Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,
The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;
Methinks the angels, who for our protection
Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.
The tulip has no scent. The saying is:
Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;
Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be
Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby.
The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;
A woman may be witty and discreet,
And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,
Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.
The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,
Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en
The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;
Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).
In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,
As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;
Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,
And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.
The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,
When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;
Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,
And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.
And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thou
Faultless art not, nor free from failings now.
“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,--
A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!
8. PIOUS WARNING.
When thou dost quit this mortal abode,
Immortal spirit, beware thee
Lest dangers seek to ensnare thee;
Through death and night conducteth the road.
The soldiers of God at the golden door
Of the city of light are collected;
Here actions and deeds are respected,
Mere name and station avail no more.
The pilgrim leaves at the portal behind
His shoes so heavy and dusty;
O enter with confidence trusty,
Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.
9. THE COOLED-DOWN ONE.
When we are dead, we long must lie
Within the tomb; distress’d am I,
Yes, sad am I that resurrection
Delays so long to give perfection.
Once more, before the light of life
Is quench’d, before this weary strife
Is o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,
Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.
Some fair one I would now invite
With eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;
No more I relish the advances
Of wild brunettes with burning glances.
Young men, exulting in their youth,
Prefer tumultuous love in truth.
With them excitement’s all the fashion,
And soul-enthralling mutual passion.
No longer young, bereft of power,
As I, alas! am at this hour,
I fain once more would love in quiet,
And happy be,--without a riot.
10. SOLOMON.
The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber;
By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,
Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,
On either side six thousand in number.
The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming,
And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,
From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightly
Twelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.
But presently back in their sheaths are falling
The angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeper
Grows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,
And soon his lips are gently calling:
“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish!
“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,
“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,
“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”
11. LOST WISHES.
Similar in disposition,
Like a brother link’d to brother,
We unconsciously were ever
Growing fonder of each other.
Each one knew the other’s meaning,
Just as if we were omniscient;
Words, in fact, we found superfluous,
And a look was quite sufficient.
How I long’d to have thee near me,
Revelling in peace and plenty,
As my staunch and valiant comrade
In a dolce far niente!
Always to remain beside thee
Was the aim of each endeavour;
Everything that gave thee pleasure,
To accomplish sought I ever.
I enjoy’d what thou didst relish,
Neither would I touch the dishes
Thou didst hate, and even smoking
I commenced, to meet thy wishes.
Many a funny Polish story
That thy merriment excited,
In a strange and Jewish accent
To repeat I then delighted.
Yes, then long’d I to approach thee,
Leave my foreign habitation,
And beside thy fortune’s fireplace
Take for evermore my station.
Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles!
Like my life they all have vanish’d;
On the ground I now am lying,
Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.
Fare ye well, ye golden wishes
Where my darling hopes once centred!
Ah! the blow was far too deadly
That my inmost heart has enter’d.
12. THE ANNIVERSARY.
Not one mass will e’er be chanted,
Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,
When the day I died returneth,--
Nothing will be sung or utter’d.
Yet upon that day, it may be,
If the weather has not chill’d her,
On a visit to Montmartre
With Pauline will go Matilda.
With a wreath of immortelles she’ll
Deck my grave in foreign fashion,
Sighing say “_pauvre homme!_” and sadly
Drop a tear of fond compassion.
I shall then too high be dwelling,
And, alas! no chair have ready
For my darling’s use to offer,
As she walks with foot unsteady.
Sweet, stout little one, return not
Home on foot, I must implore thee;
At the barrier gate is standing
A fiacre all ready for thee.
13. MEETING AGAIN.
One summer eve, in the woodbine bower
We sat once more at the window lonely;
The moon arose with life-giving power,
But we appear’d two spectres only.
Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasion
When we on this spot had sat together;
Each tender glow, each loving persuasion
Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.
I silently sat. The woman, however,
Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes
Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour
To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.
And she recounted how she had contended
With evil thoughts, the story disclosing
How hardly she once her virtue defended,--
I stupidly listened to all her prosing.
When homeward I rode, the trees beside me
Like spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;
Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,
Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.
14. MRS. CARE.
When fortune on me shed her ray,
The gnats around me danced all day,
Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,
And all, in fashion brotherly,
My viands with me tasted,
And my last penny wasted.
Fortune has fled, and void is my purse,
My friends have left for better for worse,
Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,
Around me the gnats no longer play;
My friends and the gnats together
Have gone with the sunny weather.
Beside my bed in the winter night
Old Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;
She wears a habit that’s white enough,
A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.
The box is harshly creaking,
As the woman a pinch is seeking.
I often dream that the happy time
Of bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,
And friendship, and all the gnats as well,--
When creaks the snuffbox,--and, sad to tell,
The bubble is straightway breaking,
While the nurse her snuff is taking.
15. TO THE ANGELS.
This is dread Thanatos indeed!
He comes upon his pale-white steed.
I hear its tread, I hear its trot,
The dusky horseman spares me not;
He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,--
This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.
She was at once my child, my wife,
And when I quit this mortal life
An orphan’d widow will she be!
I leave alone on earth’s wide sea
The wife, the child, who, trusting to my guiding
Slept on my bosom, careless and confiding.
Ye angels in yon heavens so fair
Receive my sobs, receive my prayer!
When I am buried, from above
Protect the woman that I love!
Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,
Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!
By all the tears e’er shed by you
Over men’s woes in pity true,--
By that dread word that priests alone
Know, and ne’er breathe without a groan,
By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,
Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!
16. IN OCTOBER 1849.
The weather now is calm and mild,
And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,
And Germany, that o’ergrown child,
Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.
Domestic joys we now pursue,
All things beyond are false and hollow,
And to the house’s gable too,
Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.
Forest and stream rest peacefully,
With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;
But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?
It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.
Perchance with weapons in his hand,
Some madcap they have overtaken;
(All do not flight well understand
Like Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).
Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume,
Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?
Or Sontag rising from the tomb
Greeted, by rockets showering down upon her?
And Francis Liszt appears again!
He lives, he lies not dead and gory
On some Hungarian battle-plain,
Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.
Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,
And Hungary to death is bleeding--
Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,
His sword a quiet life at home is leading.
Francis still lives; when old and gray
Of the Hungarian war devoutly
He’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,
“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”
Hearing the name of Hungary,
My German waistcoat grows too narrow;
Beneath it foams a raging sea,
The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.
Once more across my memory throng
The hero-legend’s strains enthralling,
The wild and iron martial song,
The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.
’Tis still the same heroic lot,
’Tis still the same old noble stories;
The names are changed, the natures not,--
’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.
And the same issue ’tis once more;
However proudly flaunts the banner,
The hero, as in days of yore,
Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.
This time the oxen and the bear
In firm alliance are united;
Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,
Still more have all _our_ German hopes been blighted.
While very decent beasts are they
Who have in fight become thy masters,
We have, alas! become the prey
Of wolves, swine, dogs,--so great are our disasters.
They howl, grunt, bark,--the victor’s smell
Is such, I fain would do without it;--
But, Poet, hush!--it were as well,
Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
17. EVIL DREAMS.
In vision once more young and happy, paced I
Near the old country house that used to stand
Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,
Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.
How graceful was her figure! She enchanted
With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;
On her small feet how firmly was she planted,
A form where elegance with vigour vies!
Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!
Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;
Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,
Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.
It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,
I wander not, my reason’s in command;
Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me
She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.
When I a lily from the stem had broken,
I gave it her, and then these words address’d:
“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,
“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”
The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,
For presently I woke,--and now lie here
In my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever--
As I have hopeless lain for many a year.
18. IT GOES OUT.
The curtain falls, as ends the play,
And all the audience go away;
And did the piece give satisfaction?
Methinks they found it of attraction.
A much-respected public then
Its poet thankfully commended;
But now the house is hush’d again,
And lights and merriment are ended.
But hark to that dull heavy clang
Hard by the empty stage’s middle!
It was perchance the bursting twang
Of the worn string of some old fiddle.
With rustling noise across the pit
Some nasty rats like shadows flit,
And rancid oil all places smell of,
And the last lamp, with groans and sighs
Despairing, then goes out and dies.--
My soul was this poor light I tell of.
19. THE WILL.
Now that life is nearly spent,
Here’s my will and testament,
Giving every foe a present,
As a Christian finds it pleasant:
Let these gentry full of merit
Have my sickness as their guerdon,
All that makes my life a burden,--
All my wretched pangs inherit.
I bequeath you all the colic
Which my belly tweaks in frolic,--
Strangury and these perfidious
Prussian piles so sharp and hideous.
Unto you my cramps be given,
Pains in joints, and salivation,
Pains in back, and inflammation,--
Every one the gift of heaven.
Let this codicil then follow:--
Lord! that wretched herd demolish,
And their very name abolish,
As they in their vileness wallow.
20. ENFANT PERDU.
Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought I
Stoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;
Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought I
Safe and uninjured home to see again.
I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle,
As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;
(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,
I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)
In those long nights ennui would oft assail me,
And fear as well,--(’tis fools who never fear;)
To scare them, I delighted to regale me
With whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.
Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,--
If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,
I took a careful aim, and laid him gasping
With a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.
But by-and-by, if I may so express it,
This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,
Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,
My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.
A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping--
One falls, the others follow in his wake;
Unvanquish’d fall I,--from my hands escaping
My arms break not, my heart alone doth break.
_BOOK III.--HEBREW MELODIES_
O let the days of thy life pass not
Without tasting life’s blisses;
And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,
Let it fly, for it misses.
If fortune should ever be passing thy way,
To grasp her, forth sally;
Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,
But down in the valley.
PRINCESS SABBATH.
In Arabia’s books of stories
Read we of enchanted princes,
Who from time to time recover’d
Their once handsome pristine features;
Or the whilome hairy monster
To a king’s son is converted,
Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,
And the flute divinely playing.
Yet the magic time expires,
And once more and of a sudden
We behold his royal highness
Changed into a shaggy monster.
Of a prince of such-like fortune
Sings my song. His name is Israel,
And a witch’s art has changed him
To the figure of a dog.
As a dog, with doggish notions,
All the week his time he muddles
Through life’s filthiness and sweepings,
To the scavengers’ derision.
But upon each Friday evening,
Just at twilight, the enchantment
Ceases suddenly,--the dog
Once more is a human being.
As a man, with human feelings,
With his head and breast raised proudly
Dress’d in festival attire,
His paternal halls he enters.
“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd
“Of my gracious regal father!
“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy
“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”
Through the house mysteriously
Goes a whispering and buzzing,
And the unseen master of it
Shudd’ring breathes amid the silence,--
Silence, save the seneschal
(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)
Here and there with vigour springing,
As the lamps he seeks to kindle.
Golden lights so comfort-giving,
How they glitter, how they glimmer!
Proudly also flare the tapers
On the rails of the Almemor.
At the shrine wherein the Thora
Is preserved, and which is cover’d
With the costly silken cov’ring
That with precious jewels sparkles,--
There beside his post, already
Stands prepared the parish minstrel,
Dandy little man, who shoulders
His black cloak coquettishly.
His white hand to show the better,
At his neck he works, his finger
Pressing strangely to his temple,
And his thumb against his throat.
To himself then softly trills he,
Till at length his voice he raises
Joyfully, and loudly sings he
“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle--
“Loved one, come! the bride already
“Waiteth for thee, to uncover
“To thy face her blushing features!”
This most charming marriage ditty
Was composed by the illustrious
Far and wide known Minnesinger
Don Jehuda ben Halevy.
In the song was celebrated
The espousals of Prince Israel
With the lovely Princess Sabbath,
Whom they call the silent princess.
