Volume 6 — HEINRICH HEINE

* * * * *

DEDICATION[1] (1822)

I have had dreams of wild love wildly nursed, Of myrtles, mignonette, and silken tresses, Of lips, whose blames belie the kiss that blesses, Of dirge-like songs to dirge-like airs rehearsed.

My dreams have paled and faded long ago, Faded the very form they most adored, Nothing is left me but what once I poured Into pathetic verse with feverish glow.

Thou, orphaned song, art left. Do thou, too, fade! Go, seek that visioned form long lost in night, And say from me—if you upon it light— With airy breath I greet that airy shade!

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SONGS (1822)

1 [2]

Oh, fair cradle of my sorrow, Oh, fair tomb of peace for me, Oh, fair town, my last good-morrow, Last farewell I say to thee!

Fare thee well, thou threshold holy, Where my lady's footsteps stir, And that spot, still worshipped lowly, Where mine eyes first looked on her!

Had I but beheld thee never, Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen, Wretched now, and wretched ever, Oh, I should not thus have been!

Touch thy heart?—I would not dare that: Ne'er did I thy love implore; Might I only breathe the air that Thou didst breathe, I asked no more.

Yet I could not brook thy spurning, Nor thy cruel words of scorn; Madness in my brain is burning, And my heart is sick and torn.

So I go, downcast and dreary, With my pilgrim staff to stray, Till I lay my head aweary In some cool grave far away.

2 [3]

Cliff and castle quiver grayly From the mirror of the Rhine Where my little boat swims gaily; Round her prow the ripples shine.

Heart at ease I watch them thronging— Waves of gold with crisping crest, Till awakes a half-lulled longing Cherished deep within my breast.

Temptingly the ripples greet me Luring toward the gulf beneath, Yet I know that should they meet me They would drag me to my death.

Lovely visage, treacherous bosom, Guile beneath and smile above, Stream, thy dimpling wavelet's blossom Laughs as falsely as my love.

3[4]

I despaired at first—believing I should never bear it. Now I have borne it—I have borne it. Only never ask me How.

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A LYRICAL INTERMEZZO (1822-23)

1[5]

'Twas in the glorious month of May, When all the buds were blowing, I felt—ah me, how sweet it was!— Love in my heart a-growing.

'Twas in the glorious month of May, When all the birds were quiring, In burning words I told her all My yearning, my aspiring.

2[6]

Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall, The fairest flowers arise; And into choirs of nightingales Are turned my bosom's sighs.

And wilt thou love me, thine shall be The fairest flowers that spring, And at thy window evermore The nightingales shall sing.

3[7]

The rose and the lily, the moon and the dove, Once loved I them all with a perfect love. I love them no longer, I love alone The Lovely, the Graceful, the Pure, the One Who twines in one wreath all their beauty and love, And rose is, and lily, and moon and dove.

4[8]

Dear, when I look into thine eyes, My deepest sorrow straightway flies; But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then No thought remains of bygone pain!

And when I lean upon thy breast, No dream of heaven could be more blest; But, when thou say'st thou lovest me, I fall to weeping bitterly.

5[9]

Thy face, that fair, sweet face I know, I dreamed of it awhile ago; It is an angel's face, so mild— And yet, so sadly pale, poor child!

Only the lips are rosy bright, But soon cold Death will kiss them white, And quench the light of Paradise That shines from out those earnest eyes.

6[10]

Lean close thy cheek against my cheek, That our tears together may blend, love, And press thy heart upon my heart, That from both one flame may ascend, love!

[Illustration: SPRING'S AWAKENING From the Painting by Ludwig von Hofmann.]

And while in that flame so doubly bright Our tears are falling and burning, And while in my arms I clasp thee tight I will die with love and yearning.

7[11]

I'll breathe my soul and its secret In the lily's chalice white; The lily shall thrill and reëcho A song of my heart's delight.

The song shall quiver and tremble, Even as did the kiss That her rosy lips once gave me In a moment of wondrous bliss.

8[12]

The stars have stood unmoving Upon the heavenly plains For ages, gazing each on each, With all a lover's pains.

They speak a noble language, Copious and rich and strong; Yet none of your greatest schoolmen Can understand that tongue.

But I have learnt it, and never Can forget it for my part— For I used as my only grammar The face of the joy of my heart.

9[13]

On the wings of song far sweeping, Heart's dearest, with me thou'lt go Away where the Ganges is creeping; Its loveliest garden I know—

A garden where roses are burning In the moonlight all silent there; Where the lotus-flowers are yearning For their sister belovèd and fair.

The violets titter, caressing, Peeping up as the planets appear, And the roses, their warm love confessing, Whisper words, soft-perfumed, to each ear.

And, gracefully lurking or leaping, The gentle gazelles come round: While afar, deep rushing and sweeping, The waves of the Ganges sound.

