her son Lascaro

Cowers in the chimney corner,

Melting lead and casting bullets,--

Bullets that by fate are destined

To destroy poor Atta Troll.

How the flames with hasty motion

Quiver o’er the witch’s features!

She incessantly keeps moving

Her thin lips, but nothing says she;

Mutters she the witches’ blessing,

That the casting be successful?

Oft she chuckles and oft nods she

To her son, but he continues

Earnestly his occupation,

And as silently as Death.

Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,

To the window went I, seeking

For fresh air, and then look’d downward

O’er the valley far below me.

What I saw on that occasion

’Tween the hours of twelve and one,

I will faithfully and neatly

Tell you in the following chapters.

CAPUT XVIII.

And it was the time of full moon

On St. John the Baptist’s evening,

When the wild hunt’s apparition

Rush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.

From the window of Uraca’s

Witchlike hut I excellently

Could observe the spirit-army

As it sped along the valley.

Capital the place I stood in

For observing what was passing;

I enjoy’d a full sight of the

Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.

The poems of Heine; Complete Translated into the original metres; with a sketch of his life · 第 6 / 10 章