The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems and Ballads, by Heinrich Heine.
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Title: Poems and Ballads of Heinrich Heine
Author: Heinrich Heine
Translator: Emma Lazarus
Release date: March 21, 2010 [eBook #31726]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND BALLADS OF HEINRICH HEINE ***
POEMS AND BALLADS
OF
HEINRICH HEINE.
TRANSLATED BY EMMA LAZARUS.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF HEINE.
NEW YORK: R. WORTHINGTON, 770 BROADWAY.
1881.
Copyright,
1881, By EMMA LAZARUS.
PRESS OF J. J. LITTLE, & CO.,
NOS. 10 TO 20 ASTOR PLACE, NEW YORK.
Harry Heine, as he was originally named, was born
in Düsseldorf on the Rhine, December 13th, 1799. His
father was a well-to-do Jewish merchant; and his mother,
the daughter of the famous physician and Aulic Counlor
Von Geldern, was, according to her son, a "femme
distinguée." His early childhood fell in the days of the
occupation of Düsseldorf by the French revolutionary
troops; and, in the opinion of his biographer Strodtmann,
the influence of the French rule, thus brought directly to
bear upon the formation of his character, can scarcely
be exaggerated. His education was begun at the Franciscan
monastery of the Jesuits at Düsseldorf, where the
[Pg viii]
teachers were mostly French priests; and his religious instruction
was at the same time carried on in a private
Jewish school. His principal companions were Jewish
children, and he was brought up with a rigid adherence
to the Hebrew faith. Thus in the very seed-time of his
mental development were simultaneously sown the germs
of that Gallic liveliness and mobility which pre-eminently
distinguish him among German authors, and also of his
ineradicable sympathy with things Jewish, and his inveterate
antagonism to the principles and results of
Christianity.
As the medical profession was in those days the only
one open to Jews in Germany, the boy Heine was destined
for a commercial career; and in 1815 his father
took him to Frankfort to establish him in a banking-house.
But a brief trial proved that he was utterly unsuited
to the situation, and after two months he was back
again in Düsseldorf. Three years later he went to Hamburg,
and made another attempt to adopt a mercantile
pursuit under the auspices of his uncle, the wealthy
banker Solomon Heine. The millionaire, however, was
very soon convinced that the "fool of a boy" would
[Pg ix]
never be fit for a counting-house, and declared himself
willing to furnish his nephew with the means for a three
years, course at the university, in order to obtain a doctor's
degree and practice law in Hamburg. It was well-known
that this would necessitate Harry's adoption of
Christianity; but his proselytism did not strike those
whom it most nearly concerned in the same way as it has
impressed the world. So far from this being the case,
he wrote in 1823 to his friend Moser: "Here the question
of baptism enters; none of my family is opposed to
it except myself; but this myself is of a peculiar nature.
With my mode of thinking, you can imagine that the
mere act of baptism is indifferent to me; that even symbolically
I do not consider it of any importance, and that
I shall only dedicate myself more entirely to upholding
the rights of my unhappy brethren. But, nevertheless,
I find it beneath my dignity and a taint upon my honor,
to allow myself to be baptized in order to hold office in
Prussia. I understand very well the Psalmist's words:
'Good God, give me my daily bread, that I may not
blaspheme thy name!'"
The uncle's offer was accepted. In 1819 Harry Heine
[Pg x]
entered the university of Bonn. During his stay in
Hamburg began his unrequited passion for a cousin who
lived in that city—a passion which inspired a large portion
of his poetry, and indeed gave the keynote to his
whole tone and spirit. He sings so many different versions
of the same story of disappointment, that it is impossible
to ascertain, with all his frank and passionate
confidences, the true course of the affair. After a few
months at Bonn, he removed to the university of Göttingen,
which he left in 1822 for Berlin. There is no
other period in the poet's career on which it is so pleasant
to linger as on the two years of his residence in the
Prussian capital. In his first prose work, the Letters
from Berlin, published in the Rhenish-Westphalian Indicator,
he has painted a vivid picture of the life and
gayety of the city during its most brilliant season. "At
the last rout I was particularly gay, I was so beside myself,
that I really do not know why I did not walk on
my head. If my most mortal enemy had crossed my
path, I should have said to him, To-morrow we will kill
each other, but to-night I will cordially cover you with
kisses. Tu es beau, tu es charmant! Tu es l'objet de ma[Pg xi]flamme je t'adore, ma belle! these were the words my lips
repeated instinctively a hundred times; and I pressed
everybody's hand, and I took off my hat gracefully to
everybody, and all the men returned my civilities. Only
one German youth played the boor, and railed against
what he called my aping the manners of the foreign
Babylon; and growled out in his old Teutonic, beer-drinking
bass voice, 'At a cherman masquerade, a Cherman
should speak Cherman.' Oh German youth! how
thy words strike me as not only silly, but almost blasphemous
at such moments, when my soul lovingly embraces
the entire universe, when I would fain joyfully embrace
Russians and Turks, and throw myself in tears on the
breast of my brother the enslaved African!"
The doors of the most delightful, intellectual society
of Germany were opened to the handsome young poet,
who is described in a contemporary sketch as "beardless,
blonde and pale, without any prominent feature in his
face, but of so peculiar a stamp that he attracted the attention
at once, and was not readily forgotten."
The daughter of Elise von Hohenhausen, the translator
of Byron, has given us a charming sketch of her
[Pg xii]
mother's Thursday evening receptions, which Heine
regularly attended, and where he read aloud the unpublished
manuscripts of his Lyrical Intermezzo, and his tragidies,
Almansor and Ratcliffe. "He was obliged to submit,"
writes Mlle. von Hohenhausen, "to many a harsh criticism,
to much severe censure; above all, he was subjected
to a great deal of chaffing about his poetic sentimentality,
which a few years later awakened so warm a
response in the hearts of German youth. The poem, ending,
Zu deinen süssen Füssen ('At thy sweet feet'), met
with such laughing opposition, that he omitted it from
the published edition. Opinions of his talents were various;
a small minority had any suspicion of his future
undisputed poetical fame. Elise von Hohenhausen, who
gave him the name of the German Byron, met with many
contradictions. This recognition, however, assured her an
imperishable gratitude on Heine's part."
Not only his social and intellectual faculties found
abundant stimulus in this bracing atmosphere, but his
moral convictions were directed and strengthened by the
philosophy and personal influence of Hegel, and his
sympathies with his own race were aroused to enthusiastic
[Pg xiii]
activity by the intelligent Jews who were at that
time laboring in Berlin for the advancement of their oppressed
brethren. In 1819 had been formed the "Society
for the Culture and Improvement of the Jews,"
which, though centered in Berlin, counted members all
over Prussia, as well as in Vienna, Copenhagen, and New
York. Heine joined it in 1822, and became one of its
most influential members. In the educational establishment
of the Verein, he gave for several months three
hours of historical instruction a week. He frankly confessed
that he, the "born enemy of all positive religions,"
was no enthusiast for the Hebrew faith, but he was none
the less eager to proclaim himself an enthusiast for the
rights of the Jews and their civil equality.
During his brief visit to Frankfort, he had had personal
experience of the degrading conditions to which
his people were subjected.
The contrast between his choice of residence for
twenty-five years in Paris, and the tenacity with which
Goethe clung to his home, is not as strongly marked as
the contrast between the relative positions in Frankfort
of these two men. Goethe, the grandson of the honored
[Pg xiv]
chief-magistrate, surrounded in his cheerful burgher-life,
as Carlyle says, by "kind plenty, secure affection, manifold
excitement and instruction," might well cherish
golden memories of his native city. For him, the gloomy
Judengasse, which he occasionally passed, where "squalid,
painful Hebrews were banished to scour old clothes," was
but a dark spot that only heightened the prevailing
brightness of the picture. But to this wretched by-way
was relegated that other beauty-enamored, artist-soul,
Heine, when he dared set foot in the imperial Free
Town. Here must he be locked in like a wild beast,
with his miserable brethren every Sunday afternoon. And
if the restrictions were a little less barbarous in other
parts of Germany, yet how shall we characterize a
national policy which closed to such a man as Heine
every career that could give free play to his genius, and
offered him the choice between money changing and
medicine?
It was not till he had exhausted every means of endeavoring
to secure a remission of the humiliating decree
that he consented to the public act of apostasy, and
was baptized in the summer of 1825 in the Lutheran
[Pg xv]
parsonage of Heiligenstadt with the name of Johann
Christian Heinrich. During the period of his earnest
labors for Judaism, he had buried himself with fervid
zeal in the lore of his race, and had conceived the idea
of a prose-legend, the Rabbi of Bacharach, illustrating the
persecutions of his people during the middle ages. Accounts
vary as to the fate of this work; some affirm that
the manuscript was destroyed in a fire at Hamburg, and
others that the three chapters which the world possesses
are all that were ever completed. Heine, one of the
most subjective of poets, treats this theme in a purely
objective manner. He does not allow himself a word of
comment, much less of condemnation concerning the
outrages he depicts. He paints the scene as an artist,
not as the passionate fellow-sufferer and avenger that he
is. But what subtle eloquence lurks in that restrained
cry of horror and indignation which never breaks forth,
and yet which we feel through every line, gathering itself
up like thunder on the horizon for a terrific outbreak at
the end!