We'll lie there in slumber sinking Neath the palm-trees by the stream, Rapture and rest deep drinking, Dreaming the happiest dream.

10[14]

The lotos flower is troubled By the sun's too garish gleam, She droops, and with folded petals Awaiteth the night in a dream.

'Tis the moon has won her favor, His light her spirit doth wake, Her virgin bloom she unveileth All gladly for his dear sake.

Unfolding and glowing and shining She yearns toward his cloudy height; She trembles to tears and to perfume With pain of her love's delight.

[Illustration: FLOWER FANTASY Train the Painting by Ludwig von Hofmann.]

11[15]

The Rhine's bright wave serenely Reflects as it passes by Cologne that lifts her queenly Cathedral towers on high.

A picture hangs in the dome there, On leather with gold bedight, Whose beauty oft when I roam there Sheds hope on my troubled night.

For cherubs and flowers are wreathing Our Lady with tender grace; Her eyes, cheeks, and lips half-breathing Resemble my loved one's face.

12[16]

I am not wroth, my own lost love, although My heart is breaking—wroth I am not, no! For all thou dost in diamonds blaze, no ray Of light into thy heart's night finds its way.

I saw thee in a dream. Oh, piteous sight! I saw thy heart all empty, all in night; I saw the serpent gnawing at thy heart; I saw how wretched, O my love, thou art!

13[17]

When thou shalt lie, my darling, low In the dark grave, where they hide thee, Then down to thee I will surely go, And nestle in beside thee.

Wildly I'll kiss and clasp thee there, Pale, cold, and silent lying; Shout, shudder, weep in dumb despair, Beside my dead love dying.

The midnight calls, up rise the dead, And dance in airy swarms there; We twain quit not our earthly bed, I lie wrapt in your arms there.

Up rise the dead; the Judgment-day To bliss or anguish calls them; We twain lie on as before we lay, And heed not what befalls them.

14[18]

A young man loved a maiden, But she for another has sigh'd; That other, he loves another, And makes her at length his bride.

The maiden marries, in anger, The first adventurous wight That chance may fling before her; The youth is in piteous plight.

The story is old as ages, Yet happens again and again; The last to whom it happen'd, His heart is rent in twain.

15[19]

A lonely pine is standing On the crest of a northern height; He sleeps, and a snow-wrought mantle Enshrouds him through the night.

He's dreaming of a palm-tree Afar in a tropic land, That grieves alone in silence 'Mid quivering leagues of sand.

16[20]

My love, we were sitting together In a skiff, thou and I alone; 'Twas night, very still was the weather, Still the great sea we floated on.

Fair isles in the moonlight were lying, Like spirits, asleep in a trance; Their strains of sweet music were sighing, And the mists heaved in an eery dance.

And ever, more sweet, the strains rose there, The mists flitted lightly and free; But we floated on with our woes there, Forlorn on that wide, wide sea.

17[21]

I see thee nightly in dreams, my sweet, Thine eyes the old welcome making, And I fling me down at thy dear feet With the cry of a heart that is breaking.

Thou lookest at me in woful wise With a smile so sad and holy, And pearly tear-drops from thine eyes Steal silently and slowly.

Whispering a word, thou lay'st on my hair A wreath with sad cypress shotten; awake, the wreath is no longer there, And the word I have forgotten.

* * * * *

SONNETS (1822)

TO MY MOTHER

1[22]

I have been wont to bear my head on high, Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien; Yea, though a king should gaze on me, I ween, I should not at his gaze cast down my eye. But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly: When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been, At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene, I feel the shudder of humility.

Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue, Thy lofty soul that pierces all things through And speeds on lightning wings to heaven's blue? Or am I racked by what my memories tell Of frequent deeds which caused thy heart to swell— That beauteous heart which loved me, ah! too well.

2[23]

With foolish fancy I deserted thee; I fain would search the whole world through to learn If in it I perchance could love discern, That I might love embrace right lovingly. I sought for love as far as eye could see, My hands extending at each door in turn, Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn— Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me. And ever search'd I after love; yes, ever Search'd after love, but love discover'd never, And so I homeward went with troubled thought; But thou wert there to welcome me again, And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then That was the sweet love I so long had sought.

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[Illustration: POOR PETER From the Painting by P. Grotjohann]

POOR PETER[24] (1822)

1

Grete and Hans come dancing by, They shout for very glee; Poor Peter stands all silently, And white as chalk is he.

Grete and Hans were wed this morn, And shine in bright array; But ah, poor Peter stands forlorn, Dressed for a working-day.

He mutters, as with wistful eyes He gazes at them still: "'Twere easy—were I not too wise— To do myself some ill…."

2

"An aching sorrow fills my breast, My heart is like to break; It leaves me neither peace nor rest, And all for Grete's sake.

"It drives me to her side, as though She still could comfort me; But in her eyes there's something now That makes me turn and flee.