Pearl and flower of perfect beauty
Is the Princess. Fairer never
Was the famous queen of Sheba,
Solomon’s old bosom-friend,
Ethiopian vain blue-stocking,
Who with her _esprit_ would dazzle,
And with all her clever riddles
Was, I fear, extremely tedious.
But our Princess Sabbath, who was
Peace itself personified,
Held in utter detestation
All debates and wit-encounters.
Equally abhorr’d she noisy
And declamatory passion,--
All that pathos which with flowing
And dishevell’d hair storms wildly.
Modestly the silent princess
In her hood conceals her tresses;
Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,
Slender as an Addas blooms she.
She allows her lover all things
Save this one,--tobacco-smoking:
“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,
“For to-day the Sabbath is.
“But at noon, in compensation,
“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,
“Which is perfectly delicious--
“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”
“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal,
“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]
Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,
Had he ever tasted Schalet.
Schalet is the food of heaven,
Which the Lord Himself taught Moses
How to cook, when on that visit
To the summit of Mount Sinai,
Where the Lord Almighty also
Every good religious doctrine
And the holy ten commandments
Publish’d in a storm of lightning.
Schalet is the pure ambrosia
That the food of heaven composes--
Is the bread of Paradise;
And compared with food so glorious,
The ambrosia of the spurious
Heathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’d
And were naught but muffled devils,
Was but wretched devil’s dung.
When the prince this food hath tasted,
Gleams his eye as if transfigured,
And his waistcoat he unbuttons,
And he speaks with smiles of rapture:
“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring?
“Is it not the gushing fountains
“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,
“Where the camels have their station?
“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing?
“Is it not the well-fed wethers
“Whom the herdsman drives at evening
“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”
Yet the beauteous day fades quickly;
As with long and shadowy legs
Hastens on the fell enchantment’s
Evil hour, the prince sighs sadly,
Feeling as though with his bosom
Icy witches’ fingers grappled;
He’s pervaded by the fear of
Canine metamorphosis.
To the prince then hands the princess
Her own golden box of spikenard;
Long he smells, once more desiring
To find comfort in sweet odours.
Next the parting drink the princess
Gives the prince--He hastily
Drinks, and in the goblet only
Some few drops are left untasted.
With them sprinkles he the table,
Then he takes a little waxlight,
And he dips it in the moisture
Till it crackles and goes out.
JEHUDA BEN HALEVY
A FRAGMENT.
1.
“If, Jerusalem, I ever
“Should forget thee, let my tongue
“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also
“My right hand forget her cunning--”
Words and melody are whirling
In my head to-day unceasing,
And methinks I hear sweet voices
Singing psalms, sweet human voices.
Often to the light come also
Beards of shadowy-long proportions;
Say, ye phantoms, which amongst you
Is Jehuda ben Halevy?
But they quickly hustle by me;
Spirits ever shun with terror
Exhortations of the living--
But I recognized him well.
Well I knew him by his pallid,
Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,
By his eyes so sweetly staring,
Viewing me with piercing sorrow.
But I recognized him mostly
By the enigmatic smile which
O’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,
Such as none but poets boast of.
Years come on and years pass swiftly
Since Jehuda ben Halevy
Had his birth, have seven hundred
Years and fifty fleeted o’er us.
At Toledo in Castile he
For the first time saw the light,
And the golden Tagus lull’d him
In his cradle with its music.
His strict father the unfolding
Of his intellect full early
Cared for, and began his lessons
With the book of God, the Thora.
With his son he read this volume
In the’ original, whose beauteous
Picturesque and hieroglyphic
Old Chaldean quarto pages
Spring from out the childish ages
Of our world, and for that reason
Smile so trustingly and sweetly
On each childlike disposition.
And this genuine ancient text
By the boy was likewise chanted
In the ancient and establish’d
Sing-song fashion, known as Tropp.
And melodiously he gurgled
Those fat oily gutturals;
Like a very bird he warbled
That fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.
And the Targum Onkelos,
Which is written in the idiom,
The low-Hebrew sounding idiom
That we call the Aramæan,
And that to the prophet’s language
Has about the same relation
As the Swabian to the German,--
In this bastard Hebrew likewise
Was the youth betimes instructed
And the knowledge thus acquired
Proved extremely useful to him
In the study of the Talmud.
Yes, full early did his father
Lead him onward to the Talmud
And he then unfolded to him
The Halacha, that illustrious
Fighting school, where the expertest
Dialectic athletes both of
Babylon and Pumpeditha
Carry on their mental combats.
Here the boy could gain instruction
In the arts, too, of polemics;
Later, in the book Cosari
Was his mastership establish’d.
Yet the heavens pour down upon us
Lights of two distinct descriptions:
Glaring daylight of the sun,
And the moonlight’s softer lustre.
Thus two different lights the Talmud
Also sheds, and is divided
In Halacha and Hagada.--
Now the first’s a fighting school,
But the latter, the Hagada,
I should rather call a garden,
Yes, a garden, most fantastic,
Comparable to that other,
Which in days of yore was planted
In the town of Babylon,--
Great Semiramis’s garden,
That eighth wonder of the world.
’Tis said queen Semiramis,
Who had, when a child, been brought up
By the birds, and had contracted
Many a bird’s peculiar custom,
On the mere flat ground would never
Promenade, as human creatures
Mostly do, and so she planted
In the air a hanging garden.
High upon colossal pillars
Palms and cypresses were standing,
Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,
Marble statues, gushing fountains,--
Firmly, skilfully united
By unnumber’d hanging bridges
Which appear’d like climbing plants,
And whereon the birds were rocking,--
Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,
All deep thinkers, never singing,
While around them finches flutter’d,
Keeping up a merry twitter,--
All things here were blest, and teeming
With a pure balsamic fragrance,
Which was free from all offensive
Earthly smells and hateful odours.
The Hagada is a garden
That this airy whim resembles,
And the youthful Talmud scholar,
When his heart was overpower’d
And was deafen’d by the squabbles
Of the’ Halacha, by disputes
All about the fatal egg
Laid one feast day by a pullet,--
Or about some other question
Of the same importance, straightway
Fled the boy to find refreshment
In the blossoming Hagada
Where the charming olden stories,
Tales of angels, famous legends,
Silent histories of martyrs,
Festal songs, and words of wisdom,
Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,
But impress’d with deep conviction,
Full of glowing faith,--all glitter’d,
Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.
And the stripling’s noble bosom
Was pervaded by the savage
But adventure-breathing sweetness,
By the wondrous blissful anguish
And the fabulous wild terrors
Of that blissful secret world,
Of that mighty revelation,
Known to us as Poesy.
And the art of Poesy,
Radiant knowledge, understanding,
Which we call the art poetic,
Open’d on the boy’s mind also.
And Jehuda ben Halevy
Was not merely skill’d in reading,
But in poetry a master,
And himself a first-rate poet.
Yes, he was a first-rate poet,
Star and torch of his own age,
Light and beacon of his people,
Yes, a very wondrous mighty
Fiery pillar of all song,
That preceded Israel’s mournful
Caravan as it was marching
Through the desert of sad exile.
Pure and true alike, and spotless
Was his song, as was his spirit;
When this spirit was created
By its Maker, self-contented,
He embraced the lovely spirit,
And that kiss’s beauteous echo
Thrills through all the poet’s numbers,
Which are hallow’d by this grace.
As in life, in numbers also
Grace is greatest good of all;
He who has it, ne’er transgresses
In his prose or in his verses.
Genius call we such a poet
Of the mighty grace of God;
He is undisputed monarch
Of the boundless realms of fancy.
He to God alone accounteth,
Not to man, and, as in lifetime,
So in art the mob have power
To destroy, but not to judge us.
2.
“By the streams of Babylon
“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd
“Our sad harps upon the willows--”
Know’st thou not the olden song?
Know’st thou not the olden tune,
Which begins with elegiac
Crying, humming like a kettle
That upon the hearth is boiling?
Long has it been boiling in me,
Thousand years. A gloomy anguish
And my wounds are lick’d by time,
As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.
Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,--
Though it can but cool and soften--
Death alone can ever heal me,
But, alas, I am immortal!
Years come round and years then vanish--
Busily the spool is humming
As it in the loom is moving,--
What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.
Years come round and years then vanish,
Human tears are dripping, running
On the earth, and then the earth
Sucks them in with eager silence.
Seething mad! The cover leaps up--
“Happy he whose daring hand
“Taketh up thy little ones,
“Dashing them against the stones.”
God be praised! the seething slowly
In the pot evaporates,
Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,
My west-eastern darksome spleen.
And my Pegasus is neighing
Once more gaily, and the nightmare
Seems to shake with vigour off him,
And his wise eyes thus are asking:
Are we riding back to Spain,
To the little Talmudist there,
Who was such a first-rate poet,--
To Jehuda ben Halevy?
Yes, he was a first-rate poet,
In the realm of dreams sole ruler
With the spirit-monarch’s crown,
By the grace of God a poet,
Who in all his sacred metres,
In his madrigals, terzinas,
Canzonets, and strange ghaselas
Pour’d out all the’ abundant fire
Of his noble god-kiss’d spirit!
Of a truth this troubadour
Was upon a par with all the
Best lute-players of Provence,
Of Poitou and of Guienne,
Roussillon and every other
Charming orange-growing region
Of gallant old Christendom.
Charming orange-growing regions
Of gallant old Christendom!
How they glitter, smell, and tingle
In the twilight of remembrance!
Beauteous world of nightingales!
Where we only in the place of
The true God, the false God worshipp’d
Of the Muses and of love.
Clergy, bearing wreaths of roses
On their bald pates, sang the psalms
In the charming langue d’oc;
Laity, all gallant knights,
On their high steeds proudly trotting,
Verse and rhyme were ever making
To the honour of the ladies
Whom their hearts to serve delighted.
There’s no love without a lady.
Therefore to a Minnesinger
Was a lady just as needful
As to bread-and-butter, butter.
And the hero, whom we sing of,
Our Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also had his heart’s fair lady;
But she was of special kind.
She no Laura was, whose eyes,
Mortal constellations, kindled
On Good Friday the notorious
Fire within the famed Cathedral;
She was not a chatelaine
Who, attired in youthful graces,
Took the chair at tournaments,
And the laurel wreath presented.
Casuist in the laws of kisses
She was not, no doctrinaire,
Who within the learned college
Of a court of love gave lectures.
She the Rabbi was in love with
Was a poor and mournful loved one,
Woeful image of destruction,
And her name--Jerusalem!
In his early days of childhood
She his one sole love was always;
E’en the word Jerusalem
Made his youthful spirit quiver.
Purple flames were ever standing
On the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’d
When a pilgrim to Toledo
Came from out the far east country,
And recounted how deserted
And uncleanly was the city
Where upon the ground the traces
Of the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;
Where the air is still perfumed
By the’ undying breath of God--
“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrim
Once exclaim’d, whose beard was floating
White as silver, notwithstanding
That the hair which form’d its end
Once again grew black, appearing
As if getting young again.
And a very wondrous pilgrim
Might he be, his eyes were peering
As through centuries of sorrow,
And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!
“She, the crowded holy city,
“Is converted to a desert,
“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals
“Their accursèd home have made.
“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling
“In its weather-beaten ruins;
“From the window’s airy bow
“Peeps the fox with much contentment.
“Here and there a ragged fellow
“Comes sometimes from out the desert,
“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth
“In the long grass growing round it.
