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HEINE'S 
 
 BOOK OF SONGS 
 
HEINE'S 
 
 BOOK OF SONGS 
 
 Compiled front the Translations by 
 SIR THEODORE MARTIN, K.C.B. 
 
 AND 
 
 EDGAR A. BOWRING, C.B. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER 
 
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 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 This edition of Heine's Book of Songs is an 
 entirely new one in which appears the best work 
 of two of tlie most accomplished translators of 
 Heine s fascinating poetry, Sir Theodore Martin, 
 K. C. B., and Edgar A. Bowring, C. B. Poems 
 almost equal in number have been chosen from the 
 translations by each of these ; but wherever both 
 have translated the same poe?n, the better render- 
 ing Jias been selected for this edition. 
 
HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 Heinrich (or Henry) Heine was born in the 
 Bolkerstrasse, at Dusseldorf, on the 12th of 
 December, 1799 ; but, singularly enough, the ex- 
 act date of his birth was, until recently, unknown 
 to his biographers, who, on the authority of a say- 
 ing of his own, assigned it to the 1st of January, 
 1800, which he boasted made him " the first man 
 of the century." In reply, however, to a specific 
 inquiry addressed to him by a friend on this sub- 
 ject a few years before his death, he stated that he 
 was really born on the day first mentioned, and 
 that the date of 1800 usually given by his biog- 
 raphers was the result of an error voluntarily 
 committed by his family in his favor at the time 
 of the Prussian invasion, in order to exempt him 
 from the service of the King of Prussia. 
 
 By birth he was a Jew, both of his parents hav- 
 ing been of that persuasion. He was the eldest 
 of four children, and his two brothers are (or were 
 recently) still alive, the one being a physician in 
 Russia, and the other an officer in the Austrian 
 service. The famous Solomon Heine, the banker 
 of Hamburg, whose wealth was only equalled 
 by his philanthropy, was his uncle. His father, 
 
VI HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 however, was far from being in opulent circum- 
 stances. When quite a child, he took delight in 
 reading Don Quixote, and used to cry with anger 
 at seeing how ill the heroism of that valiant knight 
 was requited. He says somewhere, speaking of his 
 boyish days, "apple tarts were then my passion. 
 Now it is love, truth, freedom, and crab-soup." 
 He received his earliest education at the Fran- 
 ciscan convent in his native town, and while there 
 had the misfortune to be the innocent cause of the 
 death by drowning of a schoolfellow, an incident 
 recorded in one of the poems in his ' ' Romancero." 
 He mentions the great effect produced upon him 
 by the sorrowful face of a large wooden Christ 
 which was constantly before his eyes in the Con- 
 vent. Even at that early age the germs of what 
 has been called " his fantastic sensibility, the 
 food for infinite irony, " seem to have been devel- 
 oping themselves. A visit of the Emperor Napo- 
 leon to Dusseldorf when he was a boy affected 
 him in a singular manner, and had probably much 
 to do with the formation of those imperialist ten- 
 dencies which are often to be noticed in his char- 
 acter and writings. He was next placed in the 
 Lyceum of Dusseldorf, and in 1816 was sent to 
 Hamburg to study commerce, being intended for 
 mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he was removed to 
 the University at Bonn, which had been founded 
 in the previous year, and there he had the advan- 
 tage of studying under Augustus Schlegel. He 
 seems, however, to have remained there only six 
 months, and to have then gone to the University 
 of Gottingen, where, as he tells us, he was rusti- 
 cated soon after matriculation. He next took up 
 his abode at Berlin, where he applied himself to 
 the study of philosophy, under the direction of 
 
MEMOIR OP VII 
 
 the great Hegel, whose influence, combined with 
 that of the works of Spinoza, undoubtedly had 
 much to do with the formation of Heine's mind, 
 and also determined his future career. From 
 this time we hear no more of his turning mer- 
 chant ; and it is from the date of his residence at 
 Berlin that we may date the rise of that spirit of 
 universal indifference and reckless daring that so 
 strongly characterizes the writings of Heine. 
 Among his associates at this period may be 
 mentioned, in addition to Hegel, Chamisso, 
 Varnhagen von Ense and his well-known wife 
 Rachel, Bopp the philologist, and Grabbe, the 
 eccentricities of whose works were only equalled 
 by the eccentricities of his life. 
 