"I climb the highest hilltop where I am at least alone; And standing in the stillness there I weep and make my moan."

3

Poor Peter wanders slowly by; So pale is he, so dull and shy, The very neighbors in the street Turn round to gaze, when him they meet.

The maids speak low: "He looks, I ween, As though the grave his bed had been." Ah no, good maids, ye should have said "The grave will soon become his bed."

He lost his sweetheart—so, may be, The grave is best for such as he; There he may sleep the years away, And rest until the Judgment-day.

* * * * *

THE TWO GRENADIERS[25] (1822)

To France were traveling two grenadiers, From prison in Russia returning, And when they came to the German frontiers, They hung down their heads in mourning.

There came the heart-breaking news to their ears That France was by fortune forsaken; Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers, And Napoleon, Napoleon was taken.

Then wept together those two grenadiers O'er their country's departed glory; "Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears, "My old wound—how it burns at the story!"

The other said: "The end has come, What avails any longer living Yet have I a wife and child at home, For an absent father grieving.

"Who cares for wife? Who cares for child? Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken; Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild, For Napoleon, Napoleon is taken!

"Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer, When death my eyes is closing: Take me to France, and bury me there; In France be my ashes reposing.

"This cross of the Legion of Honor bright, Let it lie near my heart, upon me; Give me my musket in my hand, And gird my sabre on me.

"So will I lie, and arise no more, My watch like a sentinel keeping, Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar, And the squadrons above me sweeping.

"Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave, With their eagles o'er him bending, And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave, Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"

[Illustration: THE TWO GRENADIERS From the Painting by P. Grotjohann]

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BELSHAZZAR[26] (1822)

To midnight now the night drew on; In slumber deep lay Babylon.

The King's house only was all aflare, For the King's wild crew were at revel there.

Up there in the King's own banquet hall, Belshazzar held royal festival.

The satraps were marshaled in glittering line And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.

The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.

The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed, The wine made swell his heart with pride.

Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred, And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,

And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd Of servile courtiers applauding loud.

The King commanded with haughty stare; The slave was gone, and again was there.

Much wealth of gold on his head bare he; 'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.

And the King took hold of a sacred cup With his impious hand, and they filled it up;

And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught, And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:

"Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon; I am the King of Babylon!"

But scarce had the awful words been said When the King's heart withered with secret dread.

The boisterous laughter was stifled all, And corpselike still did wax the hall;

Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came The likeness of a man's hand in flame,

And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame, And wrote and vanished, and no more came.

The King stark-staring sat, a-quail, With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,

The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred; They sat like statues, without a word.

The Magians came; but none of them all Could read those letters of flame on the wall.

But in that same night of his vaunting vain By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.

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THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR[27] (1823)

1

The mother stood at the window; Her son lay in bed, alas! "Will you not get up, dear William, To see the procession pass?"

"O mother, I am so ailing, I neither can hear nor see; I think of my poor dead Gretchen, And my heart grows faint in me."

"Get up, we will go to Kevlaar; Your book and your rosary take; The Mother of God will heal you, And cure your heart of its ache."

The Church's banners are waving, They are chanting a hymn divine; 'Tis at Köln is that procession, At Köln upon the Rhine.

With the throng the mother follows; Her son she leads with her; and now They both of them sing in the chorus, "Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"

2

The Mother of God at Kevlaar Is drest in her richest array; She has many a cure on hand there, Many sick folk come to her today.

And her, for their votive offerings, The suffering sick folk greet With limbs that in wax are molded, Many waxen hands and feet.

And whoso a wax hand offers, His hand is healed of its sore; And whoso a wax foot offers, His foot it will pain him no more.

To Kevlaar went many on crutches Who now on the tight-rope bound, And many play now on the fiddle Had there not one finger sound.

The mother she took a wax taper, And of it a heart she makes "Give that to the Mother of Jesus, She will cure thee of all thy aches."

With a sigh her son took the wax heart, He went to the shrine with a sigh; His words from his heart trickle sadly, As trickle the tears from his eye.

"Thou blest above all that are blest, Thou virgin unspotted divine, Thou Queen of the Heavens, before thee I lay all my anguish and pine.

"I lived with my mother at Köln, At Köln in the town that is there, The town that has hundreds many Of chapels and churches fair.

"And Gretchen she lived there near us, But now she is dead, well-a-day! O Mary! a wax heart I bring thee, Heal thou my heart's wound, I pray!

"Heal thou my heart of its anguish, And early and late, I vow, With its whole strength to pray and to sing, too, 'Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!'"

3

The suffering son and his mother In their little bed-chamber slept; Then the Mother of God came softly, And close to the sleepers crept.

She bent down over the sick one, And softly her hand did lay On his heart, with a smile so tender, And presently vanished away.

The mother sees all in her dreaming, And other things too she marked; Then up from her slumber she wakened, So loudly the town dogs barked.

