With its terrible trinary verses?
The man whom the poet there has shut up
Will never escape from his curses.
He ne’er will be freed from those musical flames
By any god or Saviour;
So for fear we condemn thee to such a sad hell,
Thou hadst better mind thy behaviour!
ROMANCERO.
_BOOK I.--HISTORIES._
When vex’d by slander’s treacherous breath,
Let thy faith soar the higher;
And when thy soul is sad unto death,
Then strike thou the lyre.
A flaming and glowing heroical song
The chords breathe discreetly!
All anger flies, and thy spirit ere long
Will bleed to death sweetly.
RHAMPSENITUS.[64]
When the King Rhampsenitus
Enter’d in the halls resplendent
Of his daughter, she was laughing,
As was also each attendant.
E’en the blackamoors, the eunuchs,
Follow’d in loud chorus after;
E’en the mummies, e’en the sphynxes
Seem’d about to burst with laughter.
Then the princess said: “I fancied
That I held the thief securely,
But it was a dead arm only
That my hand had seized so surely.
“I can see now how the robber
To thy storehouse penetrated,
And despite all bars and fast’nings
All thy treasure confiscated.
“He a magic key possesses,
“Which the door of house or stable
“Straightway opens; to resist it
“Are the strongest doors unable.
“Now I’m really not a strong door,
“Nor could I resist his pleasure;
“So this night, while treasure-watching,
“Have I lost my little treasure!”
Round the chamber danced the princess,
Laughing at this notion clever,
And the maidens and the eunuchs
Laugh’d again as loud as ever.
On that day all Memphis laugh’d too,
E’en the crocodiles so bloody
Laughingly their heads protruded
From the yellow Nile-stream muddy,
When they heard the drum’s loud beating,
And the foll’wing proclamation
Shouted by the public crier
On the bank, to all the nation:--
“We, Rhampsenitus, by God’s grace
“King of Egypt, to our loyal
“Well-belovèd friends and subjects
“Hereby send our greeting royal.
“In the night between the third and
“Fourth of June, the fourteen hundred
“Four and twentieth year before Christ,
“Came a certain thief, who plunder’d
“Many jewels from the storehouse
“Where we kept them, and more lately
“Further thefts has perpetrated,
“So that we have suffer’d greatly.
“To discover the offender,
“Made we our belovèd daughter
“Sleep beside the treasure; but he
“Robb’d her too, and napping caught her.
“Now, to check this wholesale plunder,
“And to show our deep affection
“For the thief, our admiration,
“And our grateful recollection,
“We will give our only daughter
“As his lawful wife--God bless her!--
“And to princely rank promote him,
“Owning him as our successor.
“Since our son-in-law’s abode is
“Unknown to us just at present,
“This our rescript shall inform him
“That we’ve now made all things pleasant.
“Done the third of January
“Thirteen hundred twenty-six
“Years before Christ; here our seal we,
“King Rhampsenitus, affix.”
And he kept his word; the thief he
As his son-in-law soon counted,
And when he was dead, the robber
On the throne of Egypt mounted.
And he ruled like other monarchs,
Trade and talent patronizing,
And the fewness of the robb’ries
In his reign was quite surprising.
THE WHITE ELEPHANT.
Great Mahawasant, of Siam the King,
Has half of India under his wing;
Twelve kings, with the Great Mogul, obey
His rule, and acknowledge his sovereign sway.
Each year with banner, trumpet, and drum
To Siam the trains with the tribute come;
Many thousand camels, with backs piled high
With the costliest treasures of earth, draw nigh.
When the camels he sees with their heavy piles,
The soul of the King in secret smiles;
But in public in truth he always deplores
That his storehouses serve not to hold all his stores.
Yet these storehouses all are so lofty and spacious,
So full of magnificence, so capacious,
The reality’s splendour surpasses in glory
The Arabian Nights’ most wondrous story.
The “Castle of Indra” call they the hall
In which are display’d the deities all,
The golden images, chisell’d with care,
And all incrusted with jewels so fair.
Full thirty thousand their numbers are,
Their ugliness passes description far;
A compound of men and animals dread,
With many a hand and many a head.
In the “Hall of purple” one wond’ringly sees
Some thirteen hundred coral trees,
As big as palms, a singular sight,
With spiral branches, a forest bright.
The floor of purest crystal is made,
And all the trees are in it display’d,
While pheasants of glittering plumage gay
Strut up and down in a dignified way.
The ape on which the monarch doth dote
A ribbon of silk wears round his throat,
Whence hangs the key that opens the hall
Which people the “Chamber of Slumber” call.
All kinds of jewels of value high
All over the ground here scatter’d lie
Like common peas, with diamonds rare
That in size with the egg of a fowl compare.
On sacks that stuff’d with pearls appear
The Monarch is wont to stretch himself here;
The ape lies down by the monarch proud,
And both of them slumber and snore aloud.
But the King’s most precious, costly treasure,
His happiness, his soul’s first pleasure,
The joy and the pride of Mahawasant
Is truly his snow-white elephant.
As a home for a guest so highly respected
A splendid palace the King has erected;
Gay lotos-headed columns uphold
Its roof, all cover’d with plates of gold.
Three hundred heralds stand at the gate,
As the elephant’s guard of honour to wait;
And kneeling down with low-bent back
There serve him a hundred eunuchs black.
For his proboscis the daintiest meat
On golden dishes they bring him to eat;
From silver buckets he drinks his wine,
Well season’d with spices sweet and fine.
With perfumes they rub him, and otto of roses
On his head a chaplet of flowers reposes,
The richest shawls that are made in the East
As carpets serve for the dignified beast.
The happiest life appears to be his,
But no one on earth contented is;
The noble creature,--one cannot tell why,--
Gives way to a deep despondency.
The melancholy monster white
Is wretched, all this profusion despite;
They fain would enliven and cheer him again,
But all their cleverest efforts are vain.
In vain with singing and springing there come
The bayaderes; the kettle drum
And cornet in vain the musicians play,
But nothing can make the elephant gay.
As matters continue to go on badly,
The heart of Mahawasant beats sadly;
He sends for the wisest astrologer known,
And bids him stand before his throne.
“Stargazer, I’ll cut off at once your head”--
Thus speaks he, “unless you can tell me instead
“What is it that my poor elephant needs,
“And why his spirit with sorrow so bleeds.”
The other one threw himself thrice on the ground,
And finally spoke with obeisance profound:
“O monarch, I’ll tell thee the actual fact,
“And then as thou will’st, thou canst afterwards act.
“There lives in the North a woman fair,
“Of lofty stature and beauty rare;
“Thy elephant’s certainly handsome, Sir,
“But still not fit to be liken’d to her.
“Compared with her, he only appears
“A little white mouse; her form she rears
“Like giantess Bimha in Ramajana,
“And like the Ephesians’ great Diana.
“Her limbs are combined in a beautiful frame;
“Two lofty pilasters support the same,
“And proudly and gracefully stand upright,
“Of alabaster dazzling and white.
“This is God Amor’s temple gigantic,
“In other words, love’s cathedral romantic!
“As lamp there burns within the fane
“A heart quite free from spot and stain.
“The poets are nonpluss’d how to begin
“To describe the charms of her snow-white skin;
“E’en Gautier[65] unable to do it, alas! is,
“Its whiteness all description surpasses.
“The highest Himalaya’s snow
“Beside her seems ash-grey to grow;
“The lily that she by accident thumbs
“Through envy or contrast yellow becomes.
“The Countess Bianca is the name
“Of this enormous snow-white dame;
“At Paris she dwells, in the land of France,
“And the elephant loves her by singular chance.
“By strange and wondrous elective affinity
“She became through a dream his bosom’s divinity
“And into his heart this lofty Ideal
“First crept by means of a vision unreal.
“Since then he’s consumed by a yearning stealthy,
“And he, who was once so joyous and healthy,
“As a four-footed Werther sadly stands,
“And dreams of a Lotte in Northern lands.
“O, Sympathy’s mysterious thrill!
“He never saw her, but thinks of her still;
“Oft tramps he round in the moonlight fair,
“And sighs: ‘O were I a bird of the air!’
“His body alone is in Siam, his mind
“In France with Bianca thou’lt certainly find;
“And yet this parting of body and soul
“Must greatly injure his health as a whole.
“From the daintiest morsels revolts his belly,
“He cares for nothing but vermicelli;
“He’s coughing already, and fast grows thinner;
“His yearning will kill him, or I’m a sinner.
“If thou wouldst save him, preserve him alive,
“His return to the animal world contrive,
“O King, then send the renown’d invalid
“Direct to Paris, with utmost speed.
“When he on the spot in the actual sight
“Of the beautiful lady can take delight--
“Of her who the prototype was of his dream,
“He’ll soon be cured of his sadness extreme.
“There where his mistress’s glances fall,
“His spirit’s torments will vanish all;
“Her smiles will the last of the shadows efface
“Which in his bosom had taken their place.
“And then her voice, like a magical tune,
“Will cure his distracted mind full soon;
“The flaps of his ears he’ll joyfully raise,
“And feel as he felt in youthful days.
“All things are so very enchanting and pretty
“On the banks of the Seine, in Paris’ fair city!
“How thy elephant there will civilized be,
“Amusing himself right merrily!
“But most of all, O monarch, take care
“That plenty of money he has with him there,
“And a letter of credit, all charges to meet,
“On Rothschild Frères in the Rue Lafitte,
“For a million of ducats or thereabouts;
“Then Baron Rothschild will harbour no doubts
“About him, but say with an accent mellow:
“‘The elephant’s really a capital fellow!’”
The astrologer thus discoursed, and then
He threw himself thrice on the ground again.
The king with rich presents sent him away,
And stretched himself, his course to survey.
He thought of this, and he thought of that;
(Kings seldom find their thoughts come pat).
His ape beside him took his seat,
And both of them fell asleep with the heat.
What he resolved, I’ll hereafter relate;
The Indian mails are behind their date.
The last of these which has come to hand
Was by way of Suez, and overland.
KNAVE OF BERGEN.
At Dusseldorf castle on the Rhine
They’re gaily masquerading;
The waxlights sparkle, the company dance,
The music their nimbleness aiding.
The beauteous Duchess dances too,
And ceases laughing never;
Her partner is a slender youth,
Who seems right courtly and clever.
He wears a mask of velvet black,
Whence merrily is peeping
An eye just like a shining dirk
From out of its sheath half creeping.