Would that we could hear the explosion burst at last!
We long for it throughout as the climax and the necessary
[Pg xvi]
result of the lowering electric influences of the story, and
we lay aside the never-to-be completed fragment with the
oppression of a nightmare. But a note of such tremendous
power as Heine had struck in this romance, required
for its prolonged sustention a singleness of purpose
and an exaltation of belief in its efficacy and truth,
which he no longer possessed after his renunciation of
Judaism. He was no longer at one with himself, for no
sooner was the irrevocable step taken than it was bitterly
repented, not as a recantation of his principles—for as
such, no one who follows the development of his mind
can regard it,—but as an unworthy concession to tyrannic
injustice. How sensitive he remained in respect to
the whole question is proved most conspicuously by his
refraining on all occasions from signing his Christian
name, Heinrich. Even his works he caused to appear
under the name of H. Heine, and was once extremely
angry with his publisher for allowing by mistake the full
name to be printed.
The collection of poems in prose and verse known as
the Reisebilder, embraced several years of Heine's literary
activity, and represent widely-varying phases of his
[Pg xvii]
intellectual development. We need only turn to the
volumes themselves to guess how bitter an experience
must have filled the gap between the buoyant stream of
sunny inspiration that ripples through the Harz-Reise,
and the fierce spirit of vindictive malice which prompted
Heine, six years later, to conclude his third and last volume
with his unseemly diatribe against Count Platen.
Notwithstanding their inequalities, the Reisebilder remain
one of the surest props of Heine's fame. So
clear and perfect an utterance is sufficiently rare in all
languages; but it becomes little short of a miracle when,
as in this case, the medium of its transmission is German
prose, a vehicle so bulky and unwieldy that no one before
Heine had dared to enlist it in the service of airy
phantasy, delicate humor and sparkling wit.
During the summer of 1830, while he was loitering at
Helgoland, he was roused to feverish excitement by the
news of the July Revolution. He inveighed against the
nobility in a preface to a pamphlet, called Kahldorf on
the Nobility, which largely increased the number of his
powerful enemies. The literary censorship had long
mutilated his prose writings, besides materially diminishing
[Pg xviii]
his legitimate income by prohibiting the sale of many
of his works. He now began to fear that his personal
liberty would be restricted as summarily as his literary
activity; and in May, 1831, he took up his residence
in Paris. He perfected himself in the French language,
and by his brilliant essays on French art, German philosophy,
and the Romantic School, soon acquired the
reputation of one of the best prose writers of France, and
the "wittiest Frenchman since Voltaire." He became
deeply interested in the doctrine of St. Simonism, then at
its culminating point in Paris. Its central idea of the
rehabilitation of the flesh, and the sacredness of labor,
found an enthusiastic champion in him who had so long
denounced the impracticable spiritualism of Christianity.
He, the logical clear-headed sceptic in all matters pertaining
to existing systems and creeds, seems possessed
with the credulity of a child in regard to every scheme
of human regeneration, or shall we call it the exaltation
of the Jew, for whom the Messiah has not yet arrived,
but is none the less confidently and hourly expected?
Embittered by repeated disappointments, by his enforced
exile, by a nervous disease which had afflicted him from
[Pg xix]
his youth, and was now fast gaining upon him, and by
the impending shadow of actual want, Heine's tone now
assumes a concentrated acridity, and his poetry acquires
a reckless audacity of theme and treatment. His Neue
Lieder, addressed to notorious Parisian women, were
regarded as an insult to decency. In literary merit
many of them vie with the best of his earlier songs;
but the daring defiance of public opinion displayed in
the choice of subject excluded all other criticism than
that of indignation and rebuke. There is but a single
ray to lighten the gathering gloom of Heine's life at this
period. In a letter dated, April 11th, 1835, occurs his
first mention of his liaison with the grisette Mathilde
Crescence Mirat, who afterwards became his wife. This
uneducated, simple-hearted, affectionate child-wife inspired
in the poet, weary of intellectual strife, a love as
tender and constant as it had been sudden and passionate.
A variety of circumstances having combined to reduce
Heine to extreme want, he had recourse to a step
which has been very severely censured. He applied for
and received from the French government a pension
from the fund set aside for "all those who by their zeal
[Pg xx]
for the cause of the Revolution had more or less compromised
themselves at home or abroad." Now that the
particulars of the case are so well known, it would be superfluous
to add any words of justification; it can only
excite our sympathy for the haughty poet doomed to drain
so bitter a cup. He was pressed to take the oath of naturalization,
but he had too painful experience of the renunciation
of his birthright ever to consent to a repetition
of his error. He would not forfeit the right to have inscribed
upon his tomb-stone: "Here lies a German poet."
In 1844 his uncle Solomon died; and, as there was no
stipulation in the banker's will that the yearly allowance
hitherto granted to Heinrich should continue, the oldest
heir Karl announced that this would altogether cease.
This very cousin Karl had been nursed by Heine at the
risk of his own life during the cholera-plague of 1832 in
Paris. The grief and excitement caused by his kinsman's
ingratitude fearfully accelerated the progress of the malady
which had long been gaining upon the poet, and
which proved to be a softening of the spinal cord.
One eye was paralyzed, he lost the sense of taste, and
complained that everything he ate was like clay. His
[Pg xxi]
physicians agreed that he had few weeks to live, and he
felt that he was dying, little divining that the agony was
to be prolonged for ten horrible years. It is unnecessary
to dwell upon these years of darkness, in which
Heine, shriveled to the proportions of a child, languished
upon his "mattress-grave" in Paris. His patient
resignation, his indomitable will, his sweetness and
gayety of temper, and his unimpaired vigor and fertility
of intellect, are too fresh in the memory of many living
witnesses, and have been too frequently and recently described
to make it needful here to enlarge upon them.
In the crucial hour he proved no recreant to the convictions
for which he had battled and bled during a lifetime.
Of the report that his illness had materially modified
his religious opinions, he has left a complete and
emphatic denial. "I must expressly contradict the rumor
that I have retreated to the threshold of any sort of
church, or that I have reposed upon its bosom. No!
My religious views and convictions have remained free
from all churchdom; no belfry chime has allured me, no
altar taper has dazzled me. I have trifled with no symbol,
and have not utterly renounced my reason. I have
[Pg xxii]
forsworn nothing—not even my old pagan-gods, from
whom it is true I have parted, but parted in love and
friendship."
"I am no longer a divine biped," he wrote. "I am
no longer the freest German after Goethe, as Ruge
named me in healthier days. I am no longer the great
hero No. 2, who was compared with the grape-crowned
Dionysius, whilst my colleague No. 1 enjoyed the title of
a Grand Ducal Wlimarian Jupiter. I am no longer a
joyous, somewhat corpulent Hellenist, laughing cheerfully
down upon the melancholy Nazarenes. I am now
a poor fatally-ill Jew, an emaciated picture of woe, an
unhappy man."
Thus side by side flowed on the continuous streams of
that wit and pathos which he poured forth inexhaustibly
to the very end. No word of complaint or impatience
ever passed his lips; on the contrary, with his old, irresistible
humor, his fancy played about his own privations
and sufferings, and tried to alleviate for his devoted wife
and friends the pain of the heart-rending spectacle.
His delicate consideration prompted him to spare his
venerable mother all knowledge of his illness. He wrote
[Pg xxiii]
to her every month in his customary cheerful way; and, in
sending her the latest volumes of his poetry, he caused a
separate copy always to be printed, from which all allusions
to his malady were expunged. "For that matter,"
he said, "that any son could be as wretched and miserable
as I, no mother would believe."
Alas! if he had known how much more eloquent and
noble a refutation his life would afford than his mistaken
passionate response to the imputations of his enemies!
Is this patient martyr the man of whom Börne wrote:
"with his sybarite nature, the fall of a rose-leaf can
disturb Heine's slumber. He whom all asperities fatigue,
whom all discords trouble, let such a one neither move
nor think—let him go to bed and shut his eyes."
Only in his last poems, which were not to be published
till after his death, has Heine given free vent to the bitterness
of his anguish. During the long sleepless night
when he lay writhing with pain or exhausted by previous
paroxysms, his mind, preternaturally clear and vigorous,
conceived the glowing fantasies of the Romancero, or the
Job-like lamentations of the Lazarus poems. This
mental exercise was his protection against insanity: and
[Pg xxiv]
the thought of his cherished wife, he affirmed, was his
only safeguard against the delirious desire to seize the
morphine bottle by his side, and with one draught put
an end to his agony. On the night of the 16th of February,
1856, came the long-craved release—and on the
20th of February without mass or "Kaddish," according
to his express wish, he was buried in the cemetery of
Montmartre.