There lay her son, to his full length Stretched out, and he was dead; And the light on his pale cheek flitted Of the morning's dawning red.

She folded her hands together, She felt as she knew not how, And softly she sang and devoutly, "Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"

* * * * *

THE RETURN HOME (1823-24)

1[28]

Once upon my life's dark pathway Gleamed a phantom of delight; Now that phantom fair has vanished, I am wholly wrapt in night.

Children in the dark, they suffer At their heart a spasm of fear; And, their inward pain to deaden, Sing aloud, that all may hear.

I, a madcap child, now childlike In the dark to sing am fain; If my song be not delightsome, It at least has eased my pain.

2[29]

We sat at the fisherman's cottage, And gazed upon the sea; Then came the mists of evening, And rose up silently.

The lights within the lighthouse Were kindled one by one, We saw still a ship in the distance On the dim horizon alone.

We spoke of tempest and shipwreck, Of sailors and of their life, And how 'twixt clouds and billows They're tossed, 'twixt joy and strife.

We spoke of distant countries From North to South that range, Of strange fantastic nations, And their customs quaint and strange.

The Ganges is flooded with splendor, And perfumes waft through the air, And gentle people are kneeling To Lotos flowers fair.

In Lapland the people are dirty, Flat-headed, large-mouthed, and small; They squat round the fire and, frying Their fishes, they shout and they squall.

The girls all gravely listened, Not a word was spoken at last; The ship we could see no longer, Darkness was settling so fast.

3[30]

You lovely fisher-maiden, Bring now the boat to land; Come here and sit beside me, We'll prattle hand in hand.

Your head lay on my bosom, Nor be afraid of me; Do you not trust all fearless Daily the great wild sea?

My heart is like the sea, dear, Has storm, and ebb, and flow, And many purest pearl-gems Within its dim depth glow.

4[31]

My child, we were two children, Small, merry by childhood's law; We used to creep to the henhouse, And hide ourselves in the straw.

We crowed like cocks, and whenever The passers near us drew— "Cock-a-doodle!" They thought 'Twas a real cock that crew.

The boxes about our courtyard We carpeted to our mind, And lived there both together— Kept house in a noble kind.

The neighbor's old cat often Came to pay us a visit; We made her a bow and courtesy, Each with a compliment in it.

After her health we asked, Our care and regard to evince— (We have made the very same speeches To many an old cat since).

We also sat and wisely Discoursed, as old folks do, Complaining how all went better In those good old times we knew—

How love, and truth, and believing Had left the world to itself, And how so dear was the coffee, And how so rare was the pelf.

The children's games are over, The rest is over with youth— The world, the good games, the good times, The belief, and the love, and the truth.

5[32]

E'en as a lovely flower, So fair, so pure thou art; I gaze on thee, and sadness Comes stealing o'er my heart.

My hands I fain had folded Upon thy soft brown hair, Praying that God may keep thee So lovely, pure, and fair.

6[33]

I would that my love and its sadness Might a single word convey, The joyous breezes should bear it, And merrily waft it away.

They should waft it to thee, beloved, This soft and wailful word, At every hour thou shouldst hear it, Where'er thou art 'twould be heard.

And when in the night's first slumber Thine eyes scarce closing seem, Still should my word pursue thee Into thy deepest dream.

7[34]

The shades of the summer evening lie On the forest and meadows green; The golden moon shines in the azure sky Through balm-breathing air serene.

The cricket is chirping the brooklet near, In the water a something stirs, And the wanderer can in the stillness hear A plash and a sigh through the furze.

There all by herself the fairy bright Is bathing down in the stream; Her arms and throat, bewitching and white, In the moonshine glance and gleam.

8[35]

I know not what evil is coming, But my heart feels sad and cold; A song in my head keeps humming, A tale from the times of old.

The air is fresh and it darkles, And smoothly flows the Rhine; The peak of the mountain sparkles In the fading sunset-shine.

The loveliest wonderful maiden On high is sitting there, With golden jewels braiden, And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb sits combing, And ever the while sings she A marvelous song through the gloaming Of magical melody.

It hath caught the boatman, and bound him In the spell of a wild, sad love; He sees not the rocks around him, He sees only her above.

The waves through the pass keep swinging, But boatman or boat is none; And this with her mighty singing The Lorelei hath done.

[Illustration: ROCKY COAST From the Painting by Ludwig von Hofmann.]

* * * * *

TWILIGHT[36] (1825-26)

By the dim sea-shore Lonely I sat, and thought-afflicted. The sun sank low, and sinking he shed Rose and vermilion upon the waters, And the white foaming waves, Urged on by the tide, Foamed and murmured yet nearer and nearer— A curious jumble of whispering and wailing, A soft rippling laughter and sobbing and sighing, And in between all a low lullaby singing. Methought I heard ancient forgotten legends, The world-old sweet stories, Which once, as a boy, I heard from my playmates, When, of a summer's evening, We crouched down to tell stories On the stones of the doorstep, With small listening hearts, And bright curious eyes; While the big grown-up girls Were sitting opposite At flowery and fragrant windows, Their rosy faces Smiling and moonshine-illumined.