“On the noble heights of Zion,
“Where stood up the golden fortress
“Whose great majesty bore witness
“To the mighty monarch’s glory,--
“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,
“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,
“Gazing with such looks of sorrow
“One must fancy they are weeping.
“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,
“Once in each year, on the ninth day
“Of the month’s that known as Ab--
“With my own eyes, full of weeping,
“I the clammy drops have witness’d
“Down the large stones slowly trickling,
“And have heard the broken columns
“Of the temple sadly moaning.”
Such-like pious pilgrim-sayings
Waken’d in the youthful bosom
Of Jehuda ben Halevy
Yearnings for Jerusalem.
Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,
Visionary, sad, as those
In the Château Blay experienced
Whilome by the noble Vidam,
Messer Geoffroy Rudello,
When the knights, returning homeward
From the Eastern land, asserted
Loudly, as they clash’d their goblets,
That the paragon of graces,
And the flower and pearl of women,
Was the beauteous Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.
Each one knows that for this lady
Raved the troubadour thenceforward;
Her alone he sang, and shortly
Château Blay no more could hold him;
And he hasten’d thence. At Cette
Took he ship, but on the ocean
He fell ill, and sick and dying
He arriv’d at Tripoli.
Here at length, on Melisanda
He, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,
Which that self-same hour were cover’d
By the darksome shades of death.
Singing his last song of love,
He expired before the feet
Of his lady Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.[84]
Wonderful was the resemblance
In the fate of these two poets!
Save that in old age the former
His great pilgrimage commenced.
And Jehuda ben Halevy
At his mistress’ feet expired,
And his dying head, it rested
On Jerusalem’s dear knees.
3.
When the fight at Arabella
Had been won, great Alexander
Placed Darius’ land and people,
Court and harem, horses, women,
Elephants, and daric coins,
Crown and sceptre, golden lumber--
Placed them all inside his spacious
Macedonian pantaloons.
In the tent of great Darius,
Who himself had fled, because he
Fear’d he also might be placed there,
The young hero found a casket.
’Twas a little golden box,
Richly ornamented over
With incrusted stones and cameos,
And with miniature devices.
Now this casket, in itself
Of inestimable value,
Served to hold the priceless treasures
Of the monarch’s body-jewels.
All the latter Alexander
On his brave commanders lavish’d,
Smiling at the thought of men
Childlike loving colour’d pebbles.
One fair valuable gem he
To his mother dear presented;
’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,
Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.
To his famous old preceptor
Aristotle he presented
A fine onyx for his splendid
Cabinet of natural history.
In the casket were some pearls too,
Forming quite a wondrous string,
Which were once to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis;
But the pearls were all quite real,
And the merry victor gave them
To a pretty dancer whom he
Brought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.
In her hair the latter wore them,
In bacchantic fashion streaming,
On that night when she was dancing
At Persepolis, and wildly
In the regal castle hurl’d her
Impious torch, till, loudly crackling,
Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,
And the fortress laid in ruins.
On the death of beauteous Thais
Who of some bad Babylonian
Illness died at Babylon,
All her pearls were sold by auction
At the public auction-rooms there;
Purchased by a priest from Memphis,
He to Egypt took them with him,
Where they on the toilet table
Of fair Cleopatra glisten’d;
She the finest pearl amongst them
Crush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,
Her friend Antony to banter.
With the final Ommiad monarch
Came the string of pearls to Spain,
And they twined around the turban
Worn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.
Abderam the Third he wore them
As his breast-knot at the tourney
Where he pierced through thirty golden
Rings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.
When the Moorish race was vanquish’d,
Then the Christians gain’d possession
Of the pearls, which rank’d thenceforward
As crown-jewels of Castile.
Their most Cath’lic Majesties,
Queens of Spain, were wont to wear them
On all court and state occasions,
At all bullfights, grand processions,
And at each auto da fé,
When they took their pleasure, sitting
At the balcony, in sniffing
Up the smell of burnt old Jews.
Later still, old Mendizabel,
Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,
Vainly hoping thus to meet the
Deficit in the finances.
At the Tuileries the jewels
Finally appear’d again,
Glittering on the neck of Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.
With the fair pearls thus it happened.--
Less adventurous the fortune
Of the casket, Alexander
Keeping it for his own use.
He the songs enclosed within it
Of ambrosia-scented Homer,
His great fav’rite, and the casket
All night long was wont to stand
At his bed’s head; when the monarch
Slept, the heroes’ airy figures
Came from out it, o’er his visions
Creeping in fantastic fashion.
Other times and other birds too--
I myself have erst delighted
In the stories of the actions
Of Pelides, of Odysseus.
All then seem’d so sunny-golden
And so purple to my spirit,
Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,
And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.
Hush, no more! All broken lieth
Now my haughty victor-chariot,
And the panthers, who once drew it,
Now are dead, as are the women
Who, to sound of drum and cymbal,
Danced around, and I myself
Writhe upon the ground in anguish.
Weak and crippled--hush, no more!
Hush, no more! we now are speaking
Of the casket of Darius,
And within myself thus thought I:
Should I e’er possess the casket,
And not be obliged to change it
Into cash, for want of money,
I would then enclose within it
All the poems of our Rabbi,--
All Jehuda ben Halevy’s
Festal songs and lamentations,
And Ghaselas, the description
Of his pilgrimage--the whole I
Would have written on the cleanest
Parchment by the best of scribes,
And the manuscript deposit
In the little golden casket.
This should stand upon the table
Near my bed, and then, whenever
Friends appear’d and were astonish’d
At the beauty of the trinket,--
At the wondrous bas-reliefs,
Small in size, and yet so perfect
Notwithstanding,--at the jewels
Of such size incrusted on it,--
I should smilingly address them:
That is but the vulgar covering
That contains a nobler treasure--
In this casket there are lying
Diamonds, whose light doth mirror
And reflect the light of heaven,
Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,
Turquoises of spotless beauty,
And fair emeralds of promise,
Likewise pearls of greater value
Than the pearls to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis,
And that afterwards were worn by
All the notabilities
Who this mundane earth have dwelt in,
Thais first, then Cleopatra,
Priests of Isis, Moorish princes,
And the queens of old Hispania,
And at last the worthy Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.--
For those pearls of world-wide glory
After all are but the mucus
Of a poor unhappy oyster
Lying sickly in the ocean;
But the pearls within this casket
Are the offspring of a beauteous
Human spirit, far far deeper
Than the ocean’s deepest depths,--
For they are the pearly tears
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
That he over the destruction
Of Jerusalem let fall.
Pearly tears, which, join’d together
By the golden threads of rhythm,
As a song from poesy’s
Golden smithy have proceeded.
And this song of pearly tears
Is the famous lamentation
That is sung in all the scatter’d
And far-distant tents of Jacob
On the ninth day of the month Ab,
That sad anniversary
Of Jerusalem’s destruction
By the Emperor Vespasian.
Yes, it is the song of Zion
That Jehuda ben Halevy
Sang when dying on the holy
Ruins of Jerusalem.
Barefoot and in lowly garments
Sat he there upon the fragment
Of a pillar that had fallen,
Till upon his breast there fell
Like a gray old wood his hair,
Shading over in strange fashion
His afflicted pallid features,
With his eyes so like a spectre’s.
In this manner sat he, singing,
In appearance like a minstrel
From the times of old, like ancient
Jeremiah, grave-arisen.
Soon the birds around the ruins
By his numbers’ mournful cadence
All were tamed, and e’en the vulture
Drew near list’ning, almost pitying,--
But an impious Saracen
Came one day in that direction,
On his charger in his stirrups
Balancing, his bright lance wielding.
And the breast of our poor singer
With this deadly spear transfix’d he,
And then gallop’d off instanter
Wing’d as though a shadowy figure.
Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood,
Calmly to its termination
Sang he his sweet song,--his dying
Sigh was still--Jerusalem!
It is said in olden legend
That the Saracen was really
Not a wicked cruel mortal,
But an angel in disguise,
Sent from the bright realms of heaven
To remove God’s favourite
From the earth, and to advance him
Painlessly to those blest regions.
There, ’tis said, there waited for him
A reception highly flatt’ring
In its nature to the poet,
Quite a heavenly surprise.
Solemnly with strains of music
Came the’ angelic choir to meet him,
And instead of hymns, he heard them
Singing his own lovely verses,
Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen,
Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,
With their well-known and exulting
Melodies--what notes enthralling!
While some angels play’d the hautboy,
Others play’d upon the fiddle;
Others handled the bass-viol,
Others beat the drum and cymbal.
Sweetly all the music sounded.
Sweetly through the far-extending
Vaults of heaven these strains re-echoed
Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
4.
My good wife is not contented
With the chapter just concluded,
And especially the portion
Speaking of Darius’ casket.
Almost bitterly observes she,
That a husband with pretensions
To religion, into money
Straightway would convert the casket,
That he with it might be able
For his poor and lawful spouse
That nice Cashmere shawl to purchase
That she stands so much in need of.
That Jehuda ben Halevy
Would, she fancies, with sufficient
Honour be preserved, if guarded
In a pretty box of pasteboard,
Deck’d with Chinese elegant
Arabesques, like those enchanting
Sweetmeat-boxes of Marquis
In the Passage Panorama.
“Very strange it is,”--she added,--
“That I never heard the name of
“This remarkable old poet,
“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”
Darling little wife, I answer’d,
Your delightful ignorance
But too well the gaps discloses
In the education given
In the boarding schools of Paris,
Where the girls, the future mothers
Of a proud and freeborn nation,
Learn the elements of knowledge.
All about the dry old mummies,
And embalm’d Egyptian Pharaohs
Merovingian shadowy monarchs,
With perukes devoid of powder,
And the pig-tail’d kings of China,
Lords of porcelain and pagodas,--
This they know by heart and fully,
Clever girls,--but, O, good heavens
If you ask for any great names
From the glorious golden ages
Of Arabian-ancient-Spanish
Jewish schools of poetry,--
If you ask for those three worthies,
For Jehuda ben Halevy,
For great Solomon Gabirol,
Or for Moses Iben Esra,
If you ask for these or suchlike,
Then the children stare upon us
With a look of stupid wonder,
And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.
Let me then advise you, dearest,
These neglected points to study,
And to take to learning Hebrew
Leaving theatres and concerts.
When a few years to these studies
Have been given, you’ll be able
In the’ original to read them,
Iben Esra and Gabirol,
And Halevy in addition,
That triumvirate poetic,
Who evoked the sweetest music
From the instrument of David.
Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,
Is to you unknown, although he
A Voltairian was, six hundred
Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:
“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,
“And the thinker most he pleases;
“Iben Esra shines in art, and
“Is the fav’rite of the artist.
“But Jehuda ben Halevy
“Is in both a perfect master,
“And at once a famous poet
“And a universal fav’rite.”
Iben Esra was a friend,
And I rather think, a cousin
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
Who in his famed book of travels
Bitterly complains how vainly
He had sought through all Granada
For his friend, and only found there
His friend’s brother, the physician,
Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,
And the father of the beauty
Who in Iben Esra’s bosom
Kindled such a hopeless passion.
That he might forget his niece, he
Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff,
Like so many of his colleagues,
Living restlessly and homeless.
Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,
When some Tartars fell upon him,
Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,
And to their wild deserts took him.
Duties there devolved upon him
Quite unworthy of a Rabbi,
Still less fitted for a poet--
He was made to milk the cows.
Once, as he beneath the belly
Of a cow was sitting squatting,
Fing’ring hastily her udder,
While the milk the tub was filling,--
A position quite unworthy
Of a Rabbi, of a poet,--
Melancholy came across him,
And to sing a song began he.