I have been wont to bear my forehead high— My stubborn temper yields with no good grace. The king himself might look me in the face, And yet I would not downward cast mine eye. But I confess, dear mother, openly, However proud my haughty spirit swell, When I within thy blessed presence dwell, Oft am I smit with shy humility. Is it thy soul, with secret influence, Thy lofty soul piercing all shows of sense, Which soareth, heaven-born, to heaven again? Or springs it from sad memories that tell How many a time I caused thy dear heart pain, Thy gentle heart, that loveth me so well!
In fond delusion once I left thy side; Unto the wide world's end I fain would fare, To see if I might find Love anywhere, And lovingly embrace Love as a bride. Love sought I in all paths, at every gate; Oft and again outstretching suppliant palms, I begged in vain of Love the slightest alms, But the world laughed and offered me cold hate. Forever I aspired towards Love, forever Towards Love, and ne'ertheless I found Love never,— And sick at heart, homeward my steps did move. And lo! thou comest forth to welcome me; And that which in thy swimming eyes I see, That is the precious, the long-looked-for Love.
The nightingale, she sang so sweet, I yielded to her tone. I touched, I kissed the lovely face, And lo, I was undone!
The marble image stirred with life, The stone began to move; She drank my fiery kisses' glow With panting thirsty love.
She well nigh drank my breath away; And, lustful still for more, Embraced me, and my shrinking flesh With lion claws she tore.
Oh, rapturous martyrdom! ravishing pain! Oh, infinite anguish and bliss! With her horrible talons she wounded me, While she thrilled my soul with a kiss.
Thy lily-white body filleth me With loathing, for I see How many more in years to come Shall enjoy thee, after me."
"My noble knight, my Tannhäuser, Such words thou should'st not say. Far liefer had I thou dealt'st me a blow, As often ere this day.
"Far liefer had I thou should'st strike me low, Than such an insult speak; Cold, thankless Christian that thou art, Thus the pride of my heart to break.
"Because I have loved thee far too well, To hear such words is my fate, Farewell! I give thee free leave to go. Myself, I open the gate!"
"How hearty, how happy, how reckless her laugh! How the pearly white teeth outpeep! Ah! when I remember that laugh of hers, Then sudden tears must I weep.
"I love her, I love her with all my might, And nothing my love can stay, 'Tis like to a rushing cataract, Whose force no man can sway.
"For it dashes on from cliff to cliff, And roareth and foameth still. Though it break its neck a thousand times, Its course it would yet fulfill.
"Were all of the boundless heavens mine, I would give them all to her, I would give her the sun, I would give her the moon And each star in its shining sphere.
"Thou with thy spirit must atone For the joys thou hast loved so well; Accursed art thou! thou are condemned Unto everlasting hell!"
III.
So quickly fared Sir Tannhäuser,— His feet were bleeding and torn— Back to the Venusberg he came, Ere the earliest streak of morn.
Dame Venus, awakened from her sleep, From her bed upsprang in haste. Already she hath with her arms so white Her darling spouse embraced.
Forth from her nose outstreams the blood, The tears from her eyelids start; She moistens the face of her darling spouse With the tears and blood of her heart.
In the realm of shades, on a throne of gold, By the side of her royal spouse, behold Fair Proserpine, With gloomy mien, While deep sighs upheave her bosom.
"The roses, the passionate song I miss Of the nightingale; yea, and the sun's warm kiss. Midst the Lemur's dread, And the ghostly dead, Now withers my life's young blossom.
"I am fast in the yoke of marriage bound To this cursèd rat-hole underground. Through my window at night, Peers each ghostly sprite, And the Styx murmurs lower and lower.
"To-day I have Charon invited to dinner, He is bald, and his limbs they grow thinner and thinner, And the judges, beside, Of the dead, dismal-eyed, In such company I shall grow sour."
III.
Whilst their grievance each is venting In the underworld below, Ceres, on the earth lamenting, Wrathful wanders to and fro.
With no hood in sloven fashion, Neither mantle o'er her gown, She declaims that lamentation Unto all of us well-known;
"Is the blessed spring-tide here? Has the earth again grown young? Green the sunny hills appear, And the icy band is sprung.
Not a harvest dance without her, She will frisk with Jack and Bess; Midst the geese and calves about her She will prove a lioness.
Hail, sweet rest! I breathe free, single, Here in Orcus far from strife, Punch with Lethe I will mingle, And forget I have a wife.
V.
At times thy glance appeareth to importune, As though thou didst some secret longing prove. Alas, too well I know it,—thy misfortune A life frustrated, a frustrated love.
How sad thine eyes are! Yet have I no power To give thee back thy youth with pleasure rife; Incurably thy heart must ache each hour For love frustrated and frustrated life.
Dumb are the trumpets, cymbals, drums and shawms to-night, The angel shapes engirdled with the sword, About the royal tent keep watch and ward, Six thousand to the left, six thousand to the right.
They guard the king from evil dreams, from death. Behold! a frown across his brow they view. Then all at once, like glimmering flames steel-blue, Twelve thousand brandished swords leap from the sheath.
But back into their scabbards drop the swords Of the angelic host; the midnight pain Hath vanished, the king's brow is smooth again; And hark! the royal sleeper's murmured words:
"O Shulamite, the lord of all these lands am I, This empire is the heritage I bring, For I am Judah's king and Israel's king; But if thou love me not, I languish and I die."
Marked is the likeness 'twixt the beautiful And youthful brothers, albeit one appear Far paler than the other, more serene; Yea, I might almost say, far comelier Than his dear brother, who so lovingly Embraced me in his arms. How tender, soft Seemed then his smile, and how divine his glance! No wonder that the wreath of poppy-flowers About his head brought comfort to my brow, And with its mystic fragrance soothed all pain From out my soul. But such delicious balm A little while could last. I can be cured Completely only when that other youth, The grave, pale brother, drops at last his torch. Lo, sleep is good, better is death—in sooth The best of all were never to be born.
Oh far too narrow is the street, The roofs seem tottering downward. The very pavement burns my feet; I hurry faster onward.
XXI.
Here to her vows I listened, I tread the empty halls, And where her tear-drops glistened, The poisoned serpent crawls.
XXII.
The quiet night broods over roof-tree and steeple; Within this house dwelt my treasure rare. 'Tis long since I left the town and its people, But the house stands still on the self-same square.
Here stands, too, a man; toward heaven he gazes, And he wrings his hands with a wild despair. I shudder with awe when his face he raises, For the moonlight shows me mine own self there.
Oh, pale sad creature! my ghost, my double, Why dost thou ape my passion and tears, That haunted me here with such cruel trouble, So many a night in the olden years?
XXIII.
How can'st thou slumber calmly, Whilst I alive remain? My olden wrath returneth, And then I snap my chain.
Know'st thou the ancient ballad Of that dead lover brave, Who rose and dragged his lady At midnight to his grave?
Believe me, I am living; And I am stronger far, Most pure, most radiant maiden, Than all the dead men are.
I, a most wretched Atlas, the huge world, The whole huge world of sorrow I must carry. Yea, the unbearable must bear, though meanwhile My heart break in my bosom.
Thou haughty heart, thyself hast willed it thus, Thou would'st be happy, infinitely happy, Or infinitely wretched, haughty heart! And lo! now art thou wretched.
XXVII.
The years are coming and going, Whole races are home to their rest; But never ceases the passion That burns within my breast.
Only once more I would see thee, And make thee a low salaam, And with my dying breath, murmur: "I love you still, Madame!"
At last they parted; their spirits Met but in visions rare. They are long since dead and buried, Though scarcely themselves aware.
XXXVI.
And when I lamented my cruel lot, You yawned in my face and you answered not. But now that I set it in daintiest rhyme, You flourish my trumpet all the time.
XXXVII.
I called the devil and he came, His face with wonder I must scan; He is not ugly, he is not lame, He is a delightful, charming man. A man in the prime of life, in fact, Courteous, engaging and full of tact. A diplomat, too, of wide research Who cleverly talks about state and church. [Pg 91]A little pale, but that is en règle, For now he is studying Sanscrit and Hegel. His favorite poet is still Fouqué; With the brawls of the critics he meddles no more, For all such things he has given o'er, Unto his grandmother Hecaté. He praised my forensic works that he saw, He had dabbled a little himself in law. He said he was proud my acquaintance to make, And should prize my friendship, and bowed as he spake. And asked if we had not met before At the house of the Spanish Ambassador? Then I noted his features line by line, And found him an old acquaintance of mine.
XXXVIII.
Mortal, sneer not at the devil; Life's a short and narrow way, And perdition everlasting Is no error of the day.
My heart is heavy; from the present It yearns towards those old days again, When still the world seemed fair and pleasant, And men lived happy, free from pain.