* * * * *

HAIL TO THE SEA[37] (1825-26)

Thalatta! Thalatta! Hail to thee, thou eternal sea! Hail to thee, ten thousand times, hail! With rejoicing heart I bid thee welcome, As once, long ago, did welcome thee Ten thousand Greek hearts— Hardship-battling, homesick-yearning, World-renowned Greek hearts.

The billows surged, They foamed and murmured, The sun poured down, as in haste, Flickering ripples of rosy light; Long strings of frightened sea-gulls Flutter away shrill screaming; War-horses trample, and shields clash loudly, And far resounds the triumphant cry: Thalatta! Thalatta!

Hail to thee, thou eternal sea! Like accents of home thy waters are whispering, And dreams of childhood lustrous I see Through thy limpid and crystalline wave, Calling to mind the dear old memories Of dear and delightful toys, Of all the glittering Christmas presents, Of all the red-branched forests of coral, The pearls, the goldfish and bright-colored shells, Which thou dost hide mysteriously Deep down in thy clear house of crystal.

Oh, how have I languished in dreary exile! Like unto a withered flower In the botanist's capsule of tin, My heart lay dead in my breast. Methought I was prisoned a long sad winter, A sick man kept in a darkened chamber; And now I suddenly leave it, And outside meets me the dazzling Spring, Tenderly verdant and sun-awakened; And rustling trees shed snowy petals, And tender young flowers gaze on me With their bright fragrant eyes, And the air is full of laughter and gladness, And rich with the breath of blossoms, And in the blue sky the birds are singing— Thalatta! Thalatta!

Oh, my brave Anabasis-heart! How often, ah! how sadly often Wast thou pressed hard by the North's fair Barbarians! From large and conquering eyes They shot forth burning arrows; With crooked words as sharp as a rapier They threatened to pierce my bosom; With cuneiform angular missives they battered My poor stunned brains; In vain I held out my shield for protection, The arrows hissed and the blows rained down, And hard pressed I was pushed to the sea By the North's fair Barbarians— And, breathing freely, I greet the sea, The sea my deliverer, the sea my friend— Thalatta! Thalatta!

[Illustration: PLAY OF THE WAVES From the Painting by Arnold Böcklin]

* * * * *

IN THE HARBOR[38] (1825-26)

Happy is he who hath reached the safe harbor, Leaving behind him the stormy wild ocean, And now sits cosy and warm In the good old Town-Cellar of Bremen.

How sweet and homelike the world is reflected, In the chalice green of Rhinewine Rummer. And how the dancing microcosm Sunnily glides down the thirsty throat! Everything I behold in the glass— History, old and new, of the nations, Both Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans, Forests of citron and big reviews, Berlin and Shilda, and Tunis and Hamburg; But, above all, thy image, Beloved, And thy dear little head on a gold-ground of Rhenish!

Oh, how fair, how fair art thou, Dearest! Thou art as fair as the rose! Not like the Rose of Shiras, That bride of the nightingale, sung by Hafis, Not like the Rose of Sharon, That mystic red rose, exalted by prophets— Thou art like the "Rose, of the Bremen Town-Cellar," Which is the Rose of Roses; The older it grows the sweeter it blossoms, And its breath divine it hath all entranced me, It hath inspired and kindled my soul; And had not the Town-Cellar Master gripped me With firm grip and steady, I should have stumbled!

That excellent man! We sat together And drank like brothers; We spoke of wonderful mystic things, We sighed and sank in each other's arms, And me to the faith of love he converted; I drank to the health of my bitterest foes, And I forgave all bad poets sincerely, Even as I may one day be forgiven;

I wept with devotion, and at length The doors of salvation were opened unto me, Where the sacred Vats, the twelve Apostles, Silently preach, yet oh, so plainly, Unto all nations.

These be men forsooth! Of humble exterior, in jackets of wood, Yet within they are fairer and more enlightened Than all the Temple's proud Levites, Or the courtiers and followers of Herod, Though decked out in gold and in purple; Have I not constantly said: Not with the herd of common low people, But in the best and politest of circles The King of Heaven was sure to dwell!

Hallelujah! How lovely the whisper Of Bethel's palm-trees! How fragrant the myrtle-trees of Hebron! How sings the Jordan and reels with joy! My immortal spirit likewise is reeling, And I reel in company, and, joyously reeling, Leads me upstairs and into the daylight That excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen.

Thou excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen! Dost see on the housetops the little angels Sitting aloft, all tipsy and singing? The burning sun up yonder Is but a fiery and drunken nose— The Universe Spirit's red nose; And round the Universe Spirit's red nose Reels the whole drunken world.

