VERSES FROM HEINE.

IT makes a man happy, no doubt, But it maketh him weary, i’fegs, To have three lovely women about him, And only a couple of legs. With one I must walk of a morning; At eve with another I rove; And a third comes at noontide, and drags me Right out of my quarters, by Jove! Farewell, irresistible sirens! I have but two legs of my own; Henceforth in some rural seclusion I’ll worship Dame Nature—alone. These fine ladies, understanding Honour must to poets be, Bade me to a lordly luncheon— My great Genius and me. There was soup, ah! it was stunning; There was wine no lip would spurn; There was poultry, simply godlike, There was hare cooked to a turn. They talked I remember of poets, And when I could eat no more, I rose, and acknowledged the honour, And bowed till I reached the door. Frankly, this young man I honour, He exhibits graces rare. Often he has stood me oysters, Also Rhine-wine and liqueurs. And his clothes exactly fit him, And his tie proclaims the swell; And he turns up every morning, And he hopes I’m pretty well, Talks about my reputation, And my wit, and grace of style; And he’d do, if I would let him, Oh, a thousand things the while! And at nights, in rooms surrounded By the fairest of the fair, He declaims my ‘Heavenly’ poems With a soft abstracted air. Truly, is not this refreshing? Such young men as him I praise Are not common; they are growing Rare and rarer nowadays. A young man loves a maiden Who other hopes has fed, And her love loves another love, And to his choice is wed. The maiden marries straightway The handiest man to be had, And this is simple cussedness, And her young man is mad. It is an ancient drama, But any time ’twill fit— Don’t play “first gentleman” unless You want your heart to split. Laid on thy snow-white shoulder My head is at rest; And I listen—and know the unquiet Desire of thy breast. The gorgeous hussars have stormed it, And entered without strife! And, to-morrow, a woman will leave me That I love as my life. What tho’ in the morning she leave me, To-night she is mine— My head is at rest on her shoulder, And her snow-white arms entwine.

Thou wert a blonde-hair’d maid without a stain, So neat, so prim, so cool! I stay’d in vain To see thy bosom’s guarded gates unroll, And Inspiration breathe upon thy soul. A zeal and ardour for those lofty themes, By chilly Reason scorn’d for airy dreams, But wringing from the noble and the good The toil of hand and heart, and brain and blood. On hills with vineyards’ clambering leafage gay, Glass’d in the Rhine we roamed one summer day; Bright was the sun, and from the shining cup Of every flower a giddy scent flew up. A kiss of fire, a deep voluptuous blush, Burn’d on each pink and every rosy bush, Ideal flames in dandelions glow’d And lit each sorriest weed that edged our road. But thou went’st on with even-stepping feet, Clad in white satin, elegant and neat; No child of Netcher’s brush more trim and nice, And in thy stays a little heart of ice.