Now all things seem at six and sevens, A scramble and a constant dread; Dead is the Lord God in the heavens, Below us is the devil dead.
And all folks sad and mournful moving, Wear such a cross, cold, anxious face; Were there not still a little loving, There would not be a resting place.
XLII.
As the moon with splendor pierces Through the dark cloud-veil of night, From my darksome Past emerges Once again a dream of light.
Only bear with me in patience, If the notes of former wrongs Many a time distinctly echo In the latest of my songs.
Wait! the slow reverberation Of my grief will soon depart, And a spring of new song blossom In my healed, reviving heart.
XLVI.
'Tis time that, more sober and serious grown, From folly at last I break free. I, who so long in comedian's gown, Have played in the play with thee.
The scenes gaily painted were bright to behold, And in ultra-romantic tints shone. My knightly, rich mantle was spangled with gold; Noblest feelings were ever mine own.
But now with grave trouble my thoughts are beset, Although from the stage I depart; And my heart is as wretchedly miserable yet, As though I still acted my part.
Ah God! all unwitting and wholly in jest, What I felt and I suffered I told. I have fought against Death who abode in my breast Like the dying wrestler of old.
XLVII.
The great king Wiswamitra In dire distress is now. He seeks with strife and penance To win Waschischta's cow.
Oh, great King Wiswamitra, Oh what an ox art thou! So much to struggle and suffer, And only for a cow.
Let the snow without be piled, Let the howling storm rage wild, Beating o'er the window-pane,— I will never more complain, For within my heart bide warm Spring-tide joy and sweetheart's form.
LIV.
Some to Mary bend the knee, Others unto Paul and Peter, I, however, I will worship, Sun of beauty, only thee.
Kiss me, love me, dearest one, Be thou gracious, show me favor, Fairest sun among all maidens, Fairest maiden under the sun.
Lovers' vows, wherefrom thou turnest, Bound me closely to thy heart, Now my jest grows sober earnest, I am pierced by mine own dart.
Laughingly thou stand'st before me— If thou leave me in my need, All the powers of hell come o'er me, I shall shoot myself indeed.
LX.
Our life and the world have too fragment-like grown; To the German Professor I'll hie me anon Who sets in straight order all things overhurled. He will draw up a sensible system, I think, With his nightcap and nightgown he'll stop every chink In this tumble-down edifice known as the world.
LXI.
Long through my racked and weary brain Did endless thoughts and dreams revolve; But now thy lovely eyes, my dear, Have brought me to a firm resolve.
I fain would outpour all my sorrows In a single word to-day. To the merry winds I would trust it, They would merrily bear it away.
They would bear it to thee, my darling, The word of sorrowful grace. Thou should'st hear it at every hour, Thou shouldst hear it in every place.
And scarce in the midnight darkness Shouldst thou close thine eyes in sleep, Ere my whispered word, it would follow, Though thy dream were ever so deep.
LXIV.
Thou hast diamonds, and pearls and jewels, All thy heart covets in store, And the loveliest eyes under heaven— My darling, what wouldst thou more?
They gave me advice, they counseled sense, They overpowered with compliments. Patience! they said, and in my need They'd prove themselves my friends indeed.
Despite their promise to help and protect, I surely had perished of sheer neglect, Had there not come a worthy man, Who bravely to help me now began.
Oh, the worthy man! he gave me to eat; Such kindness as his I shall never forget. I long to embrace him, but never can, For I am myself this excellent man.
LXVII.
This most amiable of fellows Ne'er enough can honored be. Ah! to oysters, Rhine-wine, cordial, Many a time he treated me.
The captains and the corporals, What clever men are they! They think—such miracles as these Occur not every day.
LXIX.
I left you in the midmost of July, To-day, my friends in winter I behold. Then in the heat ye basked so warm and bright, But now ye have grown cool, yea, even cold.
Soon I depart again, and come once more, Then shall I find you neither warm nor cold. And I shall moan lamenting o'er your graves, And mine own heart shall then be poor and old.
LXX.
Oh, to be chased from lovely lips! and torn From lovely arms that clasped as in a dream. I fain had stayed with thee another morn. Then came the postboy with his tinkling team.
E'en such is life, my child, a constant moan— A constant parting, evermore good-byes, Could not thy heart cling fast unto mine own? Couldst thou not hold me steadfast with thine eyes?
LXXI.
All night, in the shadowy post-chaise, We drove through the winter weather. We slept on each other's bosoms, We jested and laughed together.
But how were we both astonished, When morning bade us stir, Betwixt us two sat Cupid, The blindfold passenger.
LXXII.
Lord knows where the reckless creature Chose her transient stopping-place! Swearing through the rainy weather, Everywhere I seek her trace.
Hussars are blowing their trumpets, And to thy doors they ride. A garland of wreathed roses I bring to thee, my bride.
That were a boisterous household, Landpests and soldiery! And in thy little heart, dear, The goodliest quarters be.
LXXVII.
I, too, in my youth did languish, Suffered many a bitter anguish, Burning in love's spell. Now the price of fuel's higher, And extinguished is the fire, Ma foi! and that is well.
Think of this, my youthful beauty, Dry the stupid tears of duty, Quell love's stupid, vague alarms. Since thy life is not yet over, Oh forget thy former lover, Ma foi! within mine arms.
LXXVIII.
Dost thou hate me then so fiercely, Hast thou really changed so blindly? To the world I shall proclaim it, Thou could'st treat me so unkindly.
Say, ungrateful lips, how can you Breathe an evil word of scorning, Of the very man who kissed you So sincerely, yestermorning?
LXXIX.
Yes, they are the self-same eyes That still brighten as I greet her, Yes, they are the self-same lips That made all my life seem sweeter.
But in quiet hours of evening He will sit at home apart, His guitar between his fingers, And sweet dreams within his heart.
Then he smites the chords with passion, All at once begins to strum. Ah, like squalling cats his scrapings, Toll-de-roll and toodle-dum!
LXXXIV.
We scarcely had met ere thy voice and thine eye Assured me, my darling, that thou wast mine own; And had not thy mother stood cruelly nigh, I think I should really have kissed thee anon.
To-morrow again I depart from the town, And hasten forth on my weary track, From the window my yellow-haired lass peeps down, And the friendliest greetings I waft her back.
Lo, on the mountains the sunbeams' first kiss! The bells of the herd ring afar on the plain, My darling, my lambkin, my sun and my bliss, Oh, fain would I see thee and greet thee again!
I gaze on thy windows with curious eyes. Farewell, dearest child, I must vanish for thee, In vain! for the curtain moves not—there she lies, There slumbers she still—and dreams about me?
LXXXVI.
In Halle, near the market, There stand two mighty lions. Ah, lion-strength of Halle town, How art thou tamed and broken!
In Halle, near the market, There stands a mighty giant, He holds a sword and he never moves, He is petrified with terror.
Though thou wert fain to pass me quickly, Yet backward didst thou look by chance; Thy wistful lips were frankly parted, Impetuous scorn was in thy glance.
Would that I ne'er had sought to hold thee, To touch thy fleeing gown's white train! The dear mark of thy tiny footprints Would that I ne'er had found again!
For now thy rare wild charm has vanished, Like others thou art tame to see, Intolerably kind and gentle— Alas! thou art in love with me.
III.
Ne'er can I believe, young beauty, Thy disdainful lips alone: For such big black eyes as thine are Virtue never yet did own.
When I, enraptured by precious kisses, Rest in thine arms for briefest season, Of Germany thou must not ask me, I cannot bear it—there is a reason!
Leave Germany in peace, I do beseech thee, Vex not with endless questions my poor spirit Concerning home, friends, social, kind relations, There is a reason why I cannot bear it.
The oak-tree there is green, the German women Have soft blue eyes—tender they are and fair. They whisper sighs of hope and truth and passion. I have good cause—'tis more than I can bear.
VIII.
Whilst I, after other people's, Others people's darlings gaze, And before strange sweethearts' dwellings Sighing pace through weary days.—
This is the spring-tide's mournful feast, The frantic troops of blooming girls Are rushing hither with flying curls, Moaning they smite their bare white breast, Adonis! Adonis!
The night has come. By the torches' gleams They search the forest on every side, That echoes with anguish far and wide, With tears, mad laughter, and sobs and screams, Adonis! Adonis!
The mortal youth so strangely fair, Lies on the cold turf pale and dead; His heart's blood staineth the flowers red, And a wild lament fulfills the air, Adonis! Adonis!
Daily the fair Sultan's daughter Wanders to and fro at twilight By the margin of the fountain, Where the waters white are rippling.
Daily the young slave at twilight Stands beside the fountain's margin, Where the waters white are rippling, Daily grows he pale and paler.
There one evening moved the princess Toward the slave with words swift-spoken "Tell me, tell me what thy name is, Where thy home is, what thy lineage?"