The carnival throng exultingly shout
As they whirl in the waltz’s embraces,
While Drickes and Marizzebill[66]
Salute with loud noise and grimaces.
The trumpets crash, and the merry hum
Of the double-bass increases,
Until the dance to an end has come,
And then the music ceases.
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“’Tis time for me to go now--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “You shall not depart,
“Unless your face you show now.”
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“My face is a hideous creature’s--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I am not afraid,
“I insist upon seeing your features.”
“Most excellent Lady, thy pardon I beg,
“For night and death are my portion--”
“The Duchess said smiling: “I’ll not let you go
“I’ll see you, despite all your caution.”
In vain he struggled with gloomy words
To change her determination;
At length she forcibly tore the mask
From his face for her information.
“’Tis the headsman of Bergen!” the throng in the hall
Exclaim with a feeling of terror,
And timidly shrink;--the Duchess rush’d out,
Her husband to tell of her error.
The Duke was wise, and all the disgrace
Of the Duchess straightway effac’d he;
He drew his bright sword and said: “Kneel down,
Good fellow!” with accents hasty.
“With this stroke of the sword I make you now
“A limb of the order knightly;
“And since you’re a knave, you’ll hereafter be call’d
“Sir Knave of Bergen rightly.”
So the headsman became a nobleman proud,
Of the Bergen Knaves’ family founder;
A haughty race! they dwelt on the Rhine,
Though now they all underground are!
THE VALKYRES.[67]
While below contending forces
Fight, above on cloudy horses
Three Valkyres ride; their song
Through the air re-echoes long.
“Princes wrangle, nations quarrel,
“Each would bear away the laurel;
“Conquest is the highest prize,
“Highest worth in courage lies.
“No proud helmet gives protection,
“Death brings all things in subjection;
“And the hero’s blood is shed,
“And the wicked win instead.
“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!
On the morrow in he marches,
“Who the better one o’erthrew,
“Winning land and people too.
“Senator and burgomaster
“Go to meet the victor faster
“With the keys that ope the gate,
“And the train then enters straight.
“Cannon from the walls are crashing,
“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,
“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,
“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.
“On the balconies are standing
“Smiling beauteous women, handing
“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;
“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD.
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d
When he heard the tragical story
That Harold the king had lost his life
On Hastings battle-field gory.
Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he
As messengers then selected,
To seek at Hastings amongst the dead
For Harold’s body neglected.
The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,
And return’d with faces averted:
“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,
“We seem by Fortune deserted.
“The better man has fallen in fight,
“O’ercome by that bastard demon;
“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,
“And make a slave of the freeman.
“The veriest rascal in Normandy now
“Is lord of the island of Britain;
“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs
“We saw as gay as a kitten.
“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!
“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,
“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,
“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.
“The meaning now we can understand
“Of the blood-red comet which lately
“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky
“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.
“At Hastings there was realized
“The evil star’s prediction;
“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there
“We sought with deep affliction.
“Till every hope had disappear’d
“We sought in each direction;
“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,
“Escaped our close inspection.”
’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;
His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d he
Then sank in deep thought, and finally said,
As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:
“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,
“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling
“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,
“In beauty once so excelling.
“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,
“Because her neck in its splendour
“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king
“Loved the maid with affection tender.
“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then
“Forgot, like a faithless lover;
Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years
“Have since those days pass’d over.
“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,
“And bid her return with you quickly
“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king
“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.
“And when you have found his body, with speed
“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,
“That we for his soul due masses may sing,
“And like a Christian inter him.”
At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’d
The hut in the forest, saying:
“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,
“And follow without delaying.
“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,
“And the routed Saxons are flying,
“And on the field of Hastings the corpse
“Of Harold the King is lying.
“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there
“The body beneath the dead hidden,
“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,
“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”
Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,
And not one word she utter’d,
But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hair
In the wind all wildly flutter’d.
The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,
And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,
Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coast
At the dawning of day descried they.
The mist, which like a snowy veil,
The battle-field was cloaking,
Dispersed by degrees; the noisy daws
Were flapping their wings and croaking.
Many thousand corpses were lying there
On the earth with blood bespatter’d,
Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steed
Among the carcases scatter’d.
Poor Edith the Swanneck in the blood
With naked feet now waded;
No single spot the searching glance
Of her piercing eye evaded.
Both here and there she sought, and she oft
Had to scare away the devouring
Black troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;
The monks behind her were cowering.
She sought throughout the livelong day,
Till the shades of the evening were falling;
When out of the poor woman’s breast there burst
A shriek both wild and appalling.
For Edith the Swanneck had found at last
The corpse of the king, poor creature!
No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,
She kiss’d each pallid feature.
She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,
Her arms encircled him tightly;
She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,
Disfigured by wounds unsightly.
Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,--
And cover’d them over with kisses,--
Three little scars that her teeth had made,
The signs of their former blisses.
And in the meantime the pair of monks
Some branches of trees collected;
These form’d the bier, on which they bore
The body, with hearts dejected.
To Waltham Abbey the body they took,
To bury it rightly and duly,
And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpse
Of him she had loved so truly.
The litanies for the dead she sang
In childlike pious fashion,
And in the night they fearfully rang,--
The monks pray’d, full of compassion.
CHARLES I.
In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the wood
Sits the king, an object of pity;
The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,
And sings this monotonous ditty:
“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st
“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.
“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow
“The sign,--and dead is the kitten;
“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,
“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.
“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,
“And now no longer receive they,--
“Eiapopeia,--the faith in a God,
“Still less in the king believe they.
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice
“And we from their presence are driven,--
“Eiapopeia,--I, monarch on earth,
“And God, the monarch in heaven.
“My heart grows sicker day by day,
“My brow grows sterner and sterner;
“Eiapopeia,--my headsman art thou,
“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!
“My song of death is thy cradle-song--
“Eiapopeia--thou’lt fumble
“My grey locks about, and cut them off,--
“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.
“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw?
“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;
“Thou strikest off from my body my head,--
“The life of the kitten is ended.
“Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,--
“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”
MARIE ANTOINETTE.
The plate-glass windows gleam in the sun
In the Tuileries Castle gaily;
And yet the well-known spectres of old
Still walk about in it daily.
Queen Marie Antoinette still doth haunt
The famous pavilion of Flora;
With strict etiquette she holds her court
At each return of Aurora.
Full dress’d are the ladies,--they most of them stand,
On tabourets others are sitting,
With dresses of satin and gold brocade,
Hung with lace and jewels befitting.
Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,
And from underneath them are peeping
Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,--
If their heads were but still in their keeping!
Not one of the number a head has on,
The queen herself in that article
Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts
Of frizzling not one particle.
Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,
In dignity so resplendent,
Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,
The German Cæsar’s descendant,
She, curlless and headless, now must walk
Amongst her maids of honour,
Who, equally headless and void of curls,
Are humbly waiting upon her.
All this from the French Revolution has sprung,
And its doctrines so pernicious,
From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,
And Voltaire the malicious.
Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly think
That none of these hapless creatures
Have ever observed how dead they are,
How devoid of head and features.
The first _dame d’atour_ a linen shift brings,
And makes a reverence lowly;
The second hands it to the queen,
And both retire then slowly.
The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneel
Before the queen discreetly,
That they may be able to draw on
Her Majesty’s stockings neatly.
A maid of honour curtsying brings
Her Majesty’s robe for the morning;
Another with curtsies her petticoat holds
And assists at the queen’s adorning.
The mistress of the robes with her fan
Stands by, the time beguiling;
And as her head is unhappily gone,
With her other end she is smiling.
The sun his inquisitive glances throws
Inside the draperied casement;
But when the apparitions he sees,
He starts in fearful amazement.
THE SILESIAN WEAVERS.[68]
No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,
They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:
“Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the God to whom our petition
“We vainly address’d when in starving condition;
“In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,
“He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,--
“‘re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often
“Our misery vainly attempted to soften;
“Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,
“And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,
“Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,
“Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,
“Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,
“We’re weaving busily night and day;
“Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,
“A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,--
“We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”
POMARE.
1.
All the gods of love are shouting
In my heart, and blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Not the queen of Otaheite
Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
To convert; no, she I mean
Is a wild untutor’d beauty.
Twice in every week appears she,
All her subjects quite entrancing
In that dear Jardin Mabille,
Waltzes and the polka dancing.
Majesty in all her footsteps,
Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
Quite a princess every inch,
Whichsoever way you take her.
Thus she dances--gods of love are
In my heart all blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
2.
She dances. How her figure sways!
What grace her every limb displays!
There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,
As if she from her skin were springing.
She dances. When she twirls with skill
Upon one foot, and then stands still
At last with both her arms extended,
My very reason seems suspended.
She dances. ’Tis the very same
That once Herodias’ daughter came
And danced to Herod. As she dances,
Her eye casts round it deadly glances.
She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,
What shall be thy reward to-day?
Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway
Decapitate the Baptist straightway!
3.
Yesterday for very bread,
In the mire she wallowèd;
But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,
In her carriage takes an airing.
On its silken cushions she
Rests her head, and haughtily
Looks upon the thronging masses
Whom on foot her carriage passes.
When I see thee travelling so,
Then my heart is fill’d with woe!
Ah, this carriage,--so prepare thee,--
To the hospital will bear thee,
Where unfeeling cruel death
Soon will take away thy breath,
And the student, with coarse greasy
Prentice hand, so free and easy,
Will cut up thy body fair
Anatomically there;
And at Montfaucon thy horses
At the knacker’s end their courses.
4.
Thou hast been by fate befriended
Better than at first I said;
God be praised, all now is ended!
God be praised, and thou art dead!
In thy poor and agèd mother’s
Garret thou at length didst die.
She, with love beyond all others,
Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.
She a winding-sheet bought duly,
And a coffin, and a grave;
Somewhat close and wretched truly
Was the funeral that they gave.
No priests at that funeral lonely
Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully;
Thy _friseur_ and poodle only
As thy mourners follow’d thee.
“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often
“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,
“And her long black tresses soften,
“Sitting in her easy chair!”
But the dog,--away he scamper’d
At the churchyard gate anon,
And was lodged and fed and pamper’d
Afterwards by Rose Pompon.
She, the Provençaler, grudged thee
Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
As a hated rival judged thee,
Made thee victim of her spleen.
Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,
With thy mud crown on thy head,
Thou art saved by God’s eternal
Goodness, thou at last art dead.
