Heine had all the culture of Germany; in his head fermented all
the ideas of modern Europe. And what have we got from Heine? A
half-result, for want of moral balance, and nobleness of soul,
and character.—_Matthew Arnold._
In spite of the bitterness of spirit that pervades all his
writings he possessed deep natural affections. His mother
survived him, and although almost entirely separated from him
for the last twenty-five years, he often introduces her name in
his works with expressions of reverence.—_Translated by E. A.
Bowring._
Heine left a singular will, in which he begged that all religious
solemnities be dispensed with at his funeral.… He added that this
was not the mere freak of a freethinker, for that he had for the
last four years dismissed all the pride with which philosophy had
filled him, and felt once more the power of religious truth. He
also begged forgiveness for any offence which, in his ignorance
he might have given to good manners and good morals.—_Translated
preface._
To Matilda.
I was, dear lamb, ordained to be
A shepherd here, to watch o’er thee;
I nourished thee with mine own bread,
With water from the fountain head.
And when winter storm roared loudly,
Against my breast I warmed thee proudly;
Then held I thee, encircled well,
Whilst rain in torrents round us fell,
When, through its rocky dark bed pouring,
The torrent with the wolf, was roaring,
Thou fear’dst not, no muscle quivered,
E’en when the highest pine was shivered
By forked flash—within mine arm
Thou slept’st in peace without alarm.
My arm grows weak, and fast draws near
Pale death! My shepherd’s task so dear,
And pastoral care approach their end.
Into thy hands, God, I commend
My staff once more. O do thou guard
My lamb, when I, beneath the sward
Am laid in peace, and suffer ne’er
A thorn to prick her anywhere.
From thorny hedges guard her fleece,
May quagmires ne’er disturb her peace.
May there spring up beneath her feet
An ample crop of pasture sweet,
And let her sleep without alarm,
As erst she slept within mine arm!
I have been wont to bear my head right high,
My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;
Even before a monarch’s cold rebuff
I would not timidly avert mine eye.
Yet mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:
Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,
I feel submissive and subdued enough,
When thy much cherished, darling form is nigh.
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,
Thy spirit grasping all things in its ken,
And soaring to the light of heaven again?
By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d
That I have done so much to grieve thy breast,
Which loved me more than all things else, the best.
Prose Extracts From Heine.
The French are the chosen people of the new religion, its first gospels
and dogmas have been drawn up in their language; Paris is the New
Jerusalem, and the Rhine is the Jordan which divides the consecrated land
of freedom from the land of the Philistines.
When Candide came to Eldorado, he saw in the streets a number of boys who
were playing with gold nuggets instead of marbles. This degree of luxury
made him imagine that they must be the king’s children, and he was not a
little astonished when he found that in Eldorado gold nuggets are of no
more value than marbles are with us, and that the school-boys play with
them. A similar thing happened to a friend of mine, a foreigner, when he
came to Germany and first read German books. He was perfectly astounded
at the wealth of ideas which he found in them; but he soon remarked that
ideas in Germany are as plentiful as gold nuggets in Eldorado, and that
those writers whom he had taken for intellectual princes, were in reality
only common school-boys.
The Lorelei.
I know not what it may mean to-day
That I am to grief inclined;
There’s a tale of a Siren—an old-world lay—
That I can not get out of my mind.
The air is cool in the twilight gray,
And quietly flows the Rhine;
On the ridge of the cliff, at the close of the day
The rays of the sunset shine.
There sits a maiden, richly dight,
And wonderfully fair;
Her golden bracelet glistens bright
As she combs her golden hair.
And while she combs her locks so bright,
She sings a charming lay;
’Tis sweet, yet hath a marvelous might,
And ’tis echoing far away.
The sailor floats down, in the dusk, on the Rhine
That carol awakens his grief;
He sees on the cliff the last sunbeam shine,
But he sees not the perilous reef.
Ah! soon will the sailor, in bitter despair,
To his foundering skiff be clinging!
And that’s what the beautiful Siren there
Has done with her charming singing.