"To be disinterested in everything, but above all in love and friendship, was my
supreme wish, my maxim, my practice; hence my daring expression at a later
period: 'If I love thee, what is that to thee?' sprang directly from my heart."
Goethe's "Truth and Poetry," Book XIV.
I. CORONATION.
Oh songs of mine! belovèd songs of mine, Up, up! and don your armor, And let the trumpets blare, And lift upon your shield This youthful maiden Who now shall reign supreme Over my heart, as queen! Hail! hail! thou youthful queen!
From the sun above I snatch the beaming red gold, And weave therewith a diadem For thy consecrated head. From the fluttering azure-silken canopy of heaven, Where blaze the diamonds of night, A precious fragment I cut: And as a coronation mantle, I hang it upon thy royal shoulders. I bestow on thee a court Of richly-attired sonnets, Haughty Terzine and stately stanzas. My wit shall serve thee as courier, My fancy shall be thy fool, Thy herald, whose crest is a smiling tear, Shall be my humor.
But I myself, oh Queen, Low do I kneel before thee, On the cushion of crimson samite, And as homage I dedicate to thee. [Pg 167]The tiny morsel of reason, That has been compassionately spared me By thy predecessor in the realm.
II. TWILIGHT.
On the wan shore of the sea Lonely I sat with troubled thoughts. The sun dropped lower, and cast Glowing red streaks on the water. And the white wide waves, Crowding in with the tide, Foamed and rustled, nearer and nearer, With a strange rustling, a whispering, a hissing, A laughter, a murmur, a sighing, a seething, And amidst all these a mysterious lullaby. I seemed to hear long-past traditions, Lovely old-time fairy-tales, Which as a boy I had heard, From the neighbor's children, When on summer evenings we had nestled On the stone steps of the porch. [Pg 168]With little eager hearts, And wistful cunning eyes, Whilst the grown maidens Sat opposite at their windows Near their sweet-smelling flower pots, With their rosy faces, Smiling and beaming in the moonlight.
III. SUNSET.
The glowing red sun descends Into the wide, tremulous Silver-gray ocean. Ethereal, rosy tinted forms Are wreathed behind him, and opposite, Through the veil of autumnal, twilight clouds, Like a sad, deathly-pale countenance, Breaks the moon, And after her, like sparks of light, In the misty distance, shimmer the stars.
Once there shone forth in heaven, Nuptially united. Luna the goddess, and Sol the god. And around them gathered the stars, Those innocent little children.
But evil tongues whispered dissension, And in bitterness parted The lofty, illustrious pair.
Now all day in lonely splendor The sun-god fares overhead, Worshiped and magnified in song, For the excellence of his glory, By haughty prosperity—hardened men. But at night In heaven wandereth Luna, The poor mother, With her orphaned, starry children; And she shines with a quiet sadness, And loving maidens and gentle poets Dedicate to her their tears and their songs
Poor weak Luna! Womanly-natured, Still doth she love her beautiful consort. Towards evening pale and trembling, She peers forth from light clouds, And sadly gazes after the departing one, And in her anguish fain would call to him, "Come! Come! our children are pining for thee!" But the scornful sun-god, At the mere sight of his spouse, Glows in doubly-dyed purple, With wrath and grief, And implacably he hastens downward To the cold waves of his widowed couch.
Thus did evil-whispering tongues Bring grief and ruin Even upon the immortal gods. And the poor gods in heaven above Painfully wander Disconsolate on their eternal path, And cannot die; [Pg 171]And drag with them The chain of their glittering misery.
But I, the son of man, The lowly-born, the death-crowned one, I murmur no more.
IV. NIGHT ON THE SHORE.
Starless and cold is the night, The sea yawns; And outstretched flat on his paunch, over the sea, Lies the uncouth North-wind. Secretly with a groaning, stifled voice, Like a peevish, crabbed man in a freak of good humor, He babbles to the ocean, And recounts many a mad tale, Stories of murderous giants, Quaint old Norwegian Sagas, And from time to time, with re-echoing laughter, He howls forth The conjuration-songs of the Edda, [Pg 172]With Runic proverbs So mysteriously arrogant, so magically powerful, That the white children of the sea High in the air upspring and rejoice, Intoxicated with insolence.
Meanwhile on the level beach, Over the wave-wetted sand, Strides a stranger whose heart Is still wilder than wind or wave. Where his feet fall Sparks are scattered and shells are cracked. And he wraps himself closer in his gray mantle, And walks rapidly through the windy night, Surely guided by a little light, That kindly and invitingly beams From the lonely fisherman's hut.
Father and brother are on the sea, And quite alone in the hut Bides the fisher's daughter, [Pg 173]The fisher's rarely-beautiful daughter. She sits on the hearth, And listens to the cosy auspicious hum Of the boiling kettle, And lays crackling fagots upon the fire. And blows thereon, Till the flickering red flames With a magic charm are reflected On her blooming face. On her delicate white shoulders Which so pathetically outpeep From the coarse gray smock, And on her little tidy hand Which gathers more closely the petticoat About her dainty loins.
But suddenly the door springs wide, And in steps the nocturnal stranger His eyes rest with confident love On the slim, white maiden, Who stands trembling before him, Like a frightened lily. [Pg 174]And he flings his mantle to the ground And laughs and speaks. "Thou see'st my child! I keep my word. And I come, and with me, comes The olden time when the gods of heaven Descended to the daughters of men, And embraced the daughters of men, And begot with them A race of sceptre-bearing kings, And heroes, the wonder of the world. But thou my child, no longer stand amazed At my divinity. And I beseech thee, boil me some tea with rum, For it is cold out doors, And in such a night-air as this, Even we, the eternal gods, must freeze. And we easily catch a divine catarrh, And an immortal cough."
V. POSEIDON.
The sunbeams played Upon the wide rolling sea. [Pg 175]Far out on the roadstead glimmered the vessel That was to bear me home. But the favoring wind was lacking, And still quietly I sat on the white down, By the lonely shore.
And I read the lay of Odysseus, The old, the eternally-young lay, From whose billowy-rushing pages Joyously into me ascended The breath of the gods, And the lustrous spring-tide of humanity, And the blooming skies of Hellas.
My loyal heart faithfully followed The son of Laertes in his wanderings and vexations, By his side I sat with troubled soul, On the hospitable hearth Where queens were spinning purple.
And I helped him to lie and happily to escape From the dens of giants and the arms of nymphs. [Pg 176]And I followed him into Cimmerian night, Into storm and shipwreck, And with him I suffered unutterable misery.
With a sigh I spake: "Oh, thou cruel Poseidon, Fearful is thy wrath, And I myself tremble For mine own journey home." Scarce had I uttered the words, When the sea foamed, And from the white billows arose The reed-crowned head of the sea-god. And disdainfully he cried: "Have no fear, Poetling! Not in the least will I imperil Thy poor little ship. Neither will I harass thy precious life With too considerable oscillations. For thou, Poetling, hast never offended me, Thou hast not injured a single turret On the sacred stronghold of Priam. [Pg 177]Not a single little lash hast thou singed In the eyelid of my son Polyphemus; And never hast thou been sagely counselled and protected By the goddess of wisdom, Pallas Athene."
Thus exclaimed Poseidon, And plunged again into the sea. And, at his coarse sailor-wit, Laughed under the water Amphitrite, the stout fishwoman, And the stupid daughters of Nereus.
VI. DECLARATION.
Shadowing downward came dusky evening, Wildly the breakers rolled, I sat alone upon the shore and gazed At the white dance of the waves.
And my bosom heaved with the sea, A deep homesickness yearningly seized my heart For thee, oh lovely image, [Pg 178]Who surround'st me everywhere, Who call'st to me everywhere, Everywhere, everywhere, In the rushing of the wind, in the dashing of the sea, And in the sighing of mine own breast.
With a slender reed I wrote upon the sand, "Agnes, I love thee!" But the wicked waves came overflowing That sweet confession, And blotted it out.
Oh brittle reed! oh swiftly-scattered sand! Oh flowing waves, I trust you no more! The heavens grow darker, my heart beats more wildly, And with a mighty hand, from the Norwegian woods, I snatch the loftiest fir, And I plunge it Into Etna's glowing gulf; And, with such a fire-steeped giant's pen, I write on the dusky canopy of heaven, "Agnes, I love thee!"
Each night hereafter overhead shall blaze Those eternal letters of flame. And all future generations of our descendants Shall joyously read the celestial sign, "Agnes, I love thee!"
VII. NIGHT IN THE CABIN.
The ocean hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars, But oh, my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love.
Great are the sea and the heavens, But greater is my heart. And fairer than pearls or stars Glistens and glows my love,
Thou little, youthful maiden, Come unto my mighty heart. My heart, and the sea, and the heavens Are melting away with love.
The belovèd eyes so gentle Hold above my head their vigil; And they glimmer and they beckon From the azure vault of heaven.