* * * * *

A NEW SPRING (1831)

1[39]

Soft and gently through my soul Sweetest bells are ringing, Speed you forth, my little song, Of springtime blithely singing!

Speed you onward to a house Where sweet flowers are fleeting! If, perchance, a rose you see, Say, I send her greeting!

2[40]

Thy deep blue eyes enchant me, So lovingly they glow; My gazing soul grows dreamy, My words come strange and slow.

Thy deep blue eyes enchant me Wherever I may go: An ocean of azure fancies O'erwhelms me with its flow.

3[41]

Was once an ancient monarch, Heavy his heart, his locks were gray, This poor and aged monarch Took a wife so young and gay.

Was once a page-boy handsome, With lightsome heart and curly hair, The silken train he carried Of the queen so young and fair.

Dost know the old, old story? It sounds so sweet, so sad to tell— Both were obliged to perish, They loved each other too well.

* * * * *

ABROAD[42] (1834)

Oh I had once a beauteous Fatherland! High used to seem The oak—so high!—the violets nodded kind— It was a dream.

In German I was kissed, in German told (You scarce would deem How sweetly rang the words): "I love thee well!—" It was a dream.

* * * * *

THE SPHINX[43] (1839)

It is the fairy forest old, With lime-tree blossoms scented! The moonshine with its mystic light My soul and sense enchanted.

On, on I roamed, and, as I went, Sweet music o'er me rose there; It is the nightingale—she sings Of love and lovers' woes there.

She sings of love and lovers' woes, Hearts blest, and hearts forsaken: So sad is her mirth, so glad her sob, Dreams long forgot awaken.

Still on I roamed, and, as I went, I saw before me lowering On a great wide lawn a stately pile, With gables peaked and towering.

Closed were its windows, everywhere A hush, a gloom, past telling; It seemed as though silent Death within These empty halls were dwelling.

A Sphinx lay there before the door, Half-brutish and half-human, A lioness in trunk and claws, In head and breasts a woman.

A lovely woman! The pale cheek Spoke of desires that wasted; The hushed lips curved into a smile, That wooed them to be tasted.

The nightingale so sweetly sang, I yielded to their wooing; And as I kissed that winning face, I sealed my own undoing.

The marble image thrilled with life, The stone began to quiver; She drank my kisses' burning flame With fierce convulsive shiver.

She almost drank my breath away; And, to her passion bending, She clasped me close, with her lion claws My hapless body rending.

Delicious torture, rapturous pang! The pain, the bliss, unbounded! Her lips, their kiss was heaven to me, Her claws, oh, how they wounded.

The nightingale sang: "O beauteous Sphinx! O love, love! say, why this is, That with the anguish of death itself Thou minglest all thy blisses?

"Oh beauteous Sphinx, oh, answer me, That riddle strange unloosing! For many, many thousand years Have I on it been musing!"

GERMANY[44] (1842)

Germany's still a little child, But he's nursed by the sun, though tender; He is not suckled on soothing milk, But on flames of burning splendor.

One grows apace on such a diet; It fires the blood from languor. Ye neighbors' children, have a care This urchin how ye anger!

He is an awkward infant giant; The oak by the roots uptearing, He'll beat you till your backs are sore, And crack your crowns for daring.

He is like Siegfried, the noble child, That song-and-saga wonder; Who, when his fabled sword was forged, His anvil cleft in sunder!

To you, who will our Dragon slay, Shall Siegfried's strength be given. Hurrah! how joyfully your nurse Will laugh on you from heaven!

The Dragon's hoard of royal gems You'll win, with none to share it. Hurrah! how bright the golden crown Will sparkle when you wear it!

* * * * *

ENFANT PERDU[45] (1851)

In Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years" and more, A lonely outpost have I held—in vain! With no triumphant hope or prize in store, Without a thought to see my home again.

I watched both day and night; I could not sleep Like my well-tented comrades far behind, Though near enough to let their snoring keep A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined.

And thus, when solitude my spirits shook, Or fear—for all but fools know fear sometimes— To rouse myself and them, I piped and took A gay revenge in all my wanton rhymes.

Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready, And when some sneaking rascal showed his head, My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady, And gave his brains an extra dose of lead.

But war and justice have far different laws, And worthless acts are often done right well; The rascals' shots were better than their cause, And I was hit—and hit again, and fell!

That outpost is abandoned; while the one Lies in the dust, the rest in troops depart; Unconquered—I have done what could be done, With sword unbroken, and with broken heart.

* * * * *

THE BATTLEFIELD OF HASTINGS[46] (1855)

Deeply the Abbot of Waltham sighed When he heard the news of woe: How King Harold had come to a pitiful end, And on Hastings field lay low.

Asgod and Ailrik, two of his monks, On the mission drear he sped To search for the corse on the battle-plain Among the bloody dead.