As thy mother, so thy Father
Mercy show’d thee from above;
This He did, methinks, the rather
In that thou so much didst love.
THE APOLLO GOD.
The convent stands high on the rocky steep,
The Rhine beneath it glistens;
The youthful nun doth eagerly peep
Through the lattice window, and listens.
A bark of fable is sailing past,
By the evening glow tinged brightly;
While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,
With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.
Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,
With flowing auburn tresses;
Of very ancient cut, in truth,
His gold and purple dress is.
Before his feet nine women lie,
Of marble-lovely graces;
A tunic fair and loop’d up high
Each slender form embraces.
The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,
And likewise plays his lyre;
The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,
And sets it all on fire.
She makes a cross, and once again
The nun repeats the measure;
The cross scares not her blissful pain,
Nor checks her bitter pleasure.
2.
I am the god of music bright,
Revered in every nation;
In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,
My temple had its station.
In Greece I oft have sat and play’d
On famed Parnassus’ mountain,
Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,
Beside Castalia’s fountain.
My daughters sat around their Pa,
And raised a vocal chorus;
They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!
While laughter floated o’er us.
The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!
From out the forest loudly;
There hunted Artemisia,
My little sister, proudly.
And whensoe’er I took some sips,--
I can’t describe it neatly,--
From out Castalia’s fount, my lips
Burst into music sweetly.
I sang--my lyre, as it replied,
O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;
I felt as if I Daphne spied
Behind the laurels peeping.
I sang--ambrosial incense stream’d,
And lightly o’er me hover’d;
And the whole world around me seem’d
By a bright halo cover’d.
A thousand years from Grecia’s land
Have I been sadly banish’d;
Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land
Remain’d, though I have vanish’d.
3.
In the costume of the Beguins,
In the cloak with cap upon it
Of the coarsest blackest serge,
Is the youthful nun envelop’d.
Hastily along the Rhine banks
Paces she adown the highway
On the road to Holland, asking
Eagerly of every passer:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”
None will answer her inquiry,
Many turn their backs in silence,
Many stare upon her smiling,
Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”
But along the highway trotting
Comes a slovenly old man;
Making figures in the air, he
Keeps on singing through his nose.
He a clumsy wallet carries,
And a little hat three-corner’d,
And with sharp and smiling eyes he
Listens to the nun’s inquiry:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”
He however gave this answer,
Whilst his little head he waggled
Here and there, and comically
At his sharp beard kept on twitching:
“Have I chanced to see Apollo?
“Yes, I certainly have seen him
“When at Amsterdam full often,
“In the German synagogue.
“He was there the leading singer,
“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,
“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,--
“But he’s not my idol truly.
“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too
“I remember; genuine scarlet,
“And the price per ell eight florins,--
“Not all paid for to this moment.
“His old father, Moses Jitscher,
“Know I well; he’s circumciser
“To the Portuguese, I fancy,
“And to various sovereigns also.
“And his mother is a cousin
“Of my sister’s husband, trading
“On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,
“And in worn-out pairs of breeches.
“In their son they take no pleasure;
“On the lyre he plays not badly,
“But, I grieve to say, far better
“Plays he at taroc and ombre.
“He is likewise a free-thinker,
“Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,
“And then travell’d round the country
“With some painted low comedians.
“In the shops and on the markets
“Has he acted as Jack-pudding,
“Holofernes, or King David,
“But the latter most excell’d in.
“For the king’s own sorrows sang he
“In the king’s own mother language,
“Giving all the proper quavers
“In the proper olden fashion.
“Recently some wenches took he
“From the Amsterdam casino,
“And he’s travelling with these Muses
“Round the country as Apollo.
“One amongst them is a stout one,
“Squeaking very much and grunting:
“On account of her green laurel
“Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”
HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69]
Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,
Few monarchs are half so splendid;
In him a king the Bavarians revere,
From an ancient line descended.
He’s fond of art: fair women to get
For their portraits to sit, is his passion:
In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,
In eunuch-artistic fashion.
A marble place of skulls hath he
Near Ratisbon constructed,
And all the arrangements for every head
In his own royal person conducted.
Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,
Where the merit of every man is
Set forth, with his character and his acts,
From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71]
But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,
Has no place in this proud mausoleum;
The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out
In a natural hist’ry museum.
King Louis is also a poet renown’d;
Whenever sings or plays he,
Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:
“O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”
King Louis is also a hero renown’d,
Like his child, his little son, Otho,
Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece
(He disgraced it long ago, tho’).
When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be
At Rome by the holy Father;
A cat with ruffles a face like his
With its Glory will look like rather.
As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos
Are converted to Christianity,
They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,
In proof of their perfect sanity.
TWO KNIGHTS.
Crapulinski and Waschlapski,
Poles in Poland born and bred,
Fought for their dear country’s freedom
’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.
Boldly did they fight, and lastly
Found at Paris a retreat;
Living, just as much as dying
For one’s fatherland, is sweet.
Like Achilles and Patroclus,
David and his Jonathan,
Loved the pair of Poles each other,
Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]
Neither e’er betray’d the other,
Both were faithful friends and true,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Born and bred in Poland too.
They the same apartment dwelt in,
In the selfsame bed slept they,
And in noble emulation
Scratch’d themselves by night and day.
In the selfsame beershop dined they,
And as neither was content
That the other paid his reckoning,
Neither ever paid a cent.
’Twas the selfsame washerwoman
Did the washing for the pair;
Humming, for their linen came she
Every month to wash and air.
Yes, they really had their linen,
Each one had two shirts, well-worn,
Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
Poles in Poland bred and born.
They to-day sit near the chimney,
Where the flames a bright glow cast;
Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,
And the coaches driving past.
They a mighty bowl of punch have
Drain’d already and devour’d;
(Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,
And unwater’d and unsour’d.)
Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,
Tears their furrow’d faces streak:
With a voice of deep emotion
Thus doth Crapulinski speak;
“Would that I had here in Paris
“My dear bearskin, my old cotton
“Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,
“In my fatherland forgotten!”
Thus to him replied Waschlapski:
“O thou art a driv’ller true;
“Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,
“Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.
“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,
“Still our wives to sons give birth,
“And our girls will do so likewise,
“And produce us men of worth,
“Heroes, like great Sobieski,
“Like Schelmufski and Uminski,
“Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,
“And the mighty Eselinski.”
OUR MARINE.[73]
(A Nautical tale.)
A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,
And enjoy’d a sail delicious
Far over the wide and boundless sea,
The wind was quite propitious.
We gave our frigates the proudest names
That we in our calendar reckon’d;
One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,
And Prutz[74] we christen’d the second.
There floated the cutter Freiligrath,
Whereon was seen the figure
Of the Moorish king, which gazed below
Like a moon (but as black as a nigger).
There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,
A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;
On each of them stood a Swabian face,
Each holding a wooden lyre.
There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which bore
On its mast the escutcheon olden
Of the famous German Admiralty,
On tatters black-red-golden.
We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,
And bore ourselves like sailors;
Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,
And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.
Full many, who formerly sipp’d but tea
As husbands kind and forbearing,
Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,
And, seaman-like, took to swearing.
So bright was our vision, we well nigh won
A naval victory splendid;
But when return’d the morning sun,
Both fleet and vision had ended.
We still were lying at home in bed,
Our limbs all over it sprawling;
We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,
The following wise speech bawling:
“The world is round; why seek to be tost
“On the idle billows, faint-hearted?
“When we sail round the world, at last we return
“To the point from which we started.”
THE GOLDEN CALF.
Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,
To the idol-dance inviting--
Round the golden calf with springing
All of Jacob’s daughters come--
Brum--brum--brum--
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Girding up their tunics lightly,
Clasping hands together tightly,
Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,
Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,
Round the beast--
Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Aaron’s self joins in the mazy
Circling dance with motions crazy;
His concerns not looking after,
Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,
Like a goat--
Kettle drums and ringing laughter!
KING DAVID.
Despots smiling yield their breath,
Knowing after their own death
That their slaves but change their master,
And, if anything, work faster.
Ah, poor race! like horse and bull
They the waggons still must pull,
And their backs will soon be broken
If they heed not what is spoken.
David said to Solomon
On his deathbed: “List, my son!
“My most dreaded foe of course is
“Joab, general of my forces.
“This brave general many a year
“I have view’d with hate and fear;
“But, however I detest him,
“I ne’er ventured to arrest him.
“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,
“Fearing God, art strong enough;
“’Tis for thee an easy matter
“That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”
KING RICHARD.
Through the silent glades of the forest there springs
An eager horseman proudly;
He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings
Exultingly and loudly.
His armour is made of the brass most strong,
But stronger still is his bosom;
’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,
That Christian chivalry’s blossom.
“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough
“Exclaims with joyous assurance;
“We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou
“Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”
The king snuffs up the free air the while,
Like a newborn creature lives he;
He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,--
And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.
THE ASRA.
Daily went the wondrous lovely
Sultan’s daughter at the cooling
Hour of evening to the fountain,
Where the waters white were plashing.
Daily at the hour of evening
Stood the young slave at the fountain
Where the waters white were plashing,
Daily grew he pale and paler.
And one evening came the princess,
And these sudden words address’d him:
“Thou must tell me what thy name is,
“And thy country and thy kindred!”
And the slave replied: “My name is
“Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,
“And my race is of those Asras,
“Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”
THE NUNS.
Who at night the convent walls
Passes, sees the windows brightly
Lighted up, for there the spectres
Make their gloomy circuit nightly.
’Tis dead Ursulines that join
In the sad and dark procession;
From the linen hoods are peeping
Faces young of sweet expression.
Tapers bear they in their hands,
Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious
Strangely echo in the crossway
Whispers low, wails sad and serious.
To the church the train moves on;
Sitting on the wooden benches
Of the quire, their mournful chorus
Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches.
Like a litany it sounds,
But the words are wild and shocking
They are poor and outcast spirits
At the heavenly portal knocking.
“Brides of Christ we used to be,
“But by love of earth were chainèd,
“And we render’d unto Cæsar
“Things that unto God pertainèd.
“Charming is a uniform
“And mustachios smooth and shining
“For the epaulettes of Cæsar
“Were our hearts in secret pining.
“Antlers to the brow we gave
“By our shameless ill behaviour,
“Which the crown of thorns once carried,--
“We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.
“Jesus,--mercy’s very self,--
“Softly wept o’er our transgression,
“And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd
“‘For disgracing your profession!’