On the azure vault of heaven, Still I gaze through blessed hours, Till a white and filmy vapor Veils from me those eyes belovèd.
Against the wooden wall of the ship Where my dreaming head reclines, Break the waves, the wild sea-waves. They whisper and murmur Close into mine ear: "Oh foolish young fellow, Thine arm is short and the sky is far off, And the stars are all firmly nailed above With golden nails. Vain is thy yearning and vain is thy sighing! The best thou canst do is to go to sleep."
I dreamed a dream about a strange vast heath, All overlaid with white and quiet snow. And I beneath that white snow buried lay, And slept the cold and lonely sleep of death.
But from the dark and shadowy heavens yonder, Upon my grave the starry eyes looked down. Those gentle eyes! Triumphantly they sparkled, With still serenity, yet full of love.
VIII. STORM.
The tempest is raging. It lashes the waves, And the waves foaming and rearing in wrath Tower on high, and the white mountains of water Surge as though they were alive, While the little ship over-climbs them With laborious haste, And suddenly plunges down Into the black, wide-yawning abyss of the tide.
O sea. Thou mother of beauty, of the foam-engendered one, Grandmother of love, spare me! Already scenting death, flutters around me The white, ghostly sea-mew, And whets his beak on the mast. And hungers with glutton-greed for the heart Which resounds with the glory of thy daughter, And which the little rogue, thy grandson, Hath chosen for his play-ground.
In vain are my prayers and entreaties, My cry dies away in the rushing storm, In the battle-tumult of the winds. They roar and whistle and crackle and howl Like a bedlam of tones. And amidst them, distinctly I hear Alluring notes of harps, Heart-melting, heart-rending, And I recognize the voice.
Far away on the rocky Scotch coast, Where the little gray castle juts out Over the breaking waves,— There at the lofty-arched window Stands a beautiful suffering woman, Transparently delicate, and pale as marble. And she plays on the harp, and she sings, And the wind stirs her flowing locks, And wafts her melancholy song Over the wide, stormy sea.
IX. CALM.
Calm at sea! The sunbeams flicker Falling on the level water, And athwart the liquid jewels Ploughs the ship her emerald furrows.
By the rudder lies the pilot On his stomach, gently snoring, Near the mast, the tarry ship-boy Stoops at work, the sail repairing.
I however lay on the edge of the vessel, And gazed with dreamy eyes Down into the glass-clear water. And gazed deeper and deeper, Deep down into the bottom of the sea. At first like a twilight mist, Then gradually more distinctly colored, Domes of churches and towers arose, And at last, as clear as sunshine, a whole city, An antique Netherland city, Enlivened with people. Grave men with black mantles, And white ruffs, and chains of honor, And long swords and long faces, Strode over the swarming market-place, Towards the court-house with its high steps, Where the stone effigies of emperors Kept guard with scepter and sword. Near by, past long rows of houses, Past casements like polished mirrors, [Pg 188]And pyramidal, clipped lindens, Wandered, in rustling silks, the young maidens, With slender forms, and flower-faces Decently encircled by their black hoods, And their waving golden hair. Motley-clad folk in Spanish garb Strut past and salute each other. Elderly dames In brown, old-fashioned attire, Missal and rosary in hand, Hasten with tripping steps Towards the great cathedral, Drawn thither by the chiming bells, And by the deep-voiced tones of the organ.
And the far-off chimes smite me also With mysterious awe. Insatiable yearning, profound sadness Steal into my heart, Into my scarcely-healed heart. I feel as if its wounds Were kissed open by belovèd lips, [Pg 189]And began to bleed afresh, With hot, red drops, That fall long and slowly, On an old house below there, In the deep city of the sea;— On an old high-gabled house, Sadly deserted by all living creatures, Save that in the lower window, Sits a maiden, Her head resting on her arms, Like a poor, forsaken child, And I know thee, thou poor forsaken child. Deep down, deep as the sea, Thou hiddest thyself from me, In a childish freak, And never couldst rise again.
And thou sat'st a stranger among strangers, Through long ages, Whilst I, my soul full of grief,— I sought thee over the whole earth. Forever I sought thee, [Pg 190]Thou ever-belovèd, Thou long-lost, Thou found at last! I have found thee, and I see once more Thy sweet face, The wise, loyal eyes, The darling smile, And never again will I leave thee, And I come down to thee now, And with wide-stretched arms, I leap down upon thy breast.
But just at the right moment The captain seized me by the foot, And drew me from the edge of the vessel, And cried with a peevish laugh, "Doctor, are you possessed by the devil?"
XI. PURIFICATION.
Remain in thy deep sea-home, Thou insane dream, Which so many a night [Pg 191]Hast tortured my heart with a counterfeit happiness, And which now as a vision of the sea Dost threaten me even in the broad daylight. Remain there below to all eternity! And I cast moreover down unto thee All my sorrows and sins, And the cap and bells of folly That have jingled so long upon my head. And the cold, sleek serpent's skin Of dissimulation, Which so long has enwound my soul— My sick soul, My God-denying, angel-denying Wretched soul. Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho! Here comes the breeze. Up with the sails! They flutter and belly to the wind. Over the treacherous smooth plain Hastens the ship And the emancipated soul rejoices.
High in heaven stood the sun, Surrounded by white clouds. The sea was calm; And I lay musing on the helm of the ship, Dreamily musing, and, half-awake, Half asleep, I saw Christ, The Savior of the world. In waving white raiment He strode gigantically tall Over land and sea. His head touched heaven, He spread his hands in benediction Over land and sea; And for a heart in his bosom He bore the sun, The red fiery sun, And the red, fiery sun-heart Showered its beams of grace, And its pure love-bestowing light, That illumines and warms Over land and sea.
Peals of festal bells drew hither and thither, As swans might draw by chains of roses The smooth-gliding vessel, And sportively drew it to the verdant banks, Where folk dwelt in a lofty-towered Overhanging town. Oh miracle of peace! How quiet was the town! Hushed was the dull murmur of chattering, sweltering Trade. And through the clean, resounding streets, Walked people clad in white, Bearing branches of palm. And when two such would meet, They looked at each other with ardent sympathy And, trembling with love and self denial, Kissed each other's brow, And glanced upward Towards the sun-heart of the Savior, Which in glad propitiation irradiated downward Its crimson blood: And thrice they exclaimed, "Praised be Jesus Christ!"
Couldst thou have conceived this vision, What wouldst thou have given, Most dearly belovèd,— Thou who art so weak in body and mind, And so strong in faith! Thou who so singly honorest the Trinity, Who kissest daily the pug and the reins and the paws Of thy lofty protectress, And hastenest with canting devotion To the Aulic councilor and to the councilor of justice, And at last to the council of the Realm In the pious city, Where sand and faith flourish, And the long-suffering waters of the sacred Spree Purify souls and dilute tea. Couldst thou have conceived this vision Most dearly belovèd, Thou hadst borne it to the lofty minnows of the market place, With thy pale blinking countenance, Rapt with piety and humility; And their high mightinesses [Pg 195]Ravished and trembling with ecstacy, Would have fallen praying with thee on their knees, And their eyes glowing with beatitude, Would have promised thee an increase of salary, Of a hundred thalers Prussian currency. And thou wouldst have stammered with folded hands, "Praised be Jesus Christ!"
SECOND CYCLUS.
Motto, Xenophon's Anabasis—IV. V.
I. SALUTATION TO THE SEA.
Thalatta! Thalatta! All hail to thee, thou Eternal sea! All hail to thee ten thousand times From my jubilant heart, As once thou wast hailed By ten thousand Grecian hearts, Misfortune-combating, homeward-yearning, World-renowned Grecian hearts.
The waters heaved, They heaved and roared. The sun poured streaming downward Its flickering rosy lights. The startled flocks of sea-mews Fluttered away with shrill screams; The coursers stamped, the shields rattled, And far out, resounded like a triumphal pæan, Thalatta! Thalatta!
All hail to thee, thou Eternal Sea! Like the language of home, thy water whispers to me. Like the dreams of my childhood I see it glimmer. Over thy billowy realm of waves. And it repeats to me anew olden memories, Of all the belovèd glorious sports, Of all the twinkling Christmas gifts, Of all the ruddy coral-trees, Tiny golden fishes, pearls and bright-hued mussels, Which thou dost secretly preserve Below there in thy limpid house of crystal.
Oh, how I have pined in barren exile! Like a withered flower In the tin box of a botanist, My heart lay in my breast. I feel as if all winter I had sat, A sick man, in a dark, sick room, Which now I suddenly leave. And dazzlingly shines down upon me The emerald spring, the sunshine-awakened spring, And the white-blossomed trees are rustling; And the young flowers look at me, With their many-colored, fragrant eyes. And there is an aroma, and a murmuring, and a breathing and a laughter, And in the blue sky the little birds are singing, Thalatta! Thalatta!