And he sang so well and sweetly,
That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,
Who was passing by, was melted,
And he gave the slave his freedom.
And he likewise gave him presents,
Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy
Saracenic mandoline,
And some money for his journey.
Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,
Which the offspring of Apollo
Worried unto death, and even
Did not spare their noble father,
When he, after Daphne lurking,
In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s
Stead, embraced the laurel only,--
He, the great divine Schlemihl!
Yes, the glorious Delphic god is
A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel
That so proudly crowns his forehead
Is a sign of his Schlemihldom.
What the word Schlemihl betokens
Well we know. Long since Chamisso
Rights of German citizenship
Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).
But its origin has ever,
Like the holy Nile’s far sources,
Been unknown. Upon this subject
Many a night have I been poring.
Many a year ago I travell’d
To Berlin, to see Chamisso
On this point, and from the dean sought
Information of Schlemihl.
But he could not satisfy me,
And referr’d me on to Hitzig,
Who had made the first suggestion
Of the family name of Peter
Shadowless. I straightway hired
The first cab, and quickly hasten’d
To the magistrate Herr Hitzig,
Who was formerly call’d Itzig.
When he still was known as Itzig,
In a vision saw he written
His own name high in the heavens,
And in front the letter H.
“What’s the meaning of this H?”
Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig
“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy
“Is a pretty title. Not, though,
“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,
Tired of thinking, took the name of
Hitzig, and his best friends only
Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy.
“Holy Hitzig!” said I therefore
When I saw him, “have the goodness
“To explain the derivation
“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”
Many circumbendibuses
Took the holy one--he could not
Recollect,--and made excuses
In succession like a Christian,
Till at length I burst the buttons
In the breeches of my patience,
And began to swear so fiercely,
In such very impious fashion,
That the worthy pietist,
Pale as death, with trembling knees,
Forthwith gratified my wishes,
And the following story told me:
“In the Bible it is written
“How, while wandering in the desert,
“Israel oft committed whoredom
“With the daughters fair of Canaan.
“Then it came to pass that Phinehas
“Chanced to see the noble Zimri
“Thus engaged in an intrigue
“With a Canaanitish woman.
“Straightway in his fury seized he
“On his spear, and put to death
“Zimri on the very spot.--Thus
“In the Bible ’tis recounted.
“But, according to an oral
“Old tradition ’mongst the people,
“’Twas not Zimri that was really
“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;
“But the latter, blind with fury,
“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck
“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,
“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”--
He, then, this Schlemihl the First,
Was the ancestor of all the
Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended
From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Certainly no wondrous actions
Are preserved of his; we only
Know his name, and in addition
Know that he was a Schlemihl.
But a pedigree is valued
Not according to its fruits, but
Its antiquity alone--
Ours three thousand years can reckon.
Years come round, and years then vanish--
Full three thousand years have fleeted
Since the death of our forefather
This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Phinehas, too, has long been dead,
But his spear is in existence,
And incessantly we hear it
Whizzing through the air above us.
And the noblest hearts it pierces--
Both Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also Moses Iben Esra,
And it likewise struck Gabirol,
Yes, Gabirol, that truehearted
God-devoted Minnesinger,
That sweet nightingale, who sang to
God instead of to a rose,--
That sweet nightingale who caroll’d
Tenderly his loving numbers
In the darkness of the Gothic
Mediæval night of earth!
Undismay’d and caring nothing
For grimaces or for spirits,
Or the chaos of delirium
And of death those ages haunting,
Our sweet nightingale thought only
Of the Godlike One he loved so,
Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,
Whom his hymns were glorifying.
Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d
On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama
Trumpeted abroad the glory
Of his name through every country.
Now at Cordova, his home, he
Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,
Who wrote verses, like the other,
And the poet’s glory envied.
When he heard the poet singing,
Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,
And the sweetness of the songs was
Bitter wormwood to this base one.
He enticed his hated rival
To his house one night, and slew him
There, and then the body buried
In the garden in its rear.
But behold! from out the spot
Where the body had been hidden,
Presently there grew a fig-tree
Of the most enchanting beauty.
All its fruit was long in figure,
And of strange and spicy sweetness;
He who tasted it, sank into
Quite a dreamy state of rapture.
’Mongst the people on the subject
Much was said aloud or whisper’d,
Till at length the rumour came to
The illustrious Caliph’s ears.
He with his own tongue first tasted
This strange fig-phenomenon,
And then form’d a strict commission
Of inquiry on the matter.
Summarily they proceeded;
On the owner of the tree’s soles
Sixty strokes of the bamboo they
Gave, and then his crime confess’d he.
Thereupon they tore the tree up
By its roots from out the ground,
And the body of the murder’d
Man Gabirol was discover’d.
He was buried with due honour,
And lamented by his brethren;
And the selfsame day they also
Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.
DISPUTATION.
In the Aula at Toledo
Loudly are the trumpets blowing
To the spiritual tourney,
Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going.
This is no mere worldly combat,
Not one arm of steel here glances;
Sharply pointed and scholastic
Words are here the only lances.
Gallant Paladins here fight not,
Ladies’ honest fame defending;
Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis
Are the knights who’re here contending.
In the place of helmets are they
Scull caps and capouches wearing;
Scapular and _Arbecanfess_
Are the armour they are bearing.
Which God is the one true God?
He, the Hebrew stern and glorious
Unity, whom Rabbi Juda
Of Navarre would see victorious?
Or the triune God, whom Christians
Hold in love and veneration,
As whose champion Friar Jose,
The Franciscan, takes his station?
By the might of weighty reasons,
And the logic taught at college,
And quotations from the authors
Whose repute one must acknowledge,
Either champion _ad absurdum_
His opponent would bring duly,
And the pure divinity
Of his own God point out truly.
’Tis laid down that he whose foeman
Manages his cause to smother,
Should be bound to take upon him
The religion of the other,
And the Jew be duly christen’d,--
This was the express provision,--
On the other hand the Christian
Bear the rite of circumcision.
Each one of the doughty champions
Has eleven comrades by him,
All to share his fate determined,
And for weal or woe keep nigh him.
While the monks who back the friar
With assurance full and steady
Hold the holy-water vessels
For the rite of christening ready,
Swinging sprinkling-brooms and censers,
Whence the incense smoke is rising,--
All their adversaries briskly
Whet their knives for circumcising.
By the lists within the hall stand,
Ready for the fray, both forces,
And the crowd await the signal,
Eager for the knights’ discourses.
’Neath a golden canopy,
While their courtiers duly flatter,
Both the king and queen are sitting;
Quite a child appears the latter.
With a small French nose, her features
Are in roguishness not wanting,
And the ever laughing rubies
Of her mouth are quite enchanting.
Fragile fair inconstant flower,--
May the grace of God be with her!--
From the merry town of Paris
She has been transplanted hither,
To the country where the Spanish
Old grandees’ stiff manners gall her;
Whilome known as Blanche de Bourbon,
Donna Blanca now they call her.
And the monarch’s name is Pedro,
With the nickname of The Cruel;
But to-day, in gentle mood, he
Looks as if he ne’er could do ill.
With the nobles of his court he
Enters into conversation,
And both Jew and Moor addresses
With a courteous salutation.
For these sons of circumcision
Are the monarch’s favourite creatures;
They command his troops, and also
In finances are his teachers.
Suddenly the drums ’gin beating,
And the trumpets’ bray announces
That the conflict is beginning,
Where each knight the other trounces.
The Franciscan monk commences,
Bursting into furious passion,
And his voice, now harsh, now growling,
Blusters in a curious fashion.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
In one sentence he comprises,
And the seed accurst of Jacob
In the Rabbi exorcises.
For in suchlike controversies
Little devils oft are hidden
In the Jews, and give them sharpness,
Wit, and arguments when bidden.
Having thus expell’d the devil
By his mighty exorcism,
Comes the monk, dogmatically,
Quoting from the catechism.
He recounts how in the Godhead
Persons three are comprehended,
Who, whenever they so will it,
Into one are straightway blended.
’Tis a mystery unfolded
But to those who, in due season,
Have escaped from out the prison
And the chains of human reason.
He recounts how God was born at
Bethlehem, of a tenderhearted
Virgin, whose divine unsullied
Innocency ne’er departed.
How they laid the Lord Almighty
In a lowly stable manger,
Where the calf and heifer meekly
Stood around the newborn stranger.
He recounts, too, how the Lord
From King Herod’s minions flying,
Went to Egypt, how still later
Death’s sharp pangs he suffer’d, dying.
In the time of Pontius Pilate,
Who subscribed his condemnation,
Urged on by the Jews and cruel
Pharisees’ confederation.
He recounts, too, how the Lord,
Bursting from the tomb’s dark prison
On the third day, into heaven
Had in glorious triumph risen;
How, when ’tis the proper time, he
Would return to earth in splendour,
At Jehoshaphat, to judge there
Every quick and dead offender.
“Tremble, Jews!” exclaim’d the friar,
“At the God whom ye tormented
“Cruelly with thorns and scourges,
“To whose death ye all consented.
“Jews, ye were his murderers! nation
“Of vindictive fierce behaviour!
“Him who comes to free you, still ye
“Slay,--ye murder him, the Saviour.
“Jews, the carrion where the demons
“Coming from the lower regions
“Dwell, your bodies are the barracks
“Of the devil’s wicked legions.
“Thomas of Aquinas says so,
“He is famed in Christian story,
“Call’d the mighty ox of learning,
“Orthodoxy’s light and glory.
“Villain race of Jews! you’re nought but
“Wolves, hyenas, jackals hateful,
“Church-yard prowlers, who deem only
“Flesh of corpses to be grateful.
“Jews, O Jews! you’re hogs and monkeys,
“Monsters cruel and perfidious,
“Whom they call rhinoceroses,
“Crocodiles and vampires hideous.
“Ye are ravens, owls, and screechowls,
“Rats and miserable lapwings,
“Gallows’-birds and cockatrices,
“Very scum of all that flap wings!
“Ye are vipers, ye are blindworms,
“Rattlesnakes, disgusting adders,
“Poisonous toads--Christ soon will surely
“Tread you out like empty bladders!
“Or, accursèd people, would ye
“Save your souls so wretched rather?
“Flee the synagogues of evil,
“Seek the bosom of your Father.
“Flee to love’s bright radiant churches,
“Where the well of mercy bubbles
“For your sakes in hallow’d basins,--
“Hide your heads there from your troubles.
“Wash away the ancient Adam,
“And the vices that deface it;
“From your hearts the stains of rancour
“Wash, and grace shall then replace it.
“Hear ye not the Saviour speaking?
“O how well your new names suit you!
“Cleanse yourselves upon Christ’s bosom
“From the vermin that pollute you.
“Yes, our God is very love, is
“Like a lamb that’s dearly cherish’d,
“And our vices to atone for,
“On the cross with meekness perish’d.
“Yes, our God is very love, his
“Name is Jesus Christ the blessèd;
“Of his patience and submission
“We aspire to be possessèd.
“Therefore are we meek and gentle,
“Courteous, never in a passion,
“Fond of peace and charitable,
“In the Lamb the Saviour’s fashion.
“We in heaven shall be hereafter
“Into angels blest converted,
“Wandering there in bliss with lily
“Blossoms in our hands inserted.
“In the place of cowls, the purest
“Robes shall we when there be wearing,
“Made of silk, brocades, and muslin,
“Golden lace and ribbons flaring.