 Heine's first volume of poetry, entitled " Ge- 
 dichte," or Poems, was published in 1822, the 
 poems being those which, under the name of 
 "Youthful Sorrows," now form the opening 
 of his "Book of Songs." Notwithstanding the 
 extraordinary success afterward obtained by 
 this latter work, his first publication was very 
 coldly received. Some of the poems in it 
 were written as far back as 181 7,* and 
 originally appeared in the Hamburg periodical 
 Der Wackier, or Watchman. Offended at this 
 result, he left Berlin and returned to Gottingen 
 in 1823, where he took to studying law, and" 
 received the degree of Doctor in 1825. He 
 was baptized into the Lutheran Church in the 
 same year, at Heiligenstadt, near that place. He 
 
 * One of the finest in the collection, " The Grenadiers," 
 which is thoroughly ?mbued with the spirit of Berauger, 
 was written as early as 1815, when Heine was not sixteen 
 years old, and before Beranger had written his analogous 
 poems " Le Vieux Drapeau, " " Le Vieux Sergent, " etc. 
 
Vlll HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 afterward said jocularly that he took this course 
 to prevent M. de Rothschild treating- him too fa- 
 millionairely. It is to be feared, however, from 
 the tone of all his works, that his nominal religious 
 opinions sat very lightly upon him through life. 
 He writes as follows on this subject in 1852: 
 " My ancestors belong to the Jewish religion, 
 but I was never proud of this descent ; neither 
 did I ever set store upon my quality of Lutheran, 
 although I belong to the evangelical confession 
 quite as much as the greatest devotees among 
 my Berlin enemies, who always reproached me 
 with a want of religion. I rather felt humiliated 
 at passing for a purely human creature — I whom 
 the philosophy of Hegel led to suppose that I 
 was a god. How proud I then was of my divin- 
 ity ! What an idea I had of my grandeur ! Alas ! 
 that charming time has long passed away, and 
 I cannot think of it without sadness, now that 
 I am lying stretched on my back, while my dis- 
 ease is making terrible progress." 
 
 Previous to this, date, and while living at Ber- 
 lin, Heine published (in 1823) his only two 
 plays, "Almanzor" and " Ratcliff," which were 
 equally unsuccessful on the stage and in print, 
 and which are certainly the least worthy of all his 
 works. Between these two plays he inserted a 
 collection of poetry entitled " Lyrical Interlude," 
 which attracted little attention at the time. In 
 the year 1827, however, he republished this col- 
 lection at Hamburg, in conjunction with his 
 "Youthful Sorrows," giving to the whole the 
 title of the " Book of Songs." In proportion to 
 the indifference with which his poems had been 
 received on their first appearance, was the en- 
 thusiasm which they now excited. They were 
 
MEMOIR OF IX 
 
 read with avidity in every direction, especially in 
 the various universities, where their influence 
 upon the minds of the students was very great. 
 In the year 1852, this work had reached the tenth 
 edition. 
 
 Heine's next great work, his " Reisebilder," 
 or Pictures of Travel, written partly in poetry 
 and partly in prose, was published at Hamburg 
 at various intervals from 1826 to 1831, and, as 
 its name implies, is descriptive of his travels in 
 different countries, especially in England and 
 Italy. The poetical portion of the " Reisebil- 
 der," the whole of which is translated into Eng- 
 lish,, is divided into three parts— " The Return 
 Home," the " Hartz- Tourney, "and " The Baltic," 
 written between 1823 and 1826. This work 
 again met with an almost unprecedented success, 
 and from the date of its publication and that of 
 the " Book of Songs," may be reckoned the com- 
 mencement of a new era in German literature. 
 These remarkable poems exhibit the whole nature 
 of Heine, free from all disguise. The striking 
 originality, the exuberance of fancy, and, above 
 all, the singular beauty and feeling of the versi- 
 fication that characterize nearly the whole of 
 them, stand out in as yet unheard-of contrast to 
 the intense and bitter irony that pervades them — 
 an irony that spared nobody, that spared nothing, 
 not even the most sacred subjects being exempt 
 from the poet's mocking sarcasm. This charac- 
 teristic of Heine only increased as years passed 
 on. In the later years of his life, which were 
 one long-continued agony, his bodily sufferings 
 offer some excuse, it may be, for what would 
 otherwise have been inexcusable in the writings 
 of a great poet. There was doubtless much affec- 
 