Thou valiant, retreating heart, How oft, how bitter oft Did the fair barbarians of the North press thee hard! From their large victorious eyes They darted burning shafts. [Pg 198]With crooked, polished words, They threatened to cleave my breast. With sharp-pointed missives they shattered My poor, stunned brain. In vain I held up against them my shield, The arrows whizzed, the strokes cracked, And from the fair barbarians of the North I was pressed even unto the sea. And now with deep, free breath, I hail the sea, The dear, redeeming sea— Thalatta! Thalatta!
II. TEMPEST.
Gloomy lowers the tempest over the sea, And through the black wall of cloud Is unsheathed the jagged lightning, Swift outflashing, and swift-vanishing, Like a jest from the brain of Chronos. Over the barren, billowy water, Far away rolls the thunder, And up leap the white water-steeds, [Pg 199]Which Boreas himself begot Out of the graceful mare of Erichthon, And the sea-birds flutter around, Like the shadowy dead on the Styx, Whom Charon repels from his nocturnal boat.
Poor, merry, little vessel, Dancing yonder the most wretched of dances! Eolus sends it his liveliest comrades, Who wildly play to the jolliest measures; One pipes his horn, another blows, A third scrapes his growling bass-viol. And the uncertain sailor stands at the rudder, And constantly gazes at the compass, The trembling soul of the ship; And he raises his hands in supplication to Heaven— "Oh, save me, Castor, gigantic hero! And thou conquering wrestler, Pollux."
III. WRECKED.
Hope and love! everything shattered And I myself, like a corpse [Pg 200]That the growling sea has cast up, I lie on the strand, On the barren cold strand. Before me surges the waste of waters, Behind me lies naught but grief and misery; And above me, march the clouds,— The formless, gray daughters of the air, Who from the sea, in buckets of mist, Draw the water, And laboriously drag and drag it, And spill it again in the sea— A melancholy, tedious task, And useless as my own life.
The waves murmur, the sea mews scream, Old recollections possess me; Forgotten dreams, banished visions, Tormentingly sweet, uprise.
There lives a woman in the North, A beautiful woman, royally beautiful. Her slender, cypress-like form [Pg 201]Is swathed in a light, white raiment. Her locks, in their dusky fullness, Like a blessed night, Streaming from her braid-crowned head, Curl softly as a dream Around the sweet, pale face; And from the sweet pale face Large and powerful beams an eye, Like a black sun. Oh thou black sun, how oft, How rapturously oft, I drank from thee The wild flames of inspiration! And stood and reeled, intoxicated with fire. Then there hovered a smile as mild as a dove, About the arched, haughty lips. And the arched, haughty lips Breathed forth words as sweet as moonlight, And delicate as the fragrance of the rose. And my soul soared aloft, And flew like an eagle up into the heavens.
Silence ye waves and sea mews! All is over! joy and hope— [Pg 202]Hope and love! I lie on the ground An empty, shipwrecked man, And press my glowing face Into the moist sand.
IV. SUNSET.
The beautiful sun Has quietly descended into the sea. The surging water is already tinted By dusky night— But still the red of evening Sprinkles it with golden lights. And the rushing might of the tide Presses toward the shore the white waves, That merrily and nimbly leap Like woolly flocks of sheep, Which at evening the singing shepherd boy Drives homeward.
"How beautiful is the sun!" Thus spake after a long silence, the friend [Pg 203]Who wandered with me on the beach. And, half in jest, half in sober sadness, He assured me that the sun Was a beautiful woman, who had for policy Espoused the old god of the sea. All day she wanders joyously In the lofty heavens, decked with purple, And sparkling with diamonds; Universally beloved, universally admired By all creatures of the globe, And cheering all creatures of the globe With the radiance and warmth of her glance. But at evening, wretchedly constrained, She returns once more To the wet home, to the empty arms Of her hoary spouse.
"Believe me," added my friend, And laughed and sighed, and laughed again, "They live down there in the daintiest wedlock; Either they sleep or else they quarrel, [Pg 204]Until high upheaves the sea above them, And the sailor amidst the roaring of the waves can hear How the old fellow berates his wife: 'Round strumpet of the universe! Sunbeam coquette! The whole day you shine for others, And at night for me you are frosty and tired.' After such curtain lectures,— Quite naturally—bursts into tears The proud sun, and bemoans her misery, And bemoans so lamentably long, that the sea god Suddenly springs desperately out of his bed, And quickly swims up to the surface of the ocean, To collect his wits and to breathe."
Thus did I myself see him yester-night, Uprise from the bosom of the sea. He had a jacket of yellow flannel, And a lily-white night cap, And a withered countenance.
'Tis nightfall and paler grows the sea. And alone with his lonely soul, There sits a man on the cold strand And turns his death-cold glances Towards the vast, death-cold vault of heaven, And toward the vast, billowy sea. On airy sails float forth his sighs; And melancholy they return, And find the heart close-locked, Wherein they fain would anchor. And he groans so loud that the white sea-mews, Startled out of their sandy nests, Flutter circling around him. And he laughingly speaks to them thus:
"Ye black-legged birds, With white wings, oversea flutterers! With crooked beaks, salt-water bibbers, Ye oily seal-flesh devourers! Your life is as bitter as your food. I, however, the fortunate, taste naught but sweets! [Pg 206]I taste the fragrance of the rose, The moonshine-nourished bride of the nightingale. I taste still sweeter sugar-plums, Stuffed with whipped cream. And the sweetest of all things I taste, The sweets of loving and of being loved!
"She loves me, she loves me, the dear girl! Now stands she at home on the balcony of her house, And gazes forth in the twilight upon the street, And listens and yearns for me,—really! Vainly does she glance around, and sigh, And sighing she descends to the garden, And wanders midst the fragrance and the moonlight, And talks to the flowers, and tells them How I, her belovèd, am so lovely and so lovable—really! Later in her bed, in her sleep, in her dreams, Blissfully she hovers about my precious image, So that in the morning at breakfast Upon the glistening buttered bread, She sees my smiling face, And she devours it for sheer love—really!"
Thus boasted and boasted he, And meanwhile screamed the sea-mews, As with cold, ironical tittering. The twilight mists ascended, Uncannily forth from lilac clouds Peered the greenish-yellow moon. Loud roared the billows, And deep from the loud roaring sea, As plaintive as a whispering monsoon, Sounded the song of the Oceanides— Of the beautiful, compassionate mermaids, Distinct midst them all the lovely voice Of the silver-footed spouse of Peleus— And they sigh and sing:
"Oh fool, thou fool, thou boasting fool, Tormented with misery! Destroyed are all thy hopes, The playful children of the heart— And ah! thy heart, Niobe-like, Is petrified with grief! In thy brain falls the night, [Pg 208]And therein are unsheathed the lightnings of frenzy, And thou makest a boast of thy trouble! Oh fool, thou fool, thou boasting fool! Stiff-necked art thou as thy forefather, The lofty Titan, who stole celestial fire From the gods, and bestowed it upon man. And tortured by eagles chained to the rock, Olympus-high he flung defiance, flung defiance and groaned, Till we heard it in the depths of the sea, And came to him with the song of consolation. Oh fool, thou fool, thou boasting fool! Thou, however, art more impotent still. 'Twere more seemly that thou shouldst honor the gods, And patiently bear the burden of misery, And patiently bear it, long, so long, Till Atlas himself would lose patience, And cast from his shoulders the ponderous world Into eternal night."
So rang the song of the Oceanides, Of the beautiful compassionate mermaids, [Pg 209]Until louder waves overpowered it. Behind the clouds retired the moon, The night yawned, And I sat long thereafter in the darkness and wept.
VI. THE GODS OF GREECE.
Full-blooming moon, in thy radiance, Like flowing gold shines the sea. With daylight clearness, yet twilight enchantment, Thy beams lie over the wide, level beach. And in the pure, blue starless heavens, Float the white clouds, Like colossal images of gods Of gleaming marble.
No more again! those are no clouds! They are themselves—the gods of Hellas, Who erst so joyously governed the world, But now, supplanted and dead, Yonder, like monstrous ghosts, must fare, Through the midnight skies.
Amazed and strangely dazzled, I contemplate The ethereal Pantheon. The solemnly mute, awfully agitated, Gigantic forms. There is Chronos yonder, the king of heaven; Snow-white are the curls of his head, The world-renowned Olympus-shaking curls. He holds in his hand the quenched lightning, In his face dwell misfortune and grief; But even yet the olden pride. Those were better days, oh Zeus, When thou didst celestially divert thyself With youths and nymphs and hecatombs. But the gods themselves, reign not forever; The young supplant the old, As thou thyself, thy hoary father, And thy Titan-uncle didst supplant Jupiter-Parricida! Thee also, I recognize, haughty Juno; Despite all thy jealous care, Another has wrested thy sceptre from thee, And thou art no longer Queen of Heaven.
And thy great eyes are blank, And thy lily arms are powerless, And nevermore may thy vengeance smite The divinely-quickened Virgin, And the miracle-performing son of God. Thee also I recognize, Pallas Athena! With thy shield and thy wisdom, could'st thou not avert The ruin of the gods? Also thee I recognize, thee also, Aphrodite! Once the golden, now the silvern! 'Tis true that the love-charmed zone still adorns thee But I shudder with horror at thy beauty. And if thy gracious body were to favor me Like other heroes, I should die of terror. Thou seemest to me a goddess-corpse, Venus Libitina! No longer glances toward thee with love, Yonder the dread Ares! How melancholy looks Phoebus Apollo The youth. His lyre is silent, Which once so joyously resounded at the feast of the gods.
Still sadder looks Hephaistos. And indeed nevermore shall the limper Stumble into the service of Hebe, And nimbly pour forth to the assemblage The luscious nectar. And long ago was extinguished The unextinguishable laughter of the gods.
I have never loved you, ye gods! For to me are the Greeks antipathetic, And even the Romans are hateful. But holy compassion and sacred pity Penetrate my heart, When I now gaze upon you yonder, Deserted gods! Dead night-wandering shadows, Weak as mists which the wind scares away. And when I recall how dastardly and visionary Are the gods who have supplanted you, The new, reigning, dolorous gods, Mischief-plotters in the sheep's clothing of humility, Oh then a more sullen rancor possesses me, And I fain would shatter the new Temples, [Pg 213]And battle for you, ye ancient gods,— For you and your good ambrosial cause. And before your high altars, Rebuilt with their extinguished fires, Fain would I kneel and pray, And supplicating uplift mine arms.
Always ye ancient gods, Even in the battles of mortals, Always did ye espouse the cause of the victor. But man is more magnanimous than ye, And in the battles of the gods, he now takes the part Of the gods who have been vanquished.
Thus spake I, and lo, visibly blushed Yonder the wan cloud figures, And they gazed upon me like the dying, Transfigured by sorrow, and suddenly disappeared. The moon was concealed Behind dark advancing clouds. [Pg 214]Loud roared the sea. And triumphantly came forth in the heavens The eternal stars.
VII. THE PHŒNIX.
A bird comes flying out of the West; He flies to the Eastward, Towards the Eastern garden-home, Where spices shed fragrance, and flourish, And palms rustle and fountains scatter coolness. And in his flight the magic bird sings:
"She loves him! she loves him! She carries his portrait in her little heart, And she carries it sweetly and secretly hidden, And knoweth it not herself! But in dreams he stands before her. She implores and weeps and kisses his hands, And calls his name, And calling she awakes, and she lies in affright, And amazed she rubs her beautiful eyes,— She loves him! she loves him!"
Leaning on the mast on the upper deck, I stood and heard the bird's song. Like blackish-green steeds with silver manes, Leapt the white crisp-curling waves. Like flocks of swans glided past, With gleaming sails, the Helgolands, The bold nomads of the North Sea. Above me in the eternal blue Fluttered white clouds, And sparkled the eternal sun, The Rose of heaven, the fire-blossoming, Which joyously was mirrored in the sea. And the heavens and seas and mine own heart Resounded in echo— She loves him! she loves him!
VIII. QUESTION.
By the sea, by the desolate nocturnal sea, Stands a youthful man, His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubt. And with bitter lips he questions the waves: [Pg 216]"Oh solve me the riddle of life! The cruel, world-old riddle, Concerning which, already many a head hath been racked. Heads in hieroglyphic-hats, Heads in turbans and in black caps, Periwigged heads, and a thousand other Poor, sweating human heads. Tell me, what signifies man? Whence does he come? whither does he go? Who dwells yonder above the golden stars?"
The waves murmur their eternal murmur, The winds blow, the clouds flow past. Cold and indifferent twinkle the stars, And a fool awaits an answer.
IX. SEA-SICKNESS.
The gray afternoon clouds Drop lower over the sea, Which darkly riseth to meet them, And between them both fares the ship.
Sea-sick I still sit by the mast And all by myself indulge in meditation, Those world-old ashen-gray meditations, Which erst our father Lot entertained, When he had enjoyed too much of a good thing, And afterward suffered such inconvenience. Meanwhile I think also of old stories; How pilgrims with the cross on their breast in days of yore, On their stormy voyages, devoutly kissed The consoling image of the blessed Virgin. How sick knights in such ocean-trials, Pressed to their lips with equal comfort The dear glove of their lady. But I sit and chew in vexation An old herring, my salty comforter, Midst caterwauling and dogged tribulation.
Meanwhile the ship wrestles With the wild billowy tide. Like a rearing war-horse she stands erect, Upon her stern, till the helm cracks.
Now crashes she headforemost downward once more Into the howling abyss of waters, Then again, as if recklessly love-languid, She tries to recline On the black bosom of the gigantic waves, Which powerfully seethe upward, And immediately a chaotic ocean-cataract Plunges down in crisp-curling whiteness, And covers me with foam.
This shaking and swinging and tossing Is unendurable! Vainly mine eye peers forth and seeks The German coast. But alas! only water, And everywhere water—turbulent water!
Even as the traveller in winter, thirsts For a warm cordial cup of tea, So does my heart now thirst for thee My German fatherland. May thy sweet soil ever be covered With lunacy, hussars and bad verses, [Pg 219]And thin, lukewarm treatises. May thy zebras ever be fattened On roses instead of thistles. Ever may thy noble apes Haughtily strut in negligent attire, And esteem themselves better than all other Priggish heavy-footed, horned cattle. May thine assemblies of snails Ever deem themselves immortal Because they crawl forward so slowly; And may they daily convoke in full force, To discuss whether the cheesemould belongs to the cheese; And still longer may they convene To decide how best to honor the Egyptian sheep, So that its wool may improve And it may be shorn like others, With no difference. Forever may folly and wrong Cover thee all over, oh Germany, Nevertheless I yearn towards thee— For at least thou art dry land.
Happy the man who has reached port, And left behind the sea and the tempest, And who now sits, quietly and warm, In the goodly town-cellar of Bremen.
How pleasantly and cordially The world is mirrored in the wine-glass. And how the waving microcosm Pours sunnily down into the thirsty heart! I see everything in the glass,— Ancient and modern tribes, Turks and Greeks, Hegel and Gans, Citron groves and guard-parades, Berlin and Schilda, and Tunis and Hamburg. Above all the image of my belovèd, The little angel-head against the golden background of Rhine-wine.
Oh how beautiful! how beautiful thou art, belovèd! Thou art like a rose. [Pg 221]Not like the Rose of Shiraz, The Hafiz-besung bride of the nightingale. Not like the Rose of Sharon, The sacred purple extolled by the prophet. Thou art like the rose in the wine-cellar of Bremen. That is the rose of roses, The older it grows the fairer it blooms, And its celestial perfume has inspired me. And did not mine host of the town-cellar of Bremen Hold me fast, fast by my hair, I should tumble head over heels.
The worthy man! we sat together, And drank like brothers. We spake of lofty, mysterious things, We sighed and sank in each other's arms. And he led me back to the religion of love: I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy, And I forgave all bad poets, As I shall some day hope to be forgiven myself. I wept with fervor of piety, and at last The portals of salvation were opened to me, [Pg 222]Where the twelve Apostles, the holy wine-butts, Preach in silence and yet so intelligibly Unto all people.
Those are men! Without, unseemly in their wooden garb, Within, they are more beautiful and brilliant Than all the haughty Levites of the Temple, And the guards and courtiers of Herod, Decked with gold and arrayed in purple. But I have always averred That not amidst quite common folk— No, in the very best society, Perpetually abides the King of Heaven.
Hallelujah! How lovely around me Wave the palms of Beth-El! How fragrant are the myrrh-trees of Hebron! How the Jordan rustles and reels with joy! And my immortal soul also reels, And I reel with her, and, reeling, [Pg 223]The worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen Leads me up-stairs into the light of day.
Thou worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen, Seest thou on the roofs of the houses, Sit the angels, and they are drunk and they sing. The glowing sun up yonder Is naught but a red drunken nose. The nose of the spirit of the universe, And around the red nose of the spirit of the universe Reels the whole tipsy world.
XI. EPILOGUE.
Like the stalks of wheat in the fields, So flourish and wave in the mind of man His thoughts. But the delicate fancies of love Are like gay little intermingled blossoms Of red and blue flowers.
Red and blue flowers! The surly reaper rejects you as useless. The wooden flail scornfully thrashes you, Even the luckless traveler, Whom your aspect delights and refreshes, Shakes his head, And calls you beautiful weeds.
But the rustic maiden, The wearer of garlands, Honors you, and plucks you, And adorns with you her fair locks. And thus decorated she hastens to the dancing-green Where the flutes and fiddles sweetly resound; Or to the quiet bushes Where the voice of her beloved soundeth sweeter still Than fiddles or flutes.
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