“No more bald pates! Round our heads there
“Will be floating golden tresses;
“While our hair some charming virgin
“Into pretty topknots dresses.
“Winecups will be there presented
“Of circumference so spacious,
“That, compared with them, the goblets
“Made on earth are not capacious.
“On the other hand, much smaller
“Than the mouths of earthly ladies
“Will the mouth be of each woman
“Who in heaven our solace made is.
“Drinking, kissing, laughing will we
“Pass through endless ages proudly,
“Singing joyous Hallelujahs,
“Kyrie Eleyson loudly.”
Thus the Christian ended, and the
Monks believed illumination
Pierced each heart, and so prepared for
The baptismal operation.
But the water-hating Hebrews
Shook themselves with scornful grinning,
Rabbi Juda of Navarre thus
His reply meanwhile beginning:
“That thou for thy seed mightst dung
“My poor soul’s bare field devoutly,
“With whole dung-carts of abuse thou
“Hast in truth befoul’d me stoutly.
“Every one the method follows
“To his taste best calculated,
“And instead of being angry,
“Thank you, I’m propitiated.
“Your fine trinitarian doctrine
“We poor Jews can never swallow,
“Though from earliest days of childhood
“Wont the rule of three to follow.
“That three persons in your Godhead,
“And no more, are comprehended,
“Moderate appears; the ancients
“On six thousand gods depended.
“Quite unknown to me the God is
“Whom you call the Christ, good brother;
“Nor have I e’er had the honour
“To have met his virgin mother.
“I regret that some twelve hundred
“Years back, as your speech confesses,
“At Jerusalem he suffer’d
“Certain disagreablenesses.
“That the Jews in truth destroy’d him
“Rests upon your showing solely,
“Seeing the delicti corpus
“On the third day vanish’d wholly.
“It is equally uncertain
“Whether he was a connection
“Of our God, who had no children--
“In, at least, our recollection.
“Our great God, like some poor lambkin,
“For humanity would never
“Perish; for such philanthropic
“Actions he is far too clever.
“Our great God of love knows nothing,
“Never to affection yields he,
“For he is a God of vengeance,
“And as God his thunders wields he.
“Nothing can his wrathful lightnings
“From the sinner turn or soften,
“And the latest generations
“For the fathers’ sins pay often.
“Our great God, he lives for ever
“In his heavenly halls in glory,
“And, compared with him, eternal
“Ages are but transitory.
“Our great God, he is a hearty
“God, not like the myths that fright us,
“Pale and lean as any wafer,
“Or the shadows by Cocytus.
“Our great God is strong. He graspeth
“Sun and moon and constellation:
“Thrones are crush’d, and people vanish
“When he frowns in indignation.
“And he is a mighty God.
“David sings: We cannot measure
“All his greatness, earth’s his footstool,
“And is subject to his pleasure.
“Our great God loves music dearly,
“Lute and song to him are grateful;
“But, like grunts of sucking pigs, he
“Finds the sounds of churchbells hateful.
“Great Leviathan the fish is
“Who beneath the ocean strayeth,
“And with him the Lord Almighty
“For an hour each morning playeth.
“With the’ exception of the ninth day
“Of the month Ab, that sad morrow,
“When they burnt his holy temple;
“On that day too great’s his sorrow.
“Just one hundred miles in length is
“The Leviathan; each fin is
“Big as Og the King of Basan,
“And his tail no cedar thin is.
“Yet his flesh resembles turtle,
“And its flavour is perfection,
“And the Lord will ask to dinner
“On the day of resurrection
“All his own elect, the righteous,
“Those whose faith was firm and stable,
“And this fish, the Lord’s own favourite,
“Will be set upon the table,
“Partly dress’d with garlic white sauce,
“Partly stew’d in wine and toasted,
“Dress’d with raisins and with spices,
“Much resembling matelotes roasted.
“Little slices of horseradish
“Will the white sauce much embellish,
“So make ready, Friar Jose,
“To devour the fish with relish.
“And the raisin sauce I spoke of
“Makes a most delicious jelly,
“And will be full well adapted,
“Friar Jose, to thy belly.
“What God cooks, is quite perfection--
“Monk, my honest counsel follow,
“And be circumcised, your portion
“Of Leviathan to swallow.”--
Thus the Rabbi to allure him
Spoke with inward mirth insulting,
And the Jews, with pleasure grunting,
Brandish’d all their knives exulting.
To cut off the forfeit foreskins,
Victors after all the fighting,
Genuine spolia opima
In this conflict so exciting.
But the monks to their religion
Stuck, despite the Jews’ derision,
And were equally reluctant
To submit to circumcision.
Next the Catholic converter
Answer’d, when the Jew had finish’d,
His abuse again repeating,
Full of fury undiminish’d.
Then the Rabbi with a cautious
Ardour, with his answer follow’d;
Though his heart was boiling over,
All his rising gall he swallow’d.
He appeals unto the Mischna,
Treatises and commentaries,
And with extracts from the Tausves-
Jontof his quotations varies.
But what blasphemy now speaks the
Friar, arguments in want of!
He exclaim’d: “I wish the devil
“Had your stupid Tausves-Jontof!”
“This surpasses all, good heavens!”
Fearfully the Rabbi screeches,
And his patience lasts no longer,
Like a maniac’s soon his speech is.
“If the Tausves-Jontof’s nothing,
“What is left? O vile detractor!
Lord, avenge this foul transgression!
“Punish, Lord, this malefactor!
“For the Tausves-Jontof, God,
“Is thyself! And on the daring
“Tausves-Jontof’s base denier
“Thou must vent thy wrath unsparing.
“Let the earth consume him, like the
“Wicked band of Cora, quickly,
“Who their plots and machinations
“Sow’d against thee, Lord, so thickly.
“Punish, O my God, his baseness!
“Thunder forth thy loudest thunder;
“Thou with pitch and brimstone Sodom
“And Gomorrha didst bring under.
“Strike these Capuchins with vigour,
“As of yore thou struckest Pharaoh
“Who pursued us, as well-laden
“Flying from his land we were, Oh!
“Knights a hundred thousand follow’d
“This proud monarch of Mizrayim,
“In steel armour, with bright weapons
“In their terrible Jadayim.
“Lord, thy right hand then extending,
“Pharaoh and his host were smitten
“In the Red Sea, and were drown’d there
“As we drown a common kitten.
“Strike these Capuchins with vigour,
“Show the wicked wretches clearly
“That the lightnings of thine anger
“Are not smoke and bluster merely.
“Then thy triumph’s praise and glory
“I will sing and tell of proudly,
“And moreover will, like Miriam,
“Dance and play the timbrel loudly.”
Then the monk with equal passion
Answer’d thus the furious Rabbi:
“Villain, may the Lord destroy thee,
“Damnable, accurst, and shabby!
“I can well defy your devils
“Whom the Evil One created,
“Lucifer and Beelzebub,
“Astaroth and Belial hated.
“I can well defy your spirits,
“And your hellish tricks unhallow’d,
“For in me is Jesus Christ, since
“I his body blest have swallow’d.
“Christ my only favourite food is,
“Than Leviathan more savoury,
“With its boasted garlic white sauce
“Cook’d by Satan, full of knavery.
“Ah! instead of thus disputing,
“I would sooner roast and bake you
“With your comrades on the warmest
“Funeral pile, the devil take you!”
Thus for God and faith the tourney
Goes on in confusion utter;
But in vain the doughty champions
Screech and rail and storm and splutter.
For twelve hours the fight has lasted,
Neither side gives signs of tiring,
But the public fast grow weary,
And the ladies are perspiring.
And the Court, too, grows impatient,
Ladies make with yawns suggestions;
To the lovely queen the monarch
Turns and asks the following questions:
“Tell me, what is your opinion?
“Which is right, and which the liar?
“Will you give your verdict rather
“For the Rabbi or the friar?”
Donna Blanca gazes on him,
Thoughtfully her hands she presses
With closed fingers on her forehead,
And the monarch thus addresses:
“Which is right, I cannot tell you,
“But I have a shrewd suspicion
“That the Rabbi and the monk are
“Both in stinking bad condition.”
LATEST POEMS.
(1853-4.)
1. PEACE-YEARNING.
O let thy wounds bleed on, and let
Thy tears for ever flow unbidden--
In sorrow revels secret joy,
And a sweet balm in tears is hidden.
If strangers’ hand did wound thee not,
Thou by thyself must needs be wounded;
Thank God with all thy heart, if tears
To wet thy cheek have e’er abounded.
The noise of day is hush’d, and night
In long dark mantle comes from heaven;
While in her arms, nor fool nor dolt
Can break the rest to soothe thee given.
Here thou art safe from music’s noise,
And from the piano’s hammer-hammer,
From the grand opera’s pompous notes,
And the bravura’s fearful clamour.
Here thou art not pursued, nor plagued
By endless crowds of idle smatt’rers;
Nor by the genius Giacomo,[85]
And all the clique of world-known chatt’rers.
O grave, thou art the Paradise
Of ears that shun the rabble’s chorus;
Death’s good indeed, yet better ’twere
Our loving mothers never bore us.
2. IN MAY.
The friends whom I kiss’d and caress’d of yore
Have treated me now with cruelty sore;
My heart is fast breaking. The sun, though, above
With smiles is hailing the sweet month of love.
Spring blooms around. In the greenwood is heard
The echoing song of each happy bird,
And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile--
O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;
Yes, Orcus’ self I wellnigh praise;
No contrasts vain torment there our days;
For suffering hearts ’tis better below,
There where the Stygian night-waters flow.
That sad and melancholy stream,
And the Stymphalides’ dull scream,
The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill,
With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,--
These match full well with sorrow and pain.
In Proserpine’s accursèd domain,
In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs,
All with our tears doth harmonize.
But here above, like hateful things,
The sun and the rose inflict their stings;
I’m mock’d by the heavens so May-like and blue--
O beauteous world, I hate thee anew!
3. BODY AND SOUL.
Poor soul doth to the body say:
I’ll never leave thee, but I’ll stay
With thee; yea, I with thee will sink
In death and night, destruction drink.
Thou ever wert my second I,
And round me clungest lovingly,
As though a dress of satin bright,
All lined throughout with ermine white--
Alas! I’ve come to nakedness,
A mere abstraction, bodiless,
Reduced a blessèd nullity
In yon bright realms of light to be,
In the cold halls of heaven up yonder,
Where the Immortals silent wander,
And gape upon me, clatt’ring by
In leaden slippers wearily.
’Tis quite intolerable; stay,
Stay with me, my dear body, pray.
The body to poor soul replied:
Cheer up, be not dissatisfied!
We peacefully must learn to bear
What Fate apportions as our share.
I was the lamp’s wick; I must now
Consume away; the spirit, thou,
Wilt be selected by-and-by
To sparkle as a star on high
Of purest radiance. I’m but rags.
Mere stuff, like rotten tinder bags,
Collapsing fast, and nothing worth,
Becoming, what I was, mere earth.
Farewell! take comfort, cease complaining;
Perchance ’tis far more entertaining
In heaven than now supposed by thee.
If thou shouldst e’er the great bear see
(Not Meyer-beer[86]) in those bright climes,
Greet him from me a thousand times.
4. RED SLIPPERS.
A wicked cat, grown old and gray,
That she was a shoemaker chose to say,
And put before her window a board
Where slippers for young maidens were stored;
While some were of morocco made,
Others of satin were there display’d;
Of velvet some, with edges of gold,
And figured strings, all gay to behold.