X HEINRPCH HEINE. 
 
 tation in the want of all religious and political 
 faith that is so signally apparent in the works of 
 Heine, and yet they betray a real bitterness of 
 feeling that cannot be mistaken. At every page 
 may be traced the malicious pleasure felt by him 
 in exciting the sympathy and admiration of the 
 reader to the highest pitch, and then with a few 
 words — with the last line or the last verse of a long 
 poem, it may be — rudely insulting them, and 
 dashing them to the ground. No better parody 
 of this favorite amusement of Heine can be given 
 than by citing two well-known verses of Dr. 
 Johnson : 
 
 " Hermit old in mossy cell, 
 
 Wearing out life's evening gray, 
 Strike thy pensive breast, and tell 
 Where is bliss, and which the way ?" 
 
 Thus I spake, and frequent sigh'd, 
 Scarce repress'd the falling tear, 
 
 When the hoary sage replied, 
 
 " Come, my lad, and drink some beer !" 
 
 The exuberance of Heine's heart, as has been 
 well said, was only equalled by the dryness of his 
 spirit ; a real enthusiasm was blended with an 
 unquenchable love of satire ; "his exquisite dilet- 
 tanteism made him adore the gods and goddesses 
 of Greece at the expense even of Christianity. " 
 In short, qualities scarcely ever found in combi- 
 nation were combined in him ; in one weak, 
 suffering body two distinct and opposite natures, 
 each equally mighty, were united. Perhaps the 
 best name ever applied to him is that of the 
 " Julian of poetry." 
 
 The French Revolution in 1830 determined 
 Heine's future life. He was then living at Berlin 
 asrain, after having resided at Hamburg and 
 
MEMOIR OF XI 
 
 Munich. He now turned politician and news- 
 paper writer. His Essay on Nobility was written 
 at this time. He presently (in May, 1831) went 
 to live in Paris, where he resided until his death, 
 with the exception of making one or two short 
 visits to his native land. Though the fact is 
 not exactly stated, there can be no doubt that he 
 received some very broad hints from the authori- 
 ties of Prussia to leave that country. From that 
 time, France became his adopted fatherland, and 
 he himself was thenceforward more of a French- 
 man than a German. The Germans have indeed 
 always reproached him as being frivolous and 
 French ; he has often been called the Voltaire 
 of Germany ; but Thiers perhaps described him 
 the most accurately when he spoke of him as be- 
 ing "the wittiest Frenchman since Voltaire." 
 He wrote French as fluently as German ; and the 
 translations of his various works that were pub- 
 lished in Paris in the Revtie des deux Mondes and 
 the Bibliotheque Contemporainc ; or as separate 
 works, were either written by himself, or by his 
 personal friends under his own immediate super- 
 intendence. 
 
 Some of his more important prose works were 
 written soon after he took up his abode in Paris. 
 He wrote, in 1831, a series of articles for the 
 Augsbtirg Gazette on the State of France, which 
 he subsequently collected and published both in 
 French and German. In 1833 appeared his well- 
 known " History of Modern Literature in Ger- 
 many," republished afterward under the title of 
 "The Romantic School," and in French under 
 that of " L'Allemagne." This may be looked 
 upon as his most remarkable prose work, and as 
 the one that most exhibits his characteristic pecu- 
 