“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,
“We must wander in these dreary
“Walls, our folly to atone for,--
“Miserere! Miserere!
“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!
“Though indeed ’tis far more cheery
“In the glowing realms of heaven,--
“Miserere! Miserere!
“Jesus sweet, forgive at length
“Our transgression sad and weary;
“Let us feel the warmth of heaven,--
“Miserere! Miserere!”
Thus the troop of nuns sing on,
And a long-dead clerk is playing
On the organ. Hands of spirits
O’er the keys are wildly straying.
PALSGRAVINE JUTTA.
The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,
Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;
The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:
“Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d
“That, seeking to find us,
“Are floating behind us?--
“So sadly are floating the corpses!
“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,
“And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,
“And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make
“That they their oaths should never break,
“I seized and bound them,
“And straightway drown’d them,--
“So sadly are floating the corpses!”
The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,
Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;
From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,
And point with their fingers towards the sky,
In token of swearing,
With glassy eyes staring--
So sadly are floating the corpses!
THE MOORISH KING.
To the Alpuxarres’ exile
Went the youthful Moorish monarch;
Silent and with heart full mournful
Heading the procession rode he.
And behind, on lofty palfreys
Or in golden litters riding,
Sat the women of his household;
Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.
And a hundred trusty followers
Rode on noble Arab horses;
Haughty steeds, and yet the riders
Carelessly bestrode the saddles.
Not a drum and not a cymbal,
Not a single song resounded;
Silver bells upon the mules, though,
Echoed sadly in the silence.
On the height, from whence the glances
Sweep across the Duero valley,
And Granada’s battlements
For the last time rise before one,
There the mournful king dismounted,
And he gazed upon the city
Glittering in the light of evening,
As though deck’d with gold and purple.
But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!
In the place of that dear crescent
Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard
On the tow’rs of the Alhambra.
Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry
Broke from out the monarch’s bosom;
Suddenly the tears ’gan falling
Like a torrent down his cheeks.
Sadly from her lofty palfrey
Downward gazed the monarch’s mother,
Looking on her son’s affliction;
Proudly, bitterly, she chided:
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
“Like a woman thou bewailest
“Yonder town, which thou neglectedst
“To defend with manly courage.”
When the monarch’s dearest mistress
Heard these words, so harsh and cruel,
Hastily she left her litter,
Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
“Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!
“From the deep abyss of sorrow
“Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.
“Not alone the glorious victor,
“Not alone the proud triumphant
“Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,
“But misfortune’s bloody son, too,
“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,
“Who to destiny o’erpow’ring
“Has succumb’d, will live for ever
“In the memory of mortals.”--
“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”
To this very moment call they
Yonder height from whence the monarch
For the last time saw Granada.
Time has now fulfill’d full sweetly
His beloved one’s prophecy,
And the Moorish monarch’s name is
Reverenced and held in honour.
Never will his glory vanish,
Never, till the last chord’s broken
Of the last guitar remaining
In the land of Andalusia.
GEOFFRY RUDÈL AND MELISANDA OF TRIPOLI.
In the Château Blay still see we
Tapestry the walls adorning,
Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’
Own fair hands, no labour scorning.
Her whole soul was woven in it,
And with loving tears and tender
Hallow’d is the silken picture,
Which the following scene doth render:
How the Countess saw Rudèl
Dying on the strand of ocean,
And the’ ideal in his features
Traced of all her heart’s emotion.
For the first and last time also
Living saw Rudèl and breathing
Her who in his every vision
Intertwining was and wreathing.
Over him the Countess bends her,
Lovingly his form she raises,
And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,
That so sweetly sang her praises.
Ah! the kiss of welcome likewise
Was the kiss of separation,
And they drain’d the cup of wildest
Joy, and deepest desolation.
In the Château Blay at night-time
Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking
On the tapestry the figures
Suddenly to life are waking.
Troubadour and lady stretch their
Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,
And from out the wall advancing,
Up and down the hall they wander.
Whispers fond and gentle toying,
Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,
Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,
Minnesingers’ times recalling:
“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music
“Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,
“And I feel once more a glimmer
“In the long-quench’d embers growing!”
“Melisanda! I awaken
“Unto happiness and gladness,
“When I see thine eyes; dead only
“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”
“Geoffry! Once we loved each other
“In our dreams; now, cut asunder
“By the hand of death, still love we,--
“Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”
“Melisanda! What are dreams?
“What is death? Mere words to scare one!
“Truth in love alone e’er find we,
“And I love thee, ever fair one!”
“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings
“In this moonlit chamber nightly,
“Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams
“I no more shall wander lightly.”
“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!
“Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!
“Love and joys of May are budding,
“Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”--
Thus those tender spectres wander
Up and down, and sweet caresses
Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight
Through the window’s arch’d recesses.
But at length the rays of morning
Scare away the fond illusion;
To the tapestry retreat they
On the wall, in shy confusion.
THE POET FERDUSI.
1.
Men of gold, and men of silver!
When a fool about a thoman
Talks, of silver he is speaking,
And he means a silver thoman.
In a prince’s mouth, however,
Or a shah’s, a thoman’s always
Golden, for a shah will only
Give and take in golden thomans.
Worthy people have this notion,
And Ferdusi thought so also,
The composer of the famous
And immortal work _Schah Nameh_.
This divine heroic poem
At the Shah’s command composed he,
Who for every verse a thoman
Promised to bestow upon him.
Seventeen times bloom’d the roses,
Seventeen times did they wither,
And the nightingales sang sweetly
And were silent seventeen times,--
And meanwhile the bard was sitting
At the loom of thought, composing
Day and night, and nimbly weaving
His sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,--
Giant-carpet, where the poet
Interwove with skill his country’s
Chronicles from times of fable,
Farsistan’s primeval monarchs,
Fav’rite heroes of his nation,
Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous,
Magic beings, hateful demons,
Intertwined with flowers of fable.
All were blooming, all were living,
Bright with colours, glowing, burning,
With the heavenly rays illumin’d
From the sacred light of Iran,
From the godlike light primeval,
Whose last pure and fiery temple,
Spite of Koran and of Mufti,
In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly.
When at last the work was finish’d,
Then the manuscript the poet
Sent to his illustrious patron,
E’en two hundred thousand verses.
It was in the public bath room,
In the bathing place at Gasna,
That the Shah’s black messengers
Found at last the bard Ferdusi.
Each a bag of money carried,
Which before the poet’s feet he
Kneeling placed, to be the guerdon
To reward his minstrel labours.
Hastily the poet open’d
Both the bags, his eyes to gladden
With the gold so long kept from him,--
When he saw with consternation
That the bags contain’d within them
Silver only, silver thomans,
Some two hundred thousand of them;--
Bitterly then laugh’d the poet.
Laughing bitterly, the money
He divided in three equal
Portions, and a third part gave he
To the two black messengers,
Each a third, to be his guerdon
For the message, and the third part
Gave he to the man who waited
On his bath, as drinking-money.
Then his pilgrim staff he straightway
Grasp’d, and left at once the city,
And before the gate the dust he
From his very shoes rejected.
2.
“Had he been, like other men,
“Heedless of his words once spoken,
“And his promise merely broken,
“I had not been angry then.
“Suffer _this_? I never will!
“His deceit my heart amazes,
“Both his double-meaning phrases,
“And his silence, falser still.
“He was noble, fair to see,
“Proud his gestures were, and stately;
“Other men excell’d he greatly,
“Every inch a king was he.
“Firelike did his glance once meet me,
“As the sun in yonder heaven
“He, truth’s haughty image even--
“And he yet hath deign’d to cheat me.”
3.
Shah Mahomet full well has dined,
And his soul to be merry is fully inclined.
In the garden at twilight, on purple seat
He sits by the fountain. Its splashing sounds sweet,
With looks respectful his servants stand:
His fav’rite Ansari’s amongst the band.
From marble vases a fiery gush
Of luxuriant flowers appears to rush.
Like Odalisques with graceful arms
Stand fanning themselves the slender palms.
The cypresses stand with branches unfurl’d,
As if dreaming of heaven, forgetting the world.
But sudden to strains of the lute ere long
Is heard a gentle mysterious song.
The Shah sprang up, as if sorely perplex’d:
“Who wrote of this song the charming text?”
Ansari, from whom he sought to know it,
Replied: “’Tis the work of Ferdusi the poet.”
“Ferdusi!”--exclaim’d the prince in dismay,--
“Where is he? How fares the poet, O say!”
“Ansari gave answer: “In poverty great
“He has lived full long in a mournful state
“At Thus, the native town of the bard,
“Where he in his garden works full hard.”
Shah Mahomet paused, and presently said:
“Ansari, a thought has come in my head.
“To my stables make haste, and with hands unthrifty
“Take a hundred mules, and camels fifty.
“And lade them all with every treasure
“That fills the heart of a mortal with pleasure,
“With splendid articles, rich and rare,
“With costly dresses and furniture fair
“Of sandal wood and ivory white,
“With gold and silver tissues dight;
“With precious-handled goblets and pots,
“And leopard-skins, all cover’d with spots,
“With carpets and shawls and the richest brocade
“That in my kingdom has ever been made.
“And don’t forget to pack with the rest
“Some glittering arms, and of housings the best,
“As well as drinks of every kind
“And eatables such as in pots we find,
“And almond cakes and sweetmeats Egyptian,
“And gingerbread of every description.
“And also add a dozen steeds
“As swift as arrows, of Arab breeds,
“And likewise a dozen slaves, black as coals,
“With bodies of steel, and sturdy souls.
“Ansari, when all these things thou hast got,
“Thou must start on thy journey, and linger not.
“Thou must take them all with my kind regard
“To Thus, to Ferdusi, the mighty bard.”--
Ansari fulfill’d his lord’s behest,
And loaded the camels and mules with the best
And costliest presents, the value of which
Was enough to make a whole province quite rich.
In propriâ personâ he left at last
The palace, when some three days had past,
And with a general’s banner red
In front of the caravan he sped.
At the end of a week to Thus came they;
The town at the foot of the mountain lay.
The caravan the western gate
With shouts and noises entered straight.
The trumpets sounded, the loud drums beat,
And songs of triumph rang through the street.
“La Illa Il Allah!” with joyous shout
The camel drivers were calling out.
But through the East gate at the farther end
Of Thus, at that moment chanced to wend
The funeral train so full of gloom,
That the dead Ferdusi bore to his tomb.
VOYAGE BY NIGHT.
The half-moon peer’d from the darksome clouds
With coyness, while rock’d the sea;
And when in the bark our places we took,
Our number then was three.
There plash’d in the water the strokes of the oar
With sad monotony;
White foaming billows came with a roar,
And sprinkled all of us three.
She stood in the bark, as pale, as slim,
As void of motion too,
As though she a marble statue were,
Diana’s image true.
The moon disappear’d. The nightwind piped
With chilly blast on high;
When over our heads there suddenly rose
A wild and piercing cry.
’Twas the white and ghostlike seamew’s voice,
And at that terrible cry,
Which fearfully rang like a warning call,
All three felt like to die.
Am I in a fever? A vision is this
Of nightly phantasy?
Am I aped by a dream? I’m dreaming a dream
Of wild buffoonery.
Buffoonery wild! Methinks in my dream
That I a Saviour am;
And faithfully bear the weight of the Cross,
As gentle as a lamb.
Poor beauty beside me is sore distress’d,
But soon I’ll set her free
From sin and shame and sorrow and pain,
And earthly misery.
Poor beauty, O be not thou terrified,
Though bitter the medicine be;
Although my heart may break, I myself
Will mete out death to thee.
O folly wild and terrible dream!
O madness fearful to see!
The night is yawning, the ocean yells--
O God, have mercy on me!
Have mercy on me, O merciful God!
O merciful God! Schaddey![75]
A Something falls in the sea--Alas!
Schaddey! Schaddey! Adonay![76]
The sun arose, we came to the land,
Sweet smiled the spring to the view;
And when at length we left the bark,
Our number then was two.
THE PRELUDE.
This, then, is America!
This indeed the new world is!
Not the present, which already
Europeanized, is with’ring.--
This indeed the new world is,
As by Christopher Columbus
From the ocean extricated;
In its billowy freshness gleams it,
With its watery pearls still dripping,
Which are scatter’d, colour-sprinkling,
When the sunlight fair it kisses.
O how healthy this new world is!
’Tis no churchyard of romance,
’Tis no ancient Scherbenberg,
All made up of mouldy symbols,
And of petrified perukes.
From the healthy earth are shooting
Healthy trees, and none amongst them
_Blasé_ is, or has consumption
Eating up its spinal marrow.
On the branches are disporting
Mighty birds. Of chequer’d colours
Is their plumage. With their solemn
Lengthy beaks, and eyes encircled
With black marks, like spectacles,
They in silence gaze upon thee,
Till they shriek with sudden clamour
And like washerwomen chatter.
Yet I know not what they’re saying,
Notwithstanding that I’m learned
In birds’ tongues as Solomon,
Who a thousand wives rejoiced in,
And with birds’ tongues was acquainted,--
Not the modern ones alone,
But all dialects whatever,
Whether dead, or old, or worn-out.
New the land is, new the flowers!
New the flowers and new the fragrance!
Fragrance wild, and never heard of,
Piercing sweetly through my nostrils,
Teasing, prickling, full of passion--
And my subtle sense of smelling
Racks itself with meditating:
“Where have I e’er smelt this odour?
“Was’t in Regent Street, perchance,
“In the sunny arms so yellow
“Of that Javanese thin woman
“Who was always eating flowers?
“Was it else at Rotterdam,
“Near the Column of Erasmus,
“In the wafer-shop notorious
“With its most mysterious curtain?”
Whilst I in this puzzled fashion
The new world was contemplating,
Seeming to instil into it
Still more bashfulness,--a monkey,
Who, affrighted, sought the bushes,
Cross’d himself at my appearance,
Crying with alarm: “A Spirit!
“Yes, a Spirit from the old world!”--
“Monkey, be not thus confounded!
“I’m no spirit, I’m no spectre;
“Life within my veins is boiling,
“I’m life’s most true-hearted son.
“Yet by living many years
“With the dead, have I adopted
“Dead men’s manners very likely,
“And peculiar ways of thinking.
“All the fairest years of life
“Spent I in Kyffhauser’s cavern,
“In the Venusberg, and other
“Catacombs of the Romantic.
“Have no fear of me, good monkey!
“Thee I like, for on thy hairless
“Tann’d and shaven hinder-quarters
“Thou dost bear my fav’rite colours.”--
Darling colours! Black-red-golden!
Yes, these monkey-buttock-colours,
Sorrowfully they remind me
Of the flag of Barbarossa.
VITZLIPUTZLI.
1.
On his head he wore the laurel,
And upon his boots there glitter’d
Golden spurs,--but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.
He was but a robber captain,
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of--Cortez.
Underneath Columbus’ name he
Wrote his own,--yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.
After Christopher Columbus
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world’s proud Pantheon.
Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!
Were’t not better e’en to perish
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity’s long ages
Such a name in comradeship?
Master Christopher Columbus
Was a hero,--and his temper,
That was pure as e’en the sunlight,
Was as gen’rous in addition.
Many people much have given,
But Columbus to the world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And ’tis call’d America.
He had not the power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And our heavy chain to lengthen.
Mortals thankfully revere him,
Being, not of Europe only,
But of Africa and Asia,
Equally quite sick and weary.
One alone, one hero only
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus--that one mean I
Who a God bestow’d upon us.
His old father’s name was Amram,
And his mother’s Jochebed,
And himself, his name was Moses,
And he is my greatest hero.
But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loitering
Far too long with this Columbus;
Know thou that our flight to-day is
With the lesser man,--with Cortez.
So extend thy colour’d pinions,
Wingèd steed! and carry me
To the new world’s beauteous country
That they Mexico entitle.
Carry me to yonder castle,
Which the monarch Montezuma
Kindly offer’d to his Spanish
Guests, to be their habitation.
Not mere food and shelter only
In extravagant profusion
Gave the prince these foreign strollers,--
Presents rich and precious also,
Valuable, wrought with cunning,
All of massive gold, and jewels,
Bear gay witness to the monarch’s
Generosity and favour.
This uncivilised, unlearned,
Superstitious, blinded heathen
Still believed in faith and honour,
And the sacredness of guest-right.
He accepted a proposal
To be present at a banquet
That the Spaniards in their castle
Wish’d to give, to do him honour.
And with all his court attendants
Came the inoffensive monarch
Kindly to the Spanish quarters,
Where by trumpets he was greeted.
What they call’d the entertainment
Know I not. ’Twas very likely
“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’s
Name was Don Fernando Cortez.
Cortez gave the signal--straightway
They attack’d the peaceful monarch,
And they bound him and retain’d him
In the castle as a hostage.
But poor Montezuma died there,
And the dam was broken down
Which the bold adventurers
From the people’s wrath protected.
Terribly began the tempest;
Like a wild and furious ocean
Raved and bluster’d ever nearer
The excited human billows.
Valiantly in truth the Spaniards
Drove the tempest back. But daily
Was the castle fresh blockaded,
And the conflict was exhausting.
When the King was dead, the convoys
Of provisions ceased entirely;
In proportion as the rations
Shorter grew, each face grew longer.
With long faces on each other
Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness,
And they sigh’d, when they bethought them
Of their cosy Christian dwellings
In their cherish’d fatherland,
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And upon the hearth there bubbled
Peaceful olla podridas,
Thickly studded with garbanzos,
Under which, with waggish fragrance
Chuckling famously, were hidden
Those dear garlic sausages.
Then the leader held a council,
And upon retreat decided;
On the following morn at daybreak
Was the force to leave the city.
Easy ’twas for clever Cortez
Cunningly to gain an entrance,
But retreat to terra firma
Offer’d fatal obstacles.
Mexico, the island city,
In a mighty lake is founded,
In the middle, wave-surrounded:
E’en a haughty water fortress,
With the continent connected
But by ships and rafts and bridges,
Which repose on piles gigantic,
Little islands forming forts.
’Twas before the sun had risen
That their march began the Spaniards
Not a single drum was beaten,
Not a trumpeter was blowing.
’Twas their object not to waken
From their quiet sleep their hosts--
(For a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamp’d in Mexico).
Yet without his host the Spaniard
Reckon’d, when his plans he settled;
For the Mexicans had risen
Earlier still to-day than he had.
On the rafts and on the bridges,
On the forts they all were waiting,
That they to their guests might offer
Then and there the parting cup.
On the rafts and forts and bridges
Ha! a frantic banquet follow’d;
In red torrents stream’d the blood,
And the bold carousers struggled,--
Struggled, body press’d to body,
And we see on many naked
Indian breasts the arabesque
Of the Spanish arms imprinted.
’Twas a throttling and a choking
And a butchery that slowly,
Sadly slowly, roll’d still onward
Over rafts and forts and bridges.
Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’d
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.
Fighting thus in narrow passes
Small to-day the’ advantage lying
In old Europe’s strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.
Many Spaniards in addition
With the gold were heavy laden,
Lately captured or extorted--
Ah! that yellow load of sin
Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,
And the devilish metal proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.
And meanwhile the lake around them
With canoes and barks was cover’d;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.
True they hit in the confusion
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.
On the third bridge fell at last
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin’s image.
E’en this image’ self was struck
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart,--bright arrows,
Like those swords of golden colour
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday’s sad procession.
Gaston, when he died, made over
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez
Seized himself the precious banner,
He, the leader, and he bore it
On his steed till tow’rd the evening,
When the fight at length was over.
On that day a hundred Spaniards
Fell, and sixty in addition;
Eighty more alive were taken
By the Indians’ cruel hands.
Many of them sorely wounded,
Who ere long their breath surrender’d
And a dozen horses, too, were
Partly kill’d and partly captured.
Cortez and his army only
Just at evening gain’d the shelter
Of the shore, a seacoast planted
Niggardly with weeping willows.
2.
When the battle day is over,
Comes the frantic night of triumph
So in Mexico a hundred
Thousand lamps of joy are flaring;
Hundred thousand lamps of joy, with
Woodpine torches, pitch-ring fires,
Throw a light as clear as daylight
Over palaces and temples,
And guildhouses,--likewise over
Vitzliputzli’s splendid temple,
Idol-fortress built of red brick,
Strangely like the old Egyptian,
Babylonian, and Assyrian
Monster buildings so colossal,
As we see them in the pictures
Of the English Henry Martin.[77]
Yes, it is the same broad staircase,
So exceeding broad, that on it
Many thousand Mexicans
Up and down are walking freely,
Whilst upon the steps are lying
Mighty troops of savage warriors,
Banqueting in joyous fashion,
Flush’d with triumph and with palm-wine.
This great staircase leadeth upwards
Like a zigzag to the platform,
By a balustrade surrounded
At the summit of the temple.
There, upon his altar-throne,
Sits the mighty Vitzliputzli,
Mexico’s bloodthirsty wargod.--
He is but an evil monster,
But so droll is his exterior,
Full of carvings, and so childish,
That despite our inward horror
It must needs excite our laughter.
His appearance altogether
Brought to mind a combination
Of the “Dance of Death” at Basle,
And the Mannekin at Brussels.
On the god’s left side his priests are
Station’d, on his right the people;
Ornaments of colour’d feathers
Are to-day the former wearing.
On the altar-stairs of marble
Squats a man a hundred years old;
On his chin and skull no hair is,
And he wears a scarlet waistcoat.
He’s the priest of sacrifices,
And his bloody knife he’s whetting;
As he whets, he grins, and ofttimes
Leers upon the god above him.
Vitzliputzli seems the glances
Of his servant to appreciate,
And he twitches every eyelash,
And his lips at times he twitches.
On the altar steps squat also
The musicians of the temple,
Kettle-drummers, cowhorn blowers--
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
Loud the clatter, loud the tooting!
And the Mexican Te Deum
Rises up in noisy chorus,
As if many cats were mewing--
As if many cats were mewing,
But of that enlarged description
Which are “tiger-cats” entitled,
And, instead of mice, eat people!
When the nightwind carries with it
These loud noises to the seashore,
The poor Spaniards there encamping
Feel sensations far from pleasant.
Sadly ’neath the weeping willows
Are the Spaniards still remaining,
Gazing tow’rd the distant city
Which within the dark sea water
Mirrors back, in sheer derision,
All the flames of former pleasure--
There they stand, as in the pit
Of a vast gigantic playhouse,
Vitzliputzli’s temple’s radiant
Platform serving as the stage
Where they act a tragic myst’ry
To commemorate their triumph.
“Human sacrifice” the play is,
Old, full old, its plot, its fable;
But the piece is not so fearful
In the Christian treatment of it.
For into the blood is red wine,
And into the actual body
Is a thin and harmless wafer
Transubstantiated truly.
’Mongst these savages at present
Was the joke in downright earnest
Taken up; they fed on flesh,
And the blood was human blood.
This time ’twas indeed the pure blood
Of old Christians, which had never
Never mingled with the baser
Blood of Jews or of Moriscos.
O be joyful, Vitzliputzli!
For to-day ’tis Spanish blood,
And thou mayst refresh thy nostrils
With its warm scent greedily.
Eighty Spaniards will be slaughter’d
On this day to do thee honour--
Proud repast to grace the table
Of thy priests, who flesh delight in.
For the priest is but a mortal,
And poor man, unhappy glutton,
Cannot, like the gods, live only
On sweet smells and savoury odours.
Hark! the death-drum now is beating,
And the evil cowhorn screeches!
They proclaim the’ approaching advent
Of the victims’ sad procession.
Eighty Spaniards, vilely naked,
With their hands securely fasten’d
To their backs, are harshly driven
Up the temple’s lofty staircase.
And to Vitzliputzli’s image
They must bow the knee right humbly,
And must dance the wildest dances,
Forcibly constrain’d by tortures,
All so terrible and fearful,
That their madden’d screams of anguish
Overpow’r the whole collective
Cannibals’ wild charivari.
Poor spectators by the ocean!
Cortez and his warlike comrades
But too plainly could distinguish
All their friends’ loud cries of torment.
On the stage, too clearly lighted,
They could see, alas! too plainly,
Every figure, every gesture,--
See the knife and see the blood.
Then from off their heads their helmets
Silently they took, and kneeling,
Chaunted they the death-psalm sadly,
And they sang the De Profundis.
’Mongst the number of the victims
Was young Raimond de Mendoza,
Offspring of the lovely abbess,
Cortez’ first and youthful love.
When he on the stripling’s bosom
Saw the well-remember’d locket
Which enclosed his mother’s portrait,
Bitter, bitter tears wept Cortez--
But from off his eyes he wiped them
With his buffalo’s hard gauntlet--
Deeply sigh’d, and sang in chorus
With the others: Miserere!
3.
Now the stars are glimm’ring paler,
And the morning mists are rising
From the ocean-flood, like spirits
Dragging their white shrouds behind them.
Feasts and lights are all extinguish’d
In the temple of the idol,
Where, upon the blood-soak’d pavement,
Priest and laity lie snoring.
None are waking, save Red Jacket.
By the last lamp’s flickering glimmer,
Sickly grinning, grimly jesting,
Thus the priest his god addresses:
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli!
“Darling god, my Vitzliputzli!
“Thou to-day hast had amusement,
“And has smelt a fragrant odour!
“Spanish blood to-day we offer’d,
“O how savourily steam’d it!
“And thy fine and dainty nostrils
“Suck’d the scent in, full of rapture!
“We’ll to-morrow slay the horses,
“Neighing noble monsters are they,
“Offspring of the tempest spirits’
“Amorous toying with the seacow.
“If thou’lt gracious be, I’ll slaughter
“In thine honour my two grandsons,
“Pretty children,--sweet their blood is,--
“My old age’s only pleasure.
“But indeed thou must be gracious,
“And must grant us further triumphs,
“Let us conquer, darling godhead,
“Putzlivitzli, Vitzliputzli!
“All our enemies destroy thou,
“All these strangers who from distant
“And still undiscover’d countries
“Hither came across the ocean--
“Wherefore did they leave their dwellings?
“Was it crime or hunger drove them?
“‘Stop at home and live in quiet’
“Is a sensible old proverb.
“What is their desire? Our money
“Stick they in their greedy pockets,
“And they wish us to be happy--
“So they tell us,--in the heavens!
“We at first believed them fully
“Beings of a higher order,
“Children of the Sun, immortal,
“Arm’d with lightning and with thunder.
“But they’re only men, as mortal
“As ourselves; my knife to-night has
“Proved beyond all doubt and question
“Their extreme mortality.
“They are mortal, and no fairer
“Than ourselves, and many of them
“Are as ugly as the monkeys,
“And their faces, like the latter,
“Are all hairy, and ’tis whisper’d
“Many of them carry hidden
“In their breeches monkeys’ tails, for
“Those not monkeys need no breeches.
“Morally they’re also ugly
“And of piety know nothing,
“And ’tis said that they’re accustom’d
“Their own deities to swallow!
“O destroy this vile abandon’d
“Wicked brood, these god-devourers--
“Vitzliputzli, Putzlivitzli,
“Let us conquer, Vitzliputzli!”--
Thus the priest address’d the god,
And the god’s reply resounded
Sighing, rattling, like the nightwind
Toying with the ocean sedges:
“Red-coat, red-coat, bloody slayer!
“Thou hast slaughter’d many thousands,--
“Plunge thy sacrificial knife now
“In thine own old worn-out body!
“From thy body, thus slit open,
“Will thy spirit make its exit,
“Over roots and over pebbles
“Tripping to the green frog’s pond.
“There thou’lt find my aunt, the rat-queen,
“Squatting, and she’ll thus address thee:
“‘So good morning, naked spirit!
“‘Pray how fares it with my nephew?
“‘Is he Vitzliputzlied nicely
“‘In the gold-light, sweet as honey?
“‘Does good fortune from his forehead
“‘Brush away all flies and sorrows?
“‘Or does Katzlagara scratch him,
“‘Hated goddess of all evil,
“‘With her black paws made of iron,
“‘Which are steep’d in adder’s poison?’
“Naked spirit, give this answer:
“‘Vitzliputzli sends thee greeting,
“‘And a pestilence he wishes
“‘In thy belly, thou accurst one!
“‘Thou didst urge him to the conflict,
“‘And thy counsel was destruction;
“‘Soon will be fulfill’d the evil
“‘Old and mournful prophecy
“‘Of the kingdom’s subjugation
“‘By the men so fiercely bearded,
“‘Who on wooden birds all flying
“‘From the Eastern land come hither.
“‘There’s an ancient proverb also--
“‘Woman’s will is God’s will likewise--
“‘And the God’s will is redoubled
“‘When the woman is his mother.
“‘She it is that wakes my anger,
“‘She, the haughty queen of heaven,
“‘She, a pure and spotless virgin,
“‘Working charms and versed in magic.
“‘She protects the Spanish people,
“‘And we all at length must perish,
“‘I, the poorest of the godheads,
“‘And my poor, dear Mexico.’--
“When thou hast fulfill’d thy message,
Red-coat, let thy naked spirit
In a sandhole creep; sleep soundly
Out of sight of all my misery.
“This proud temple will be shatter’d,
“I myself shall in its ruins
“Disappear,--mere dust and rubbish,--
“No one e’er again will see me.
“Yet I shall not die; we godheads
“Grow as old as do the parrots,
“And we cast our skins, and like them
“Only change at times our feathers.
“To my foemen’s native country
“Which they give the name of Europe
“I shall fly away, beginning
“There a really new career.
“I’ll turn devil, and the god
“Then shall be a God-be-with-us;
“As my foemen’s evil spirit
“I can work as best may suit me.
“There my enemies I’ll trouble,
“And alarm them all with phantoms;
“As a foretaste of hell’s torments,
“Brimstone they shall smell in plenty.
“Both their wise men and their doltards
“I’ll allure with my seductions;
“And their virtue will I tickle
“Till it laughs like any strumpet.
“Yes, I’ll turn into a devil,
“And salute as my dear comrades
“Satanas and Belial with him,
“Astaroth and Beelzebub.
“Thee I’ll also greet, O Lilis,
“Sin’s own mother, smooth-skinn’d serpent
“Teach me all thy dreadful secrets,
“And the charming art of lying!
“My belovèd Mexico,
“I no longer can preserve thee,
“But I’ll fearfully avenge thee,
“My belovèd Mexico!”
_BOOK II.--LAMENTATIONS._
Good fortune quite a fickle miss is,
And in one place will never stay;
The hair from off thy face with kisses
She strokes, and then she flies away.
Misfortune to her heart, however,
To clasp thee tightly, ne’er omits;
She says she’s in a hurry never,
Sits down beside thy bed and knits.
WOOD SOLITUDE.
In former days, in my life’s young morning,
I wore a garland my brow adorning;
How wondrously glisten’d then every flower!
The garland was fill’d with a magical power.
While all in the beautiful garland took pleasure,
Its wearer they hated beyond all measure;
I fled from the envy of mortals rude,
I fled to the wood’s green solitude.
To the wood! to the wood! A life of enjoyment
With spirits and beasts was my sole employment.
The fairies and stags, with their antlers tall,
Without any fear approach’d me all.
They all approach’d me without any terror,
In this they knew they committed no error;
That I was no huntsman, the doe well knew,
That I was no babbler, the fairies saw too.
None but fools ever boast of the fays’ approbation,
But how the remaining gentry of station
That lived in the forest treated me well,
I’ve not the slightest objection to tell.
How round me hover’d the elfin rabble,
That airy race, with their charming gabble!
’Tis dangerous truly their gaze to meet,
The bliss it imparts is so deadly, though sweet.
With May dance and May games amused they me highly
And tales of the court narrated they slily,
For instance, the scandalous chronicles e’en
Of lovely Titania, the faery queen.
If I sat by the brook, with leaping and springing
Rose out of the flood, their tresses wringing,
With long silver veils and fluttering hair,
The water-bacchantes, the nixes fair!
They play’d on the lute and the fiddle so sweetly,
And danced the nixes’ famed dances discreetly;
The tunes that they sang, the antics they play’d,
Of rollicking boisterous madness seem’d made.
And yet at times was much less alarming
The noise that they made; these elfins charming
Before my feet lay quietly,
Their heads reclining on my knee.
Some foreign romances they trill’d,--for example
I’ll name the “three oranges” song as a sample;
A hymn of praise they sang also with grace
On me and my noble human face.
They oft interrupted their songs with loud laughter,
Many critical matters inquiring after,
For instance: “On what particular plan
“Did God determine on fashioning man?
“Is each individual’s soul altogether
“Immortal? These souls, are they made all of leather,
“Or stiff linen only? How comes it to pass
“That almost every man is an ass?”
The answers I gave, I’ll conceal for the present,
And yet my immortal soul (which is pleasant)
Was not in the slightest degree ever hurt
By the prattling talk of a water-sprite pert.
While sportive and roguish are elfins and nixes,
Not so the truehearted earth-spirits and pixies,
Which love to help man. I prefer most of all
The race that they dwarfs or mannikins call.
They all wear a long and swelling red doublet,
Their face is noble, though care seems to trouble it;
I let them not see that I had descried
Why they their feet so carefully hide.
They all have ducks’ feet, but object much to show it;
And fancy that nobody else can know it;
Their sorrow’s so deep and hard to bear,
That to teaze them about it I never could dare.
Alas! we all, like those dwarfs full of feeling,
We all have something that needs concealing;
No Christians, we fancy, have ever descried
Where we our ducks’ feet so carefully hide.
Salamanders for me had never attractions,
I learnt very little respecting their actions
From other wood spirits. They pass’d me by night
Like fleeting shadows, mysteriously light.
They are thin as a spindle, and long as a baby,
With breeches and waistcoats tight-fitting as may be,
Of scarlet colours, embroider’d with gold;
Their faces are sickly and yellow and old.
A golden crown, with rubies all over,
The head of each of their number doth cover;
The whole of these vain conceited elves
Quite absolute monarchs consider themselves.
That they are not burnt in the fire is truly
A great piece of art, I acknowledge it duly;
And yet the uninflammable wight
Is far from being a true fire-sprite.
The sharpest woodspirits are mandrakes however;
Short legs have these bearded mannikins clever;
They have old men’s faces, the length of a span,
But whence they proceed, is a secret to man.
When head over heels in the moonlight they tumble,
They remind one of roots in their nature quite humble;
But as my welfare they always have sought,
Their origin really to me matters nought.
In small acts of witchcraft they gave me instructions,
How to exorcise flames, ply the birds with seductions,
And also to pluck on Midsummer night
The root that makes one invisible quite.
They taught me the stars and strange signs--how astraddle
To ride on the winds without any saddle,
And Runic sentences, able to call
The dead from out of their silent graves all.
They also taught me the whistle mysterious
That serves to deceive the woodpecker serious,
And makes him give us the spurge, to show
Where secret treasures are hidden below.
The words that ’tis needful for people to mutter
When digging for treasure, they taught me to utter;
But all in vain, for I ne’er got by heart
The treasure-digger’s wonderful art.
For money in fact I then cared not a tittle,
My wants were soon satisfied, being but little;
I possess’d many castles in Spain’s fair land,
The income from which came duly to hand.
O charming time, when the heaven’s high arches
With fiddles were hung, when elfin marches
And nixes’ dances and cobolds’ glad play
My story-drunk heart enchanted all day!
O charming time, when into auspicious
Triumphal arches the foliage delicious
Appear’d to be twining! I wander’d around,
My brow, like a victor’s, with laurel-wreath crown’d.
That charming time has utterly vanish’d,
And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d;
And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fair
That I was then wont on my head to wear.
The garland is gone that my locks shaded over,
But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover;
Yet since that beauteous garland they stole,
My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul.
The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring,
Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring,
A churchyard blue, its deities gone;
I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone.
From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their graces
Horns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places;
While hid in the thicket, the trembling roe
Is licking her wounds with tearful woe.
And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are biding
In clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding;
My dear little friends, I’m returning again,
But reft of my garland and joy I remain.
O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden,
First beauty to whom I was ever beholden?
The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’d
Stands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast.
The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s;
Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes,
As pale and as mute as a figure of stone,
While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown.
I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,--
She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion,
And then she fled with a terrified mien,
As if she some fearful spectre had seen.
SPANISH LYRICS.
’Twas on Hubert’s day--the year was
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty--
That the king a banquet gave us
In the castle at Segovia.
These state banquets just the same are
Everywhere, and at the tables
Of all princes sov’reign tedium
Yawns with uncontested vigour.
Everywhere the same silk rabble,
Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.
Whispers all the time and buzzing
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.
Near me, by good luck, was sitting
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.
He with wondrous skill related
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.
When I ask’d him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:
Ah, Señor! the tales believe not
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.
And believe not what they chatter
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.
’Twas not to the husband’s jealous
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava’s order.
For the crime Don Pedro never
Would forgive him, was his glory,--
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald--
Never could Don Pedro pardon
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit’s image.
Still within my memory blossoms
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne’er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.
They were just of that description
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.
Blue his eyes were, their enamel
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel’s staring hardness
Seem’d reflected in them likewise.
Black his hair was in its colour,
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.
In the charming town of Coimbra
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world,--unhappy prince!
He was coming from Alcanzor,
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.
O’er his head his helm-plume floated
Gallantly, and yet his mantle’s
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.
By his side, and gaily wagging
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang,--a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.
He, despite his size gigantic,
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox’s it resembled.
Snow-white and like silk in softness,
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.
It was said this collar hid the
Talisman fidelity;
Never did the faithful creature
Leave the side of his dear master.
O that fierce fidelity!
It excites my startled feelings,
When I think how ’twas made public
Here, before our frighten’d presence.
O that day so full of horror!
Here, within this hall, it happen’d,
And as I to-day am sitting,
At the monarch’s table sat I.
At the high end of the table,
Where to-day young Don Henrico
Gaily tipples with the flower
Of Castilian chivalry,
On that day there sat Don Pedro
Darkly silent, and beside him,
Proudly radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.
At the table’s lower end, where
Here to-day we see the lady
With the linen frill capacious,
Like a white plate in appearance.
Whilst her yellow face is gilded
With a smile of sour complexion,
Like the citron that is lying
On the plate already mention’d,--
At the table’s lower end here
Was a place remaining empty;
Some great guest of lofty station
Seem’d the golden seat to wait for.
Don Fredrego was the guest, for
Whom the golden seat was destined;
Yet he came not,--ah! now know we
But too well why thus he tarried.
Ah! that selfsame hour the wicked
Deed of blood was consummated,
And the innocent young hero
Suddenly attack’d and basely
By Don Pedro’s myrmidons,
Tightly bound, and quickly hurried
To a dreary castle dungeon
Lighted only by some torches.
Executioners stood ready,
And their bloody chief was with them,
Who, upon his axe while leaning,
Thus with sadden’d look address’d him:
“Now, Grand Master of San Jago,
“Now must thou for death prepare thee;
“Just one quarter of an hour
“Still is left for thee to pray in.”
Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,
And he pray’d with pious calmness,
And then said: “I now have finish’d,”
And received the stroke of death.
In the very selfsame moment
That the head roll’d on the pavement,
Faithful Allan, who had follow’d
All unseen, sprang quickly to it.
With his teeth the head straight seized he
By the long luxuriant tresses,
And with this much valued booty
Shot away with speed of magic.
Agonizing shouts resounded
Everywhere as on he hasten’d,
Through the passages and chambers,
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.
Since the banquet of Belshazzar
Never company at table
Was so utterly confounded
As was ours that fill’d this hall then,
When the monstrous creature leapt in,
With the head of Don Fredrego,
Which he with his teeth was dragging
By the dripping bloody tresses.
On the seat which, being destined
For his master, still was empty,
Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff
Held the head before our faces.
Ah! it was the well-remember’d
Hero’s features, but still paler
And more solemn now when dead,
And all-fearfully encircled
By the locks in black luxuriance,
Which stood up as did the savage
Serpent-headdress of Medusa,
Turning into stone through terror.
Yes, turn’d into stone felt all then,
Wildly stared we on each other,
And each tongue was mute and palsied
Both by etiquette and horror.
But Maria de Padilla
Broke the universal silence;
Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,
She forebodingly lamented:
“Now it will be said ’twas I that
“Brought about this cruel murder;
“Rancour will assail my children,
“My poor innocent young children!--”
Don Diego interrupted
At this place his tale, observing
That the company had risen,
And the court the hall was leaving.
Kind and courteous in his manners,
Then the knight became my escort,
And we rambled on together
Through the ancient Gothic castle.
In the crossway which conducted
To the kennels of the monarch,
Which proclaimed themselves already
By far growling sounds and yelpings,
There I noticed, built up strongly
In the wall, and on the outside
Firmly fasten’d by strong iron,
Like a cage, a narrow cell.
And inside it sat two human
Figures, two young boys appearing;
By the legs securely fetter’d,
On the dirty straw they squatted.
Scarcely twelve years old the one seem’d,
Scarcely older seem’d the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.
They were clothed in rags, half naked,
And their wither’d bodies offer’d
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.