But fairest of all exposed to view
Was a pair of slippers of scarlet hue;
They gave full many a lass delight
With their gorgeous colours and splendour bright.
A young and snow-white noble mouse
Who chanced to pass the shoemaker’s house
First turn’d to look, and then stood still,
And then peep’d over the window sill.
At length she said: “Good day, mother cat:
“You’ve pretty red slippers, I grant you that.
“If they’re not dear, I’m ready to buy,
“So tell me the price, if it’s not too high.”
“My good young lady,” the cat replied,
“Pray do me the favour to step inside,
“And honour my house, I venture to pray,
“With your gracious presence. Allow me to say
“That the fairest maidens come shopping to me,
“And duchesses too, of high degree.
“The slippers I’m willing full cheap to sell,
“Yet let us see if they’ll fit you well.
“Pray step inside, and take a seat”--
Thus the wily cat did falsely entreat,
And the poor white thing in her ignorance then
Fell plump in the snare in that murderous den.
The little mouse sat down on a chair,
And lifted her small leg up in the air,
In order to try how the red shoes fitted,
A picture of innocent calm to be pitied.
When sudden the wicked cat seized her fast,
Her murderous talons around her cast,
And bit right off her poor little head.
“My dear white creature,” the cat then said,
“My sweet little mouse, you’re as dead as a rat.
“The scarlet red slippers that served me so pat
“I’ll kindly place on the top of your tomb,
“And when is heard, on the last day of doom,
“The sound of the trump, O mouse so white,
“From out of your grave you’ll come to light,
“Like all the rest, and then you’ll be able
“To wear your red slippers.” Here ends my fable.
MORAL.
Ye little white mice, take care where you go,
And don’t be seduced by worldly show;
I counsel you sooner barefooted to walk,
Than buy slippers of cats, however they talk.
5. BABYLONIAN SORROWS.
I’m summon’d by death. I’d fain, my love,
Have left thee behind in a wood to rove,
In one of those forests of firs so drear,
Where vultures build, and wolves’ howlings we hear,
Where the wild sow fearfully grunts evermore,
The lawful spouse of the light grey boar.
I’m summon’d by death. ’Twere better far
If I, where the stormy billows are,
Had had to leave thee, my wife, my child,
And straightway the northpole’s tempest wild
The waters had flogg’d, and out of the deep
The hideous monsters that in it sleep,
The crocodile fierce and the shark, had come
With open jaws, and around thee swum.
Believe me, my child, Matilda, my wife,
That the angry sea, in its wildest strife,
And the cruel forest less dangers give
Than the city where we’re now fated to live.
Though fearful the wolf and the vulture may be,
The shark, and the monsters dread of the sea,
Far fiercer, more furious beasts have their birth
In Paris, the capital proud of the earth.
Fair Paris, the singing, so gay in her revels,
That hell to the angels, that heaven to devils.--
That thee I must leave in this dungeon sad,
This drives me crazy, this drives me mad.
With scornful buzzing around my bed
The black flies come; on my nose and head
They perch themselves--detestable race!
Amongst them are some with a human face,
And elephants’ trunks (though small in span)
Like the god Ganesa in Hindostan.
In my brain I hear noises and heavy knocks,
It sounds as if they were packing a box,
And my reason departs, alas! alas!
Ere I myself from this earth can pass.
6. THE SLAVE SHIP.
PART I.
The supercargo Mynher Van Koek
In his cabin sits adding his figures;
He calculates his cargo’s amount,
And the probable gain from his niggers.
“My gum and pepper are good: the stock
“Is three hundred chests of all sizes;
“I’ve gold dust and ivory too in store,
“But the black ware by far the best prize is.
“Six hundred niggers I bought dirt-cheap
“Where the Senegal river is flowing;
“Their flesh is firm, and their sinews tough
“As the finest iron going.
“I got them by barter, and gave in exchange
“Glass beads, steel goods, and some brandy;
“I shall make at least eight hundred per cent.
“With but half of them living and handy.
“If only three hundred niggers are left,
“When I get to Rio Janeiro,
“I shall have a hundred ducats a head
“From the house of Gonzales Perreiro.”--
Here all of a sudden Mynher Van Koek
Was disturb’d in his meditation,
For Doctor Van Smissen enter’d in,
The vessel’s surgeon by station.
His figure was just as thin as a lath,
And his nose had warts all over;
“Well, worthy Doctor,” exclaim’d Van Koek,
“Are my niggers still living in clover?”
The Doctor thank’d him, and said in reply:
“I’ve come with a tale of disaster;
“Throughout the night, I’m sorry to say,
“The deaths have grown faster and faster.
“The average daily number is two,
“But to-day just seven have died, Sir,--
“Four men and three women; I wrote the loss
“At once in the log as my guide, Sir.
“I closely inspected every corpse,
“For these rascals have often a notion
“To feign themselves dead, in hopes that they
“May be thrown away into the ocean.
“I took the irons from off the dead,
“And according to usual custom
“Next morning early into the sea
“I bid the sailors thrust ’em.
“At once the sharks from out of the waves
“Shot up in countless legions;
“They love full dearly the niggers’ flesh,
“My boarders are they in these regions.
“They have follow’d after the track of the ship,
“Since we’ve left the land in the distance;
“The creatures smell the scent of a corpse
“With ravenous snuffling persistence.
“In truth ’tis a capital joke to see
“How after the bodies they follow;
“One takes the head, another a leg,
“While the rest the fragments swallow.
“Then round the ship contented they roll,
“When they’ve finished their eating and crunching
“And stare in my face, as if they sought
“To thank me for their luncheon.”--
Then spake Van Koek, as he sadly sigh’d,
When the Doctor his story had finish’d:
“How to lessen the evil? In what way best
“Can the rate of the deaths be diminish’d?”
The Doctor replied: “Many niggers have died
“By their own misconduct stealthy;
“Their breath’s so bad, that it poisons the air
“In the ship, and makes it unhealthy.
“Through lowness of spirits, too, many have died,
“And ennui, in this dreary stillness;
“I think that air and music and dance
“Would soon remove their illness.”--
Then cried Van Koek: “An excellent plan!
“Dear Doctor, I utter no slander,
“When I say that like Aristotle you’re wise,
“The tutor of Alexander.
“The Tulip-improvement Society’s head
“In the town of Delft may be clever,
“But he hasn’t one half of your brains, I’m sure,--
“Your equal I’ve met with never.
“Then, music, music! The niggers all
“On the deck I’ll see dancing and kicking,
“And whosoever won’t join in the fun
“Shall receive in reward a good licking.”
PART II.
On high, from the heaven’s blue canopy,
Many thousand stars are gleaming,
Like the eyes of fair women, so large and clear,
And with locks of yearning beaming.
They’re looking down on the ocean below,
Whose waves in the distance are curling,
In phosphorescent blue vapour all veil’d,
While the billows are joyously whirling.
Not a sail on the slave-ship is fluttering now,
As though without tackle she’s lying;
But lanthorns are glimmering high on the decks
Where the dance with the music is vying.
The cook of the vessel is playing the flute,
The steersman’s playing the fiddle,
The trumpet is blown by the Doctor himself,
And a lad beats the drum in the middle.
A hundred niggers, both women and men,
Are yelling and whirling and leaping,
As though they were mad; and at every spring
Their irons the tune are keeping.
They stamp on the ground in uproarious mirth,
And many a swarthy maiden
Clasps her naked partner with warmth, while at times
The air with their groanings is laden.
The jailer acts as _maître des plaisirs_,
And dealing his lashes so fearful,
The weary dancers he stimulates,
And bids them be merry and cheerful.
So dideldumdei and schnedderedeng!
The strange unwonted commotion
Aroused from their lazy slumbers below
The monsters fierce of the ocean.
All-heavy with sleep, the sharks swam up,
In numbers many a hundred;
They stupidly stared at the ship on high
With amazement, and blindly wondered.
They see that their usual breakfast time
Has not come as soon as ’tis wanted,
So they gape and ope wide their throats, their jaws
With teeth like saws being planted.
And dideldumdei and schnedderedeng!
There seems no end to the dances;
The sharks grow impatient, and bite themselves
In the tail with their teeth like lances.
I presume that for music they’ve got no taste,
Like many an ignoramus;
Trust not the beast that music loves not,
Says Albion’s poet famous.
And schnedderedeng and dideldumdei!
Not one of the dancers seems lazy;
At the foremast stands Mynher Van Koek,
And with folded hands thus prays he:
“For Christ’s dear sake, O spare, good Lord,
“The lives of these swarthy sinners;
“If they’ve anger’d thee e’er, thou know’st they’re as dull
“As the beasts that we eat for our dinners.
“O spare their lives, for Christ’s dear sake,
“Who died for our salvation;
“For unless I have left me three hundred head,
“There’s an end to my occupation.”
7. AFFRONTENBURG.
Time fleeteth, yet that castle old,
With all its battlements, its tower,
And simple folk that in it dwelt,
Appears before me every hour.
I ever see the weathercock
That on the roof turn’d round so drily;
Each person, ere he spoke a word,
Was wont to look up tow’rds it slily.
He that would talk, first learnt the wind,
For fear the ancient grumbler Boreas
Might turn against him suddenly,
Tormenting him with blast uproarious.
In truth, the wisest held their tongues,
For in that place an echo sported,
Which, when it answer’d back the voice,
Each word maliciously distorted.
Amidst the castle garden stood
A marble fount, with sphinxes round it,
For ever dry, though tears enough
Had flow’d inside it, to have drown’d it.
O most accursèd garden! Ah,
No single spot was in thy keeping
Wherein my heart had not been sad,
Wherein my eye had not known weeping.
No single tree did it contain
Beneath whose shade affronts injurious
Had not against me utter’d been
By tongues ironical or furious.
The toad that listen’d in the grass
Unto the rat hath all confided,
Who told his aunt the viper straight
The news in which himself he prided.
She in her turn told cousin frog,--
And in this manner each relation
In the whole filthy race soon learnt
My dire affronts and sad vexation.
The garden roses were full fair,
And sweet the fragrance that they scatter’d;
Yet early wither’d they and died,
By a mysterious poison shatter’d.
And next the nightingale was sick
To death,--that songster loved and cherish’d.
That sang to every rose her song;
Through her own poison’s taste she perish’d.
O most accursèd garden! Yea,
It was as though a curse oppress’d it;
Oft was I seized by ghostly fear,
While broad clear daylight still possess’d it.
The green-eyed spectre on me grinn’d,
Terror with fearful mockery vying,
While from the yew-trees straightway rose
A sound of groaning, choking, sighing.
At the long alley’s end arose
The terrace where the Baltic Ocean
At time of flood its billows dash’d
Against the rocks in wild commotion.
There sees one far across the main,
There stood I oft, in wild dreams roaming;
The breakers fill’d my heart as well
With ceaseless roaring, raging, foaming.
A foaming, raging, roaring ’twas,
As powerless as the billows curling
That the hard rock broke mournfully,
Proudly as they their shocks were hurling.
With envy saw I ships pass by,
Some happier country seeking gladly,
While I am in this castle chain’d
With bonds accurst, and pining sadly.
8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]
I.
Holy parables discarding,
And each guess, however pious,
To these awful questions plainly
Seek with answers to supply us:--
Wherefore bends the Just One, bleeding
’Neath the cross’s weight laborious,
While upon his steed the Wicked
Rides all-proudly and victorious?
Wherein lies the fault? It is not
That our God is not almighty?