XI 1 HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 liarities. The following lively description of it is 
 from the pen of an eminent French critic : ' ' Ac- 
 cording to M. Heine, the whole of the intellect- 
 ual movement of Germany since Lessing and 
 Kant has been a death-struggle against Deism. 
 This struggle he describes with passion, and it 
 may be said that he heads it in person. He 
 ranges his army in order of battle, he gives the 
 signals, and marches the Titans against heaven 
 — Kant,Fichte, Hegel, all those formidable spirits 
 whose every thought is a victory, whose every 
 formula is a cosmogonic bouleversement. Around 
 them, in front or behind, are grouped a crowd 
 of writers, theologians and poets, romance writers 
 and savans. If one of the combatants stops 
 short, like Schelling, the author overwhelms him 
 with invectives. If a timid and poetic band of 
 dreamers, such as Tieck, Novalis, Brentano, and 
 Arnim, try to bring back this feverish Germany 
 to the fresh poetry of the middle ages, he throws 
 himself upon them and disperses them, like those 
 Cobolds in the ' Book of Songs ' who overthrew 
 the angels of paradise. And when the philo- 
 sophical conflict is over, he predicts its conse- 
 quences with a sort of savage delirium. . . . He 
 compares Kant to the bloodthirsty dictators of 
 '93, and proclaims the gospel of pantheism. 
 His theory of the intellectual history of the Ger- 
 mans is altogether false, and should only be 
 consulted as an illustration — alas, too positive ! 
 — of the fever at once mystical and sensual of a 
 certain period of our age." This book produced 
 a perfect storm of fury in Germany. ' ' De- 
 nounced by Menzel and the pietists as an emis- 
 sary of Modern Babylon, cursed by the austere 
 teutomaniacs as a representative of Parisian cor- 
 
MEMOIR OF Xlll 
 
 ruption, Heine was not the less suspected by 
 the democrats, who accused him of treason. To 
 this was added official persecution. " 
 
 Proceeding to his next work, the publication 
 of his ' ' Salon," consisting of an interesting series 
 of essays, etc., commenced at Hamburg in 1834, 
 its fourth and last volume not appearing till 1S40. 
 A long essay on the Women of Shakespeare ap- 
 peared in 1839, and in 1840 a violent personal 
 attack on his old friend, the republican poet 
 Borne, then only recently dead — a work which, 
 with all its talent, did great injury to his reputa- 
 tion. His remaining great prose work, entitled 
 " Lutezia," or Paris, consists of a collection of 
 valuable articles on French politics, arts, and 
 manners, written by him as the correspondent of 
 the Augsburg Gazette between 1840 and 1844. 
 The only other writings of his in prose that need 
 be specified, entitled respectively " Confessions," 
 14 Dr. Faust," and the " Gods in Exile," were 
 written a few years before his death. 
 
 After the publication of the " Reisebilder," 
 Heine's next poetical production was the charm- 
 ing poem of " Atta Troll," which appeared in 
 1841, written in a simple trochaic metre — " four- 
 footed solemn trochees," as he himself expresses 
 it. This poem has been described as the work 
 of a German Ariosto, combining gayety and 
 poetry, irony and imagination in perfect propor- 
 tions. Much worldly wisdom is to be learned 
 from the instructive history of Atta Troll, the 
 dancing bear of the Pyrenees. The striking in- 
 terlude in it of the vision of Herodias among the 
 spirit huntsmen should not be overlooked. 
 
 The marriage of Heine seems to have taken 
 place at about this period. His wife, who is 
 
XIV HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 often spoken of in his poems in terms of deep 
 affection, and whose name was Mathilde, was 
 a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic, and 
 they were married according to the rites of that 
 church. With all his love for Madame Heine, 
 however, he seems to have been very jealous of 
 her, and it is recorded that on one occasion he 
 took it into his head that she had run away from 
 him. He was reassured by hearing the voice of 
 her favorite parrot " Cocotte," which led him to 
 say, that she would never have gone off without 
 taking " Cocotte" with her. In spite of the bit- 
 terness of spirit that pervades all his writings, it 
 is clear that he possessed deep natural affections. 
 His mother survived him ; and though almost 
 entirely separated from her for the last twenty- 
 five years of his life, he often introduces her 
 name in his works with expressions of filial rev- 
 erence. His last visit to Germany in the winter 
 of 1843 seems to have been for the special pur- 
 pose of visiting her at Hamburg, where she re- 
 sided. His friends fancied that the " old woman 
 at the Dammthor" (one of the gates of Ham- 
 burg), of whom he used to speak, was a myth, 
 but she was no other than his mother. Nothing 
 can be more charming than the manner in which 
 he speaks of both her and his wife in the beauti- 
 ful little poem called " Night Thoughts/' (See 
 page 221.) 
 