From the depth of their deep mis’ry
They upon me turn’d their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.
“Who, then, are these wretched objects?”
I exclaim’d, with hasty action
Don Diego’s hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch’d it.
Don Diego seem’d embarrass’d,
Look’d if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh’d, and said, assuming
A mere worldling’s jaunty accents:
These are children of a monarch,
Early orphan’d, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.
After the great fight at Narvas,
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown’s oppressive burden,
And from that still greater burden
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico’s victor-kindness
Also reach’d his brother’s children.
Under his own care he took them,
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.
Narrow is indeed the chamber
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.
For their food, they live on ryebread,
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres’ self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.
Oftentimes he also sends them
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.
Yet not always is it Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.
For this worthy upper huntsman,
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,
Is the most unhappy husband
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;
And she scolds so loud, that often
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.
But the king is very angry
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.
He will not entrust to any
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward.--
Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach’d us, and politely
Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?--
THE EX-LIVING ONE.
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be,
The watchman, the crier nightly,
Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee
Used to ramble in converse sprightly?
Ye often were wont to gaze up on high,
Where the darksome clouds were scudding;
A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by,
That in your bosoms were budding.
Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be?
No longer he thinks of destroying;
By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he
As a reader to tyrants employing.
But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou,
“Shortsighted as every poet;
“To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow,
“But his object’s to kill him,--I know it.
“So Matzerath’s[78] poems he reads him each day
“A dagger is each line in it;
“And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say,
“May die of ennui any minute.”
THE EX-WATCHMAN.
From the Neckar he departed,
With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,
And as play-director started
In fair Munich’s city next.
All that country’s very pretty,
And they in perfection here,
In this fancy-stirring city,
Brew the very best of beer.
But ’tis said the poor Director
Rambles, like a Dante, glum,
Melancholy as a spectre,
Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.
Comedies no longer heeds he,
Nor the very worst of rhyme;
Wretched tragedies oft reads he,
Not once smiling all the time.
Oft herself some fair one flatters
She will cheer his sorrowing heart;
But his coat of mail soon shatters
Every love-directed dart.
All in vain his friends endeavour
To enliven him and sing:
“In thy life rejoice thee ever,
“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”
Is there nought can raise thy spirits
In this fair and charming town,
Which, among its many merits,
Boasts such men of great renown?
It is true, that it has lately
Lost full many a man of worth
Whom we miss and valued greatly,
Chorus-leaders and so forth.
Would that Massmann left us never!
He would surely have some day
By his antics strange but clever
Driven all thy cares away.
Schelling’s[79] loss is very serious,
And can never be replaced,
A philosopher mysterious,
And a mimic highly graced.
That the founder of Walhalla
Went away, and left behind
All his manuscripts,--by Allah!
That was really too unkind!
With Cornelius[80] also perish’d
All his pupils whatsoe’er;
They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,
And their strength was in their hair
For their prudent Master planted
In their hair some magic springs,
And it seem’d, as if enchanted,
To be full of living things.
Apropos! The arch-notorious
Priest, as Dollingerius known,--
That’s, I think, his name inglorious,--
Has he from the Isar flown?
In Good Friday’s sad procession
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.
On Monácho Monachorum
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]
At his name thy dull eye flashes;
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,--
Strike away as formerly!
Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.
Old Erasmus could not master
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.
Old and young laugh,--all the city
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”
When those dirty monks we’re catching,
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.
“Alea jacta est!” however
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.
Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.
Call thy long legs transcendental
Into full and active play;
Vulgar be the monks or gentle,
If they’re monks, then strike away!
He however sigh’d, and wringing
Both his hands he thus replied:
My long legs, so apt at springing,
Are with Europe stupified.
And my corns are twitching sadly,
Tight the German shoes I’ve on;
Where the shoe is pinching badly
Know I now,--so pray begone!
MYTHOLOGY.
Yes! Europa must knock under,--
Who could stand against a bull?
Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder
Golden rain made her a fool!
Sem’le was a victim real,
For she innocently thought
That a heavenly cloud ideal
Could not injure her in aught.
But poor Leda’s tale notorious
Really stirs up all our spleen;
Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,
What a goose must she have been!
IN MATILDA’S ALBUM.
On these mill’d rags--a change mysterious!--
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
I, who am wont my thoughts to utter
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!
O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
TO THE YOUNG.
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion
Of golden apples that lie in thy way!
The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,
But they cannot long the hero delay.
A daring beginning is halfway to winning,
An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!
Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling
In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.
Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon
The bed of Darius of old, and his crown;
O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!
To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
THE UNBELIEVER.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
With rapturous emotion
My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills
At this delicious notion.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms,
Whilst with thy fair gold tresses
I sport, and thy dear darling head
My shoulder gently presses!
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
To truth will turn my vision,
And here on earth shall I enjoy
The highest bliss elysian.
St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe
The fact, my doubts will linger
Until upon my rapture’s wounds
I lay my eager finger.
WHITHER NOW?
Whither now? my stupid foot
Fain to Germany would guide me;
But my reason shakes its head
Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:
“Ended is the war indeed,
“But they still keep up courts-martial,
“And to writing things esteem’d
“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”
That’s quite true, and being shot
Has for me no great attractions;
I’m no hero, and unskill’d
In pathetic words and actions.
Fain to England would I go,
View’d I not with such displeasure
Englishmen and coals--their smell
Makes me sick beyond all measure.
To America methinks
I would sail the broad seas over;
To that place of freedom where
All alike may live in clover,
Did I not detest a land
Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,
Where they never use spittoons,
And so strangely play at skittles.
Russia, that vast empire fair,
Might be tolerably pleasant,
But I should not like the knout
That’s their usual winter present.
Sadly gaze I up on high,
Where the countless stars are gleaming,
But I nowhere can discern
Where my own bright star is beaming.
Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth
It has got benighted lately,
As I on this bustling earth
Have myself been wandering greatly.
AN OLD SONG.
Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,
The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;
Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,
And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.
’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,
I bore thee myself to the grave outright;
The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,
And after us follow’d the bright constellations.
As through the forest the train moved along,
They made it resound with the litany’s song;
The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,
The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.
And as o’er the willowy lake we flew
The elfins were dancing full in our view;
They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,
And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.
And when we had reach’d the grave, full soon
From out of the heavens descended the moon,
And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condoling
While in the distance the bells were tolling.
READY MONEY.
Love, before she granted favours,
One day told the god Apollo
She on guarantees insisted,
For the times were false and hollow.
Laughingly the god made answer:
“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,
“And thou speakest like a usurer
“Who on pawn lends money duly.
“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,--
“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;
“Prythee say how many kisses
“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”
THE OLD ROSE.
She for whom my heart once beat
Was a rosebud fair and tender;
Yet it ever grew more sweet,
Bursting into full-blown splendour.
’Twas the loveliest that could be,
And to pluck it I bethought me;
But it stung me piquantly
With its thorns, and prudence taught me.
Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,
By the wind and tempests shatter’d,
“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,
And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.
Henry here and Henry there
Calleth she with ceaseless din now;
If a thorn is anywhere,
’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.
O how hard the bristles grow
On the chin’s warts of my beauty!
Either to a convent go,
Or to shave will be thy duty.
AUTO-DA-FÉ.
See these violets, dusty tresses,
And this faded ribbon blue,
Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,
And these half-torn billets-doux,--
All, with angry look and gesture
In the blazing fire I throw;
Sadly crackle up these relics
Of my happiness and woe.
Vows of love, and fond deceiving
Broken oaths all upwards fly
In the chimney, while in secret
Cupid laughs maliciously.
Dreamily beside the fireplace
Sit I, while the sparkles bright
Glow in silence midst the ashes,--
So farewell! good night! good night!
LAZARUS.
1. THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
He who has already much,
Finds his wealth increasing faster;
Who but little, is of all
Soon bereft by some disaster.
But if thou hast nothing, friend,
Go and hang thyself this minute;
Only they who’ve aught on earth
Have a claim for living in it.
2. RETROSPECT.
I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birth
In this delightful kitchen of earth;
Each thing that the world contains that’s delicious
Have I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;
I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,
And many a charming doll caress’d,
Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,
And had my pockets well lined with notes;
The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,
Had house and castle all à-la-mode.
On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,
While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,
A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,
And through my brain sweet visions raced,
Sweet visions of endless May and flowers--
How happily fleeted then the hours,
So dim and hazy, so full of repose,--
My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,
And angels came, and out of their pockets
The champagne bottles flew like rockets,--
Bright visions were these,--soap-bubbles, alas!
They burst,--and I lie on the humid grass;
My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,
My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.
Alas! each pleasure and gratification
I bought at the price of bitter vexation;
I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,
The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;
Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrow
I needs must lie, and I needs must borrow
From wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,
I even believe that I begg’d for a while.
And now I would finish this wearisome race,
And find in the grave a resting-place.
Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,
Once more we may hope to meet with each other.
3. RESURRECTION.
The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skies
As though it summon’d to battle;
From out of their graves the dead arise,
Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.
Each thing that has legs prepares for the race,
The spectres white are all driven
To Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,
Where judgment is now to be given.
There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord,
By all his apostles surrounded;
Assessors are they,--each judgment, each word
On love and wisdom is founded.
No face is disguised in all that array
For every mask is seen falling
In the radiant light of the judgment day,
At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.
At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at last
The whole of the troop is united,
And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,
I’ve the summary only recited:
The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,--
The parting is quickly effected;
For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,
And hell for the goats is selected.
4. THE DYING ONE.
Flying after bliss and light,
Thou return’st in piteous plight;
German truth and German shirt
Strangers draggle through the dirt.
Pale as death hast thou become,
But take comfort, thou’rt at home;
Warm as by the household hearth
Lie we under German earth.
Many others, who fell lame,
Home again, alas! ne’er came,
Though they yearningly implored,--
O have pity, gracious Lord!
5. RASCALITY.
Rich people only can be won
By open, barefaced flattery;
Money is flat, my worthy son,
And needs must flatly flatter’d be.
The box of incense swing with zeal
Before all worshipp’d golden calves:
In dust and mire with meekness kneel,
And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.
The price of bread this year is high,
Fine words we lavish all in vain;
Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,
And earn a bellyful again.
6. RETROSPECT.
The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,--
O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]
The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the current
Beneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,
They buried him under a grave of May flowers,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
O prudent wert thou, thus early in striving
To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;
Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,
With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.