Or hath he himself offended?--
Such a thought seems wild and flighty.
Thus are we for ever asking,
Till at length our mouths securely
With a clod of earth are fasten’d,--
That is not an answer, surely?
II.
My head by the maiden swarthy but fair
Was press’d ’gainst her bosom with yearning;
But, alas! to grey soon turn’d my hair,
Where had fallen her tears so burning.
She kiss’d me ill, and she kiss’d me lame,
She kiss’d till my eyes were faded;
My spinal marrow dried up became,
By her mouth’s wild sucking pervaded.
My body is now a corpse, wherein
My spirit is fetter’d closely;
’Tis often angry, and makes a din,
And storms and struggles morosely,
O impotent curses! Not even a fly
Can be kill’d by mere execrations;
Submit to thy fate, and patiently try
To bear Heaven’s dispensations.
III.
How slowly time is crawling on,
That serpent terrible and creeping!
While I, alas! all-motionless,
On the same spot am ever weeping.
On my dark cell no ray of hope
Hath shone, no sunbeam e’er hath risen;
For nothing but the churchyard’s vault
Shall I exchange this fatal prison.
Perchance I long ago did die,
Perchance the phantasies which nightly
Hold in my brain their shifting dance
Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly.
They may full well the spectres be
Of some old heathen gods or devils;
They gladly choose the empty skull
Of a dead poet for their revels.
Those orgies sweet but terrible,
Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning,
The poet’s corpse-hand ofttimes seeks
To place on record in the morning.
IV.
Once saw I many a blooming flower
Upon my way, but slothfully
Stoop’d not to pluck them in that hour,
And on my proud steed hasten’d by.
Now when I’m near to death, and languish,
Now when beneath me yawns the tomb,
Oft in my thought, with bitter anguish,
Returns the’ unheeded flowers’ perfume.
But most of all, my brain is burning
With a bright yellow violet fair;
Wild beauty! How I grieve with yearning,
To think that I enjoy’d thee ne’er!
My comfort is: Oblivion’s waters
Have not yet lost their olden might
The dull hearts of earth’s sons and daughters
To steep in Lethe’s blissful night.
V.
I saw them laughing, smiling gladly,--
I saw them ruin’d utterly;
I heard them weeping, dying sadly,--
And yet I utter’d not a sigh.
Each corpse I as a mourner follow’d,
Yea, to the churchyard follow’d I,
And then--with appetite I swallow’d,
My noontide meal, I’ll not deny.
I now recall that band long perish’d,
With feelings sadden’d and oppress’d:
Like sudden glowing love once cherish’d
They strangely storm within my breast.
And most ’tis Juliet’s tears so burning
That in my memory spring to light;
My sadness turns to ceaseless yearning,
I call upon her day and night.
In feverish dreams, with soft emotion
The faded flower oft comes again;
Methinks a posthumous devotion
To my love’s glow it offers then.
O gentle phantom, clasp me often
With strong and ever stronger power;
Unto my lips press thine, and soften
The bitterness of this last hour.
VI.
Thou wast a maiden fair, so good and kindly,
So neat, so cool--in vain I waited blindly
Till came the hour wherein thy gentle heart
Would ope, and inspiration play its part.
Yea, inspiration for those lofty things
Which prose and reason deem but wanderings,
But yet for which the noble, lovely, good
Upon this earth rave, suffer, shed their blood.
Upon the Rhine’s fair strand, where vine-hills smile,
Once in glad summer days we roam’d the while;
Bright laugh’d the sun, sweet incense in that hour
Stream’d from the beauteous cup of every flower.
The purple pinks and roses breath’d in turn
Red kisses on us, which like fire did burn;
Even the smallest daisy’s faint perfume
Appear’d a life ideal then to bloom.
But thou didst peacefully beside me go,
In a white satin dress, demure and slow,
Like some girl’s portrait limn’d by Netscher’s art,
A little glacier seem’d to be thy heart.
VII.
At reason’s solemn judgment-seat
Thy full acquittal hath been spoken;
The verdict says: the little one
By word or deed no law hath broken.
Yes, dumb and motionless thou stood’st,
While madd’ning flames were raging through me;
Thou stirredst not, no word thou spak’st,
Yet thou’lt be ever guilty to me.
Throughout my visions every night
A voice accusing ceaseth never
To charge thee with ill will, and say
That thou hast ruin’d me for ever.
It brings its proofs and witnesses,
Its musty rolls from thought long banish’d
And yet at morning, with my dream,
Lo, the accuser too hath vanish’d!
Now hath it in my inmost heart,
With all its records, refuge taken--
One only haunts my memory still:
That I am ruin’d and forsaken.
VIII.
Thy letter was a flash of lightning,
Illuming night with sudden glow;
It served with dazzling force to show
How deep my misery is, how fright’ning.
E’en thou compassion then didst share,
Who, ’mid my life’s sad desolation,
Stood’st, like the sculptor’s mute creation,
As cold as marble, and as fair.
O God, how wretched must I be!
For into speech her lips are waking,
From out her eyes the tears are breaking,
The stone feels for me tenderly.
The sight hath fill’d me with confusion;
Have pity, Lord, though thou mayst chasten,
Thy peace bestow, and quickly hasten
This fearful tragedy’s conclusion.
IX.
The true sphynx’s form’s the same as
Woman’s; this I see full clearly;
And the paws and lion’s body
Are the poet’s fancy merely.
Dark as death is still the riddle
Of this true sphynx. E’en the clever
Son and husband of Jocasta
Such a hard one found out never.
By good luck, though, woman knows not
Her own riddle’s explanation;
If the answer she discover’d,
Earth would fall from its foundation.
X.
Three women sit at the crossway lonely,
They’re thinking and spinning,
They’re sighing and grinning;
Their very aspect is hideous only.
The distaff the first holds, so placid;
The threads she setteth,
And each one wetteth;
So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.
The spindle the second one dances
In a circle ’tis whirling,
In droll fashion twirling;
The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.
The third Fate’s hands, so befitting,
Hold the scissors so dreary,
She hums Miserere,
And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.
O hasten thee quickly, and sever
My life’s thread so sadd’ning,
Escaping this madd’ning
Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!
XI.
I scorn the heavenly plains above me,
In the blest land of Paradise;
No fairer women there will love me
Than those whom here on earth I prize.
No angel blest, his high flight winging,
Could there replace my darling wife;
To sit on clouds, whilst psalms I’m singing,
Would small enjoyment give to life.
O Lord, methinks ’twere best to leave me
Upon this lower world to dwell;
But first from sufferings reprieve me,
Some money granting me as well.
The world, I know, is overflowing
With sin and misery; yet I
Have learnt full well the art of going
Along its pavement quietly.
Life’s bustle cannot now annoy me,
For ’tis but seldom that I roam;
Beside my wife I’d fain employ me
In slippers and loose-coat at home.
Leave me with her! When she is prattling,
My soul drinks in the music dear
Of that sweet voice, so gaily rattling,--
Her look so faithful is and clear!
For health alone and means of living,
Lord, ask I! Let me stay below
For many a day its blessings giving,
Beside my wife _in statu quo_!
9. THE DRAGONFLY.
The beauteous dragonfly’s dancing
By the waves of the rivulet glancing;
She dances here and she dances there,
The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair.
Full many a beetle with loud applause
Admires her dress of azure gauze,
Admires her body’s bright splendour,
And also her figure so slender.
Full many a beetle, to his cost,
His modicum small of reason lost;
Her wooers are humming of love and truth,
Brabant and Holland pledging forsooth.
The dragonfly smiled and thus spake she:
“Brabant and Holland are nought to me;
“But haste, if my charms you admire,
“And fetch me a sparklet of fire.
“The cook has just been brought to bed,
“And I my supper must cook instead;
“The coals on the hearth are burnt away,--
“So fetch me a sparklet of fire, I pray.”
Scarce had the false one spoken the word,
When off the beetles flew, like a bird.
They seek for fire, and soon they find
Their home in the wood’s left far behind.
At length they see a candle’s light
In garden-bower burning bright;
And then with amorous senseless aim,
They headlong rush in the candle’s flame.
The candle’s flame with crackling consumed
The beetles and their fond hearts so doom’d:
While some with their lives did expiation,
Some only lost wings in the conflagration.
O woe to the beetle, whose wings have been
Burnt off! In a foreign land, I ween,
He must crawl on the ground like vermin fell,
With humid insects that nastily smell.
One’s bad companions--he’s heard to say,--
Are the worst of plagues, in exile’s day.
We’re forced to converse with every sort
Of noxious creatures, of bugs in short,
Who treat us as though their comrades were we,
Because in the selfsame mud we be.
Of this complain’d old Virgil’s scholar,
The poet of exile and hell, with choler.
I think with grief of the happier time,
When I in my glory’s well-winged prime
In my native ether was playing,
On sunny flowers was straying.
From rosy calixes food I drew,
Was thought of importance, and wheeling flew
With butterflies all of elegance rare,
And with the cricket, the artist fair.
But since my poor wings I happen’d to burn,
To my fatherland now I ne’er can return;
I’m turn’d to a worm, that will soon expire,
I’m rotting away in foreign mire.
O would that I had never met
The dragonfly, that azure coquette,
With figure so fine and slender,
The fair but cruel pretender!
10. ASCENSION.
The body lay on the bier of death,
While the poor soul, when gone its breath,
Escaping from earth’s constant riot,
Was on its way to heavenly quiet.
Then knock’d it at the portal high,
And spake these words with a heavy sigh:
“Saint Peter, give me inside a place,
“I am so tired of life’s hard race.
“On silken pillows I fain would rest
“In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best
“With darling angels at blindman’s-buff,
“Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”
A clatter of slippers ere long was heard,
A bunch of keys appear’d to be stirr’d,
And out of a lattice, the entrance near,
Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.
He spake: “The vagabonds come again,
“The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train,
“The idlers and the Hottentots--
“They come alone and they come in knots,
“And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest,
“And there be angels, and there be blest.
“Halloa, halloa! For gallows’ faces
“Like yours, for such contemptible races
“Were never created the halls of bliss,--
“Your portion’s with Satan, far off from this.
“Away, away, and take your flight
“To the black pool of endless night.”--
The old man thus growl’d, but hadn’t the heart
To continue to play a blustering part,
So added these words, its spirits to cheer:
“Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear
“To that base troop of rogues to belong--
“Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong,
“Because it is my birthday to-day,
“And I feel just now in a merciful way.
“But meanwhile tell me the country and place
“From whence thou comest; and was it the case
“That thou wast married? It happens sometimes
“A husband’s patience atones for all crimes;
“A husband need not in hell to be stew’d,
“Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”
The soul replied: “From Prussia I came,
“My native town is Berlin by name,
“There ripples the Spree, and in its bed
“The young cadets jump heels over head;
“It overflows kindly, when rains begin--
“A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin!
“I was a private teacher when there,
“And much philosophy read with care.
“I married a chanoinesse--strange to say,
“She quarrell’d frightfully every day,
“Especially when in the house was no bread--
“’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”
Saint Peter cried: “Alack, alack!
“Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack.
“In truth it is a puzzle to me
“Why people study philosophy.
“It is such tedious and profitless stuff,
“And is moreover godless enough;
“In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell,
“Till Satan carries them off to hell.
“Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations
“Against the thin and washy potations
“From whence upon her, with comforting gleam
“No eye of fat could ever beam.
“But now, poor soul, pray comforted be!
“The strictest commands are given to me,
“’Tis true, that each who whilst he did live
“To philosophy used his attention to give,
“Especially to the godless German,
“Should be driven away from hence like vermin.
“Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I
“Have said, so there is a reason why
“I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute
“The gate of heaven--quick, enter within it
“With utmost speed--
“Now all is right!
“The whole of the day, from morn’s first light
“Till late in the evening, thou canst walk
“Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk
“Along its jewel-paved streets so fair;
“But mind, thou must not meddle when there
“With any philosophy, or I shall be
“Soon compromised most terribly.
“When angels thou hearest singing, assume
“A face of rapture, and never of gloom;
“But if an archangel sang the song,
“Be full of inspiration strong,
“And say that Malibran ne’er pretended
“To have a soprano so rich and splendid;
“And ever applaud each tuneful hymn
“Of cherubim and of seraphim.
“Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
“With Mario and Tamburini,
“Give them the title of Excellencies,
“And be not sparing of reverencies.
“The singers in heaven, as well as on earth,
“Have all loved flattery since their birth.
“The world’s great Chapel-master on high,
“E’en He is pleased when they glorify
“His works, and delighteth to hear ador’d
“The wonders of God, the mighty Lord,
“And when a psalm to His glory and praise
“In thickest incense clouds they raise.
“Forget me not. Whenever to thee
“The glory of heaven causes ennui,
“Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play.
“All games alike are in my way,
“From doubledummy to faro I’ll go,--
“We’ll also drink. But, _apropos_,
“If thou should’st meet, when going from hence,
“The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence
“Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said,
“But say, from Vienna or Munich instead.”
11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.
Thou weep’st, and on me look’st, believing
That thou art for my anguish grieving--
Thou know’st not, wife, that ’tis for thee
The tear escapes thee, not for me.
O tell me if it be not true
That o’er thy spirit sometimes grew
The blest foreboding, showing thee
That we were join’d by fate’s decree?
United, bliss was ours below,
But sever’d, nought is ours but woe.
In the great book ’tis written clearly
That we should love each other dearly.
Thy place should be upon my breast,
Here first awoke self-knowledge blest;
From out the realm of plants, with power
’Twas mine to free, to kiss thee, flower!--
Raise thee to me, to highest life,
’Twas mine to give thee soul, my wife.
Now, when reveal’d the riddles stand,
When in the hour-glass is the sand
Run out, weep not, ’tis order’d so--
Alone thou’lt wither, when I go;
Thou’lt wither, ere thou yet hast bloom’d,
Ere thou hast glow’d, be quench’d and doom’d;
Thou’lt die and be the prey of death
Ere thou hast learnt to draw thy breath.
I know it now. By heaven, ’tis thou
Whom I have loved. How bitter now,
The moment we are join’d for ever,
To find the hour when we must sever.
The welcome meanwhile must give way
To sad farewell. We part to-day
For evermore, for ’tis not given
To us to meet again in heaven.
Beauty to dust will fall at last,
Thou’lt pass away, and crumble fast.
The poets’ fate will happier be,
Death cannot kill them utterly.
Annihilation strikes us ne’er,
We live in poesy’s land so fair,
In Avalon, where fairies dwell--
Dear corpse, for ever fare thee well!
12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.
There once was a brother and sister,
The sister was poor, the brother was rich.
The poor one said to the rich one:
“Give me a piece of bread.”
The rich one said to the poor one:
“Leave me to-day in peace,
“While I give my yearly banquet
“To the lords of the Council all.
“The first doth turtlesoup relish,
“The second doth pineapples eat,
“The third is fond of pheasant
“And Perigord truffles too.
“The fourth eats nought but seafish,
“The fifth in salmon delights,
“The sixth of each dish eateth,
“And drinketh even more.”
The poor rejected sister
Went hungry back to her house;
She threw herself on her straw-bed,
And deeply sighed and died.
We all alike must perish!
The scythe of death at last
Mowed down the wealthy brother,
As it the sister had mown.
And when the wealthy brother
His end approaching saw,
He sent for his notary quickly,
And straightway made his will.
With legacies large and lib’ral
The clergy he endow’d,
The schools, and the great museum
Of zoological things.
And noble sums moreover
The great testator bequeath’d
To the deaf and dumb asylum
And Jewish Conversion fund.
A handsome bell bestow’d he
On the new Saint Stephen’s tower;
It weighs five hundred centners,
Of first-rate metal too.
It is a bell enormous,
And sounds both early and late;
It sounds to the praise and glory
Of that most excellent man.
It tells, with its tongue of iron,
Of all the good he has done
To the town and his fellow-townsmen,
Whatever might be their faith.
Thou great benefactor of mortals
In death as well as in life
The great bell’s ever proclaiming
Each benefaction of thine!
The funeral next with all honour
And pomp was solemnized,
The people crowded to see it
And reverently gazed.
Upon a coal-black carriage,
Like a vast canopy
Adorn’d with black ostrich feathers,
The splendid coffin lay.
Trick’d out with plates of silver,
And silver embroidery fine,
Upon the black ground the silver
The grandest effect produced.
The carriage was drawn by six horses,
In coal-black trappings disguised,
That fell, like funeral mantles,
Down even to their hoofs.
Behind the coffin were crowded
The servants in liveries black,
Their snow-white handkerchiefs holding
Before their sorrowing face.
The people of rank in the city,
In long procession form’d
Of black and showy coaches,
Totter’d along behind.
In this grand fun’ral procession,
Remember, were also found
The noble lords of the Council,
And yet they were not complete.
The one was missing, whose fancy
Was pheasant and truffles to eat;
An attack of indigestion
Had lately carried him off.
13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.
(A true story, repeated after old documents and reproduced in excellent
rhyme.)
Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,
He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.
O fly of my soul, ’tis thou alone
Art the wife I have chosen to be my own.
O marry me, and be not cold,
For I have a belly of glistening gold.
My back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow--
O would that I were a fool just now!
I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.
I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,
I know that no happiness riches enfold.
’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,
For I am in truth a haughty fly.--
The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,
The fly went away, a bath to take.
O what has become of my maid, the bee,
That she when I’m washing may wait on me,
That she may stroke my soft hair outside,
For I am now a beetle’s bride.
In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,
For handsomer beetle never did live.
His back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.
His belly is golden, and noble each feature;
With envy will burst full many a creature.
Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,
And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.
With otto of roses rub me o’er,
And lavender oil on my feet then pour,
That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,
When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.
Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,
As maids of honour to wait on me too.
Into my bridal garland they’ll twine
The blossoms white of the orange so fine.
Full many musicians are asked to the place,
And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.
The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,
To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.
They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast--
The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,
Are coming in families dapper and brisk,
The commoner insects amongst them frisk.
The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousins
Are coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.
The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,
Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong--
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,
The bridegroom however has flown far away.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong--
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seat
On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.
Seven years there sits he, until his forgotten
Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.
14. MIMI.
“I’m no modest city creature
“By the hearth demurely spinning,
“But a free cat on the roof,
“In the air, with manners winning.
“When in summer nights I’m musing
“On the roof, in grateful coolness,
“Music in me purrs, I sing
“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”
Thus she speaks, and from her bosom
Wild and wedding-songs stream thickly,
And the melody allures
All the cats unmarried quickly.
Purring, mewing, thither hasten
All the young cats, plain or brindled,
And with Mimi join in chorus,
Full of love, with passion kindled.
They are no mere virtuosos
Who profane, for sordid wages,
Music, but of harmony
Are apostles true, and sages.
They no instruments use ever,
Each is his own flute and viol;
All their noses trumpets are,
Bellies, drums, and no denial.
They in chorus raise their voices,
In one general intermezzo,
Playing fugues, as if by Bach,
Or by Guido of Arezzo.
Wild the symphonies they’re singing
Like capriccios of Beethoven,
Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’d
By their strains so interwoven.
Wonderful their music’s might is!
Magic notes without an equal!
E’en the heavens they shake, the stars
All turn pallid in the sequel.
When the magic notes she heareth,
And the wondrous tones delightful,
Then Selene hides her face
With a veil of clouds so frightful.
But the nightingale with envy--
Scandalous old prima donna--
Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scorns
Mimi’s voice, to her dishonour.
Never mind! She’ll go on singing
Spite the envy of Signora,
Till on the horizon’s seen,
Smiling rosily, Aurora.
15. GOOD ADVICE.
Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,
Boldly woo, and, not aside,
Civil they will be to-morrow,
And thou thus wilt win thy bride.
’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,--
Give, then, the musicians gold;
Though thou wish them at the devil,
Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.
Give a prince his meed of laurel,
Of a woman speak not ill;
With thy sausages don’t quarrel
When thou hast a sow to kill.
If the church to thee is hateful,
All the more attend its shrine;
To the parson be thou grateful,
Send him, too, a flask of wine.
If an itching chance to teaze thee,
Like a man of honour, scratch;
If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,
Slippers get with all despatch.
If thy soup has too much seasoning,
Be not in an angry mood;
Smiling say, instead of reasoning:
“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”
If thy wife a wish expresses
For a shawl, straight buy her two;
Buy her golden brooches, dresses,
Lace and jewels not a few.
If thou’lt give this plan a trial,
Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain
Heaven to bless thy self-denial,
And on earth to peace attain.
16. REMINISCENCES OF HAMMONIA.[88]
Orphan children two and two,
Wandering gladly on we view,
All of them blue coats are wearing,
All of them red cheeks are bearing--
O the pretty orphan children!
All are moved when thus they prattle,
And the money boxes rattle;
Liberal alms upon them flow,
That their secret sires bestow,--
O the pretty orphan children!
Women of a feeling heart
Many a poor child kiss apart,
Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),
Give him sweetmeats as a present--
O the pretty orphan children!
One, with timid face but willing,
Throws into the box a shilling,--
For he has a heart,--then gaily
Follows he his business daily--
O the pretty orphan children!
One a golden louis-d’or
Next bestows, but not before
Heavenward looking, hoping blindly
That the Lord will view him kindly--
O the pretty orphan children!
Porters, coopers, working men,
Servants, make to-day again
Holiday, and drain their glasses,
Drinking to these lads and lasses--
O the pretty orphan children!
Tutelar Hammonia
Follows them incognita;
As she moves, her form gigantic
Sways about, in manner frantic--
O the pretty orphan children!
In the green field where they went
Music fills the lofty tent,
Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;
There are fed in sumptuous manner
All these pretty orphan children.
There in lengthy rows they sit,
Eating many a nice tit-bit,
Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,
While like little mice they’re munching,--
All these pretty orphan children.
Now my thoughts to dwell begin
On an orphan-house wherein
There no feasting is or gladness,
Where lament in ceaseless sadness,
Millions of poor orphan children.
There no uniforms are seen,
Many want their dinner e’en;
No two walk together yonder,
Lonely, sorrowfully wander
Many million orphan children.
17. THE ROBBERS.
While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling,
Embraced me on the couch, the fox
Her worthy husband from my box
My banknotes quietly was stealing.
My pockets now have got no cash in!
Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?
Ah! what is truth? In days gone by
Thus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.
This evil world, decay’d and rotten,
I soon shall ne’er again behold;
I see that he who has no gold
Will very soon be quite forgotten.
For you, pure souls, whose habitation
In yonder realms of light I see,
My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,
So stealing is not your vocation.
18. THE YOUNG CATS’ CLUB FOR POETRY-MUSIC
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Upon the roof was collected
To-night, but not for sensual joys,
No wrong could there be detected.
No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,
No song of love did they utter
In the winter season, in frost and snow,
For frozen was every gutter.