 In 1844 he published a fresh collection of 
 poems under the title of ' ' New Poems," to which 
 was added as an appendix ' ' Germany, a Winter 
 Tale." The former of these was subsequently 
 added by him to his " Book of Songs," and will 
 be found in its place accordingly in the present 
 Volume, as well as his " New Spring," which 
 
MEMOIR OF XV 
 
 formed a part of the same work. The ' ' Ger- 
 many " is one of his most remarkable works, and 
 contains an account of his journey to Hamburg 
 the previous winter to see his mother that has 
 just been referred to. None of his productions 
 are more thoroughly impregnated with the spirit 
 of satire. Every stage of his journey, from its 
 commencement at the Prussian frontier, to its 
 termination at Hamburg, gives occasion for the 
 display of his wit and sarcastic raillery. It will 
 be seen that many of the passages in the poem 
 were struck out of the original edition by the 
 official Censors. Perhaps the most amusing por- 
 tions are the episode of the author's adventures 
 in the Cavern of Kyffhauser with the famous 
 Emperor Barbarossa (not omitting their little con- 
 versation respecting the guillotine), and the ren- 
 contre with the Goddess Hammonia in the streets 
 of Hamburg, and his subsequent tete-a-tete with 
 her. The extravagance (slightly coarse it must 
 be confessed) of the latter scene is quite worthy 
 of Rabelais, though the poet takes care to tell us 
 that it is intended to imitate Aristophanes. The 
 remonstrances to the King of Prussia, with 
 which the poem concludes, should also not be 
 passed over. 
 
 In the year 1848, after a premonitory attack 
 in 1847 that passed away, that terrible disease 
 which eventually destroyed Heine's life, first as- 
 sailed him in an aggravated form. Commencing 
 with a paralysis of the left eyelid, it extended 
 presently to both eyes and finally terminated in 
 paralysis and atrophy of the legs. The last time 
 he ever left his house was in May, 1848. For 
 eight long years he was confined to his couch, 
 to use his own expression, in a state of ' • death 
 
XVI HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 without its repose, and without the privileges of 
 the dead, who have no need to spend money, 
 and no letters or books to write." But despite 
 his bodily sufferings, his good spirits never 
 seemed to leave him, his love of raillery did but 
 increase, and little did that public whose interest 
 he continued to excite by the wonderful products 
 of his genius know of his distressing state. 
 
 In the years 1850 and 1 851, in the midst of his 
 fearful malady, Heine composed his last great 
 poetical work entitled ' ' Romancero. " This sin- 
 gular volume is divided into three- Books, called 
 respectively "Histories," "Lamentations," and 
 " Hebrew Melodies." The first of these contains 
 a large number of romantic ballads and poems of 
 the most dissimilar character, but all bearing the 
 stamp of the author's peculiar genius ; the second 
 opens with several miscellaneous pieces, including 
 some literary satires, and concludes with twenty 
 pieces bearing the lively title of " Lazarus," and 
 comprising, as some one has observed, the jour- 
 nal of his impressions as a sick man. The " He- 
 brew Melodies" are subdivided into three, en- 
 titled by Heine "Princess Sabbath," "Jehuda 
 ben Halevy," a poem itself in three parts, and 
 ' ' Disputation. " The Jewish descent and Jewish 
 sympathies of the poet are plainly discernible in 
 these Melodies, the most interesting of which, 
 and probably the best of the whole collection, 
 contained in the "Romancero," is that which 
 sets forth the life of Jehuda ben Halevy, the 
 great Hebrew poet of the middle ages. Some 
 critics rank this poem among Heine's very best 
 productions. The concluding piece, " Disputa- 
 tion," is in Heine's wildest style, and seems 
 written for the express purpose of destroying tht 
 