The monks arose and went sadly forth, And returned as heavy-hearted. "O Father, the world's a bitter world, And evil days have started.

"For fallen, alack! is the better man; The Bastard has won, and knaves And scutcheoned thieves divide the land, And make the freemen slaves.

"The veriest rascals from Normandy, In Britain are lords and sirs. I saw a tailor from Bayeux ride With a pair of golden spurs.

"O woe to all who are Saxon born! Ye Saxon saints, beware! For high in heaven though ye dwell, Shame yet may be your share.

"Ah, now we know what the comet meant That rode, blood-red and dire, Across the midnight firmament This year on a broom of fire.

"'Twas an evil star, and Hastings' field Has fulfilled the omen dread. We went upon the battle-plain, And sought among the dead.

"While still there lingered any hope We sought, but sought in vain; King Harold's corse we could not find Among the bloody slain."

Asgod and Ailrik spake and ceased. The Abbot wrung his hands. Awhile he pondered, then he sighed, "Now mark ye my commands.

"By the stone of the bard at Grendelfield, Just midway through the wood, One, Edith of the Swan's Neck, dwells In a hovel poor and rude.

"They named her thus, because her neck Was once as slim and white As any swan's—when, long ago, She was the king's delight.

"He loved and kissed, forsook, forgot, For such is the way of men. Time runs his course with a rapid foot; It is sixteen years since then.

"To this woman, brethren, ye shall go, And she will follow you fain To the battle-field; the woman's eye Will not seek the king in vain.

"Thereafter to Waltham Abbey here His body ye shall bring, That Christian burial he may have, While for his soul we sing."

The messengers reached the hut in the wood At the hour of midnight drear. "Wake, Edith of the Swan's Neck, rise And follow without fear.

"The Duke of Normandy has won The battle, to our bane. On the field of Hastings, where he fought, The king is lying slain.

"Arise and come with us; we seek His body among the dead. To Waltham Abbey it shall be borne. 'Twas thus our Abbot said."

The woman arose and girded her gown, And silently went behind The hurrying monks. Her grizzly hair Streamed wildly on the wind.

Barefoot through bog and bush and briar She followed and did not stay, Till Hastings and the cliffs of chalk They saw at dawn of day.

The mist, that like a sheet of white The field of battle cloaked, Melted anon; with hideous din The daws flew up and croaked.

In thousands on the bloody plain Lay strewn the piteous corses, Wounded and torn and maimed and stripped, Among the fallen horses.

The woman stopped not for the blood; She waded barefoot through, And from her fixed and staring eyes The arrowy glances flew.

Long, with the panting monks behind, And pausing but to scare The greedy ravens from their food, She searched with eager care.

She searched and toiled the livelong day, Until the night was nigh; Then sudden from her breast there burst A shrill and awful cry.

For on the battle-field at last His body she had found. She kissed, without a tear or word, The wan face on the ground.

She kissed his brow, she kissed his mouth, She clasped him close, and pressed Her poor lips to the bloody wounds That gaped upon his breast.

His shoulder stark she kisses too, When, searching, she discovers Three little scars her teeth had made When they were happy lovers.

The monks had been and gotten boughs, And of these boughs they made A simple bier, whereon the corse Of the fallen king was laid.

To Waltham Abbey to his tomb The king was thus removed; And Edith of the Swan's Neck walked By the body that she loved.

She chanted litanies for his soul With a childish, weird lament That shuddered through the night. The monks Prayed softly as they went.

* * * * *

THE ASRA[47] (1855)

Every evening in the twilight, To and fro beside the fountain Where the waters whitely murmured, Walked the Sultan's lovely daughter.

And a youth, a slave, was standing Every evening by the fountain Where the waters whitely murmured; And his cheek grew pale and paler.

Till one eve the lovely princess Paused and asked him on a sudden: "I would know thy name and country; I would know thy home and kindred."

And the slave replied, "Mohammed Is my name; my home is Yemen; And my people are the Asras; When they love, they love and die."

* * * * *

THE PASSION FLOWER[48] (1856)

I dreamt that once upon a summer night Beneath the pallid moonlight's eerie glimmer I saw where, wrought in marble dimly bright, A ruin of the Renaissance did shimmer.

Yet here and there, in simple Doric form, A pillar like some solitary giant Rose from the mass, and, fearless of the storm, Reared toward the firmament its head defiant.

O'er all that place a heap of wreckage lay, Triglyphs and pediments and carven portals, With centaur, sphinx, chimera, satyrs gay— Figures of fabled monsters and of mortals.

A marble-wrought sarcophagus reposed Unharmed 'mid fragments of these fabled creatures; Its lidless depth a dead man's form inclosed, The pain-wrung face now calm with softened features.

A group of straining caryatides With steadfast neck the casket's weight supported, Along both sides whereof there ran a frieze Of chiseled figures, wondrous ill-assorted.

First one might see where, decked in bright array, A train of lewd Olympians proudly glided, Then Adam and Dame Eve, not far away, With fig-leaf aprons modestly provided.

Next came the people of the Trojan war— Paris, Achilles, Helen, aged Nestor; Moses and Aaron, too, with many more— As Judith, Holofernes, Haman, Esther.

Such forms as Cupid's one could likewise see, Phoebus Apollo, Vulcan, Lady Venus, Pluto and Proserpine and Mercury, God Bacchus and Priapus and Silenus.

Among the rest of these stood Balaam's ass— A speaking likeness (if you will, a braying)— And Abraham's sacrifice, and there, alas! Lot's daughters, too, their drunken sire betraying.

Near by them danced the wanton Salome, To whom John's head was carried in a charger; Then followed Satan, writhing horribly, And Peter with his keys—none e'er seemed larger

Changing once more, the sculptor's cunning skill Showed lustful Jove misusing his high power, When as a swan he won fair Leda's will, And conquered Danaë in a golden shower.

Here was Diana, leading to the chase Her kilted nymphs, her hounds with eyeballs burning; And here was Hercules in woman's dress, His warlike hand the peaceful distaff turning.

Not far from them frowned Sinai, bleak and wild, Along whose slope lay Israel's nomad nation; Next, one might see our Savior as a child Amid the elders holding disputation.

Thus were these opposites absurdly blent— The Grecian joy of living with the godly Judean cast of thought!—while round them bent The ivy's tendrils, intertwining oddly.

But—wonderful to say!—while dreamily I gazed thereon with glance returning often, Sudden methought that I myself was he, The dead man in the splendid marble coffin.

Above the coffin by my head there grew A flower for a symbol sweet and tragic, Violet and sulphur-yellow was its hue, It seemed to throb with love's mysterious magic.

Tradition says, when Christ was crucified On Calvary, that in that very hour These petals with the Savior's blood were dyed, And therefore is it named the passion-flower.

The hue of blood, they say, its blossom wears, And all the instruments of human malice Used at the crucifixion still it bears In miniature within its tiny chalice.

Whatever to the Passion's rite belongs, Each tool of torture here is represented The crown of thorns, cup, nails and hammer, thongs, The cross on which our Master was tormented.

'Twas such a flower at my tomb did stand, Above my lifeless form in sorrow bending, And, like a mourning woman, kissed my hand, My brow and eyes, with silent grief contending.

And then—O witchery of dreams most strange!— By some occult and sudden transformation This flower to a woman's shape did change— 'Twas she I loved with soul-deep adoration!

'Twas thou in truth, my dearest, only thou; I knew thee by thy kisses warm and tender. No flower-lips thus softly touched my brow, Such burning tears no flower's cup might render! Mine eyes were shut, and yet my soul could see Thy steadfast countenance divinely beaming, As, calm with rapture, thou didst gaze on me, Thy features in the spectral moonlight gleaming.

We did not speak, and yet my heart could tell The hidden thoughts that thrilled within thy bosom. No chaste reserve in spoken words may dwell— With silence Love puts forth its purest blossom.

A voiceless dialogue! one scarce might deem, While mute we thus communed in tender fashion, How time slipped by like some seraphic dream Of night, all woven of joy and fear-sweet passion.

Ah, never ask of us what then we said; Ask what the glow-worm glimmers to the grasses, Or what the wavelet murmurs in its bed, Or what the west wind whispers as it passes.

Ask what rich lights from carbuncles outstream, What perfumed thoughts o'er rose and violet hover— But never ask what, in the moonlight's beam, The sacred flower breathed to her dead lover.

I cannot tell how long a time I lay, Dreaming the ecstasy of joys Elysian, Within my marble shrine. It fled away— The rapture of that calm untroubled vision.

Death, with thy grave-deep stillness, thou art best, Delight's full cup thy hand alone can proffer; The war of passions, pleasure without rest— Such boons are all that vulgar life can offer.

Alas! a sudden clamor put to flight My bliss, and all my comfort rudely banished; 'Twas such a screaming, ramping, raging fight That mid the uproar straight my flower vanished.

Then on all sides began a savage war Of argument, with scolding and with jangling. Some voices surely I had heard before— Why, 'twas my bas-reliefs had fall'n a-wrangling!

Do old delusions haunt these marbles here, And urge them on to frantic disputations? The terror-striking shout of Pan rings clear, While Moses hurls his stern denunciations.

Alack! the wordy strife will have no end, Beauty and Truth will ever be at variance, A schism still the ranks of man will rend Into two camps, the Hellenes and Barbarians.

Both parties thus reviled and cursed away, And none who heard could tell the why or whether, Till Balaam's ass at last began to bray And soon outbawled both gods and saints together.

With strident-sobbing hee-haw, hee-haw there— His unremitting discords without number— That beast so nearly brought me to despair That I cried out—and wakened from my slumber.

* * * * *