MEMOIR OF XV11 
 
 pleasure excited by the one that precedes it. In 
 none of his works is his mocking spirit more 
 plainly discernible. "It is the most Voltairian 
 scene ever imagined by the sceptical demon of 
 his mind." No one can read this polemical poem 
 without seeing how little Heine himself cared 
 for any received form of religion — for the Chris- 
 tian faith as professed by him, or the Jewish 
 faith into which he was born. The piece ter- 
 minates in Heine's favorite manner, namely, with 
 an unexpected joke in the last line. 
 
 The collection entitled " Latest Poems" was 
 written three years afterward. Its name shows 
 that the end was now not far off. The hand of a 
 master is still visible in all these poems, the most 
 interesting of which is perhaps the " Slave Ship," 
 one of the most powerful productions of Heine's 
 pen. In the year 1855, he published a French 
 translation of his " New Spring" in tia& Revue des 
 deux Mondes. And now the end really arrived. 
 
 On the 17th February, 1856, Henry Heine was 
 at length released from his sufferings in his house 
 in the Avenue Matignon, No. 3, as appears from 
 the obituary notice. The smallness of the attend- 
 ance at his funeral would seem to show that there 
 was some truth in the saying that he had many ad- 
 mirers but few friends. The only names of note 
 that are recorded as having been present on the oc- 
 casion are Mignet, Gautier, and Dumas. And this 
 was the man who was recognized as the successor 
 of Goethe in the throne of poetry in Germany, and 
 whose songs were already household words in all 
 parts of that country ! His humor did not leave 
 him till the very last. A few days before his death 
 Hector Berlioz called on him just as a tiresome 
 German professor was leaving the room after 
 
XV111 HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 wearying him with his uninteresting conversation. 
 "I am afraid you will find me very stupid, my 
 dear fellow ! The fact is, I have just been ex- 
 changing thoughts with Dr. ," was his remark. 
 
 Only a day or two before he expired, he sent 
 back to the printer the last proofs of a new edition 
 of the " Reisebilder." 
 
 Heine left a singular will behind him, in which 
 he begged that all religious solemnities should be 
 dispensed with at his funeral, and that, although 
 he called himself a Lutheran, no Lutheran minister 
 should officiate on the occasion. He added that 
 this was not a mere freak of a freethinker, for 
 that he had for the last four years dismissed all 
 the pride with which philosophy had filled him, 
 and felt once more the power of religious truth. 
 He also begged for forgiveness for any offence 
 which, in his ignorance, he might have given to 
 good manners and morals. 
 
 When the private papers of Louis Philippe fell 
 into the hands of the populace at the sack of the 
 Tuileries in February, 1848, it was discovered 
 that Heine had for many years enjoyed a pension 
 of some 200/. a year on the Civil List. This 
 discovery gave an opening to the republicans for 
 violent attacks on him ; but there does not ap- 
 pear to have been anything in the circumstances 
 of the case to make this transaction discreditable 
 to either the giver or the receiver of the pension. 
 
 Heine is described as having lived in the sim- 
 plest manner, occupying three small rooms on 
 the third floor, the ?nenage comprising, in addi- 
 tion to his wife and himself, no one but an old 
 negress as a servant, and " Cocotte," who has 
 been already alluded to. 
 
 Heine is beyond question the greatest poet 
 
MEMOIR OF XIX 
 
 that has appeared in Germany since the death of 
 Goethe. Enough has been said in the course of 
 this brief sketch of his life to show the singular, 
 the unprecedented character of his genius, and to 
 illustrate that combination in his person of two 
 separate natures that we have stated to exist. 
 What more touching trait of character was ever 
 heard of than the simple fact that although the 
 last eight years of his life were spent » a state of 
 intolerable agony, he left his mother in ignorance 
 of his sufferings to the very last ? Yes, when 
 stricken with total blindness, and when dying 
 literally by inches, all his letters to the "old 
 woman at the Dammthor" were written in the 
 most cheerful, happy tone, and he made her be- 
 lieve that his only reason for employing an 
 amanuensis instead of writing with his own hand 
 was that he had a slight affection in his eyes, 
 which would be cured with a little care ! 
 
 The following appreciation of the character of 
 Heine, written while he was still alive, but when 
 the shades of darkness and death were slowly 
 gathering round hkn, may serve as a fitting ter- 
 mination to these few pages : " It may be said 
 that Heine bears within him all the misery of a 
 mighty literature that has fallen from his ideal. 
 Let this be his excuse. But now his eyes are 
 closing on this perishable world, whose contra- 
 dictions and wretchedness provoked his painful 
 gayety ; another world is opening on his mind. 
 There, no more misery, no more irritating con- 
 trasts, no more revolting disenchantments ; there, 
 all problems are resolved, all struggles cease. 
 If irony, in the case of a capricious and ardent 
 intelligence, could be the faithful mirror of things 
 below, there is no room save for confidence and 
 
XX HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 respect in that spiritual world that his soul's 
 looks are fast discovering. He sought for se- 
 renity in that light raillery which enveloped the 
 whole universe, and played his part in it with 
 grace ; but this serenity was incomplete and 
 false, and often suffered his ill-cured sorrows to 
 break forth. True serenity is a higher thing ; it 
 is to be found in the intelligence and adoration 
 of that ideal which nothing can affect, that truth 
 which no shadow can obscure." And so with 
 these words of kindly sympathy, Heinrich Heine^ 
 — farewell \ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE THIRD EDITION OF 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 It is the fairy forest old, 
 
 With lime-tree blossoms scented ! 
 The moonshine had 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 glad is her mirth, so sad her sob, 
 Dreams long forgot awaken. 
 
 Still on I roamed, and, as I went, 
 
 I saw before me louring 
 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. 
 
•2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 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 hush'd lips curved into a smile 
 
 That woo'd them to be tasted. 
 
 The nightingale so sweetly sang, 
 
 I yielded to their wooing ; 
 And as I kissed that winning face, 
 
 I seal' d 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 rae- 
 
 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 ? 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2 3 
 
 " O beauteous Sphinx, oh answer me, 
 
 That riddle strange unloosing ' 
 For many, many thousand years 
 
 Have I been on it musing ! " 
 * * * * * * 
 
 All this I might have said very well in good 
 prose. . . . But if one reads his old poems 
 through again, to give them, 'in view of a new 
 edition, some polishing touches, one is somehow 
 surprised into the old melodious habit of rhyme 
 and cadence, and lo ! the verses, with which I 
 introduce this third edition of ' ' The Book of 
 Songs." O Phoebus Apollo ! if these verses are 
 bad, thou wilt readily forgive me. . . . For 
 thou art an omniscient God, and thou knowest 
 very well why I have been for so many years 
 unable to occupy myself with metre and the 
 clink of rhyme. . . . Thou knowest why the 
 flame, which once enraptured the world with a 
 brilliant display of fireworks, was suddenly di- 
 verted perforce to much more serious conflagra- 
 tions. . . . Thou knowest why it is now gnaw- 
 ing my heart away with a silent heat. . . . 
 Thou, O great and beauteous God, dost under- 
 stand me — thou who, upon occasion, dost ex- 
 change the golden lyre for the sturdy bow and 
 the deadly arrows. . . . Dost thou still remem- 
 ber, too, that Marsyas, whom thou didst flay 
 alive ? That was a long time back, and a similar 
 example might be again needed. . . . Thou 
 smilest, O mine everlasting father ! 
 
 Written at Paris, the 20th February^ 1839. 
 
 Heinrich Heine, 
 
YOUTHFUL SORROWS. 
 
 1817-1821. 
 
 I. VISIONS. 
 
 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, orphan'd song, art left. Do thou, too, 
 fade ! 
 Go, seek that vision'd form long lost in night, 
 And say from me — if you upon it light — 
 
 With airy breath I greet that airy shade I 
 
 A DREAM, that eerie was to see, 
 Delighted, then affrighted me. 
 Its gruesome sights still haunt mine eyes, 
 And shake my heart with wild surmise. 
 
26 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 There was a garden wondrous fair ; 
 Great joy had I in roaming there : 
 Fair flowers a-many looked at me, 
 Well pleased was I as man might be. 
 
 The little birds from boughs above 
 Piped many sprightly songs of love ; 
 The sun was red, and rimmed with gold;] 
 The flowers had bright hues manifold. 
 
 Sweet odors floated everywhere, 
 The breezes soft and wooing were ; 
 And all was lustrous, all was gay, 
 And wore its bravest, best array. 
 
 Within that flowery haunt, I ween, 
 
 A fountain stood of marble sheen ; 
 
 And of a fair girl I was 'ware, 
 
 That washed a milk-white vestment there. 
 
 Her eyes were soft, her cheeks were sleek, 
 A saint-like thing, fair-hair'd and meek ; 
 And as I gazed, oh rare to tell, 
 Though strange, methought I knew her well ! 
 
 That rare pale maid, her task she plies, 
 And croons a chant in wondrous wise : 
 " Flow on, fountain ! fountain, flow ! 
 Wash me the linen white as snow !" 
 
 Then up to her I took my way, 
 And whispered low, " Oh tell me, pray, 
 Thou maiden all so wondrous bright, 
 For whom it is, this web so white ?" 
 
 Then swift she spoke, " Doom follows fleet. 
 Tkis web, it is thy winding-sheet." 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2? 
 
 And ere the words she well had spoke, 
 The whole scene faded off like smoke. 
 
 And straight by magic sleight I stood 
 Within a wild and darksome wood : 
 The trees shot up into the sky, 
 Bemazed and wonder-struck was I. 
 
 And hark ! A dull, dead sound, as though 
 An axe far off struck blow on blow ! 
 Through bush and brake I speed apace, 
 And reach at length an open space. 
 
 Full in the midst, turf d round with green, 
 An oak, a mighty oak, was seen ; 
 And lo ! that maiden weird, she hacks 
 And hews its trunk with whirling axe ! 
 
 Stroke falls on stroke, nor stop nor stay, 
 She swings the axe, and croons this lay : 
 " Good steel sturdy, good steel fine, 
 Shape me, and quickly, an oaken shrine !" 
 
 Then up to her I took my way, 
 And whispered low, " Oh tell me, pray, 
 Thou maiden wondrous fair to see, 
 For whom this oaken shrine may be ?" 
 
 Then swift she spoke, " The hours are few: 
 It is thy coffin that I hew !" 
 And ere the words she well had spoke, 
 The whole scene faded off like smoke. 
 
 It stretched so far, it stretched so bare, 
 All waste, all barren everywhere ; 
 How it befell I never knew, 
 There I was standing all agrue. 
 
2 8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And gazing" far ahead, I note 
 A streak of white before me float. 
 I ran to it, ran, stopped, and lo ! 
 That rare pale maid again I know. 
 
 There spade in hand, on that wide waste, 
 She dug the earth deep, dug with haste ; 
 To look at her I scarce did dare, 
 She was so gruesome, yet so fair. 
 
 And swiftly still her spade she plies, 
 And croons a chant in wondrous wise ; 
 "Sharp spade, stout spade, shovel and sweep, 
 Shovel a pit that is wide and deep !" 
 
 Then up to her I took my way, 
 And whispered low, ' ' Oh tell me, pray, 
 Thou maiden sweet of wondrous sheen, 
 What may this pit thou diggest mean ?" 
 
 Then swift she spoke, "Content thee ! See, 
 A cool grave I have dug for thee !" 
 And even as the words she said, 
 The pit she dug wide open spread. 
 
 And as I looked into the pit, 
 I shuddered as with an ague-fit, 
 And down, as smit by sudden stroke, 
 I tumbled headlong ! — and awoke ! 
 
 One night — 'twas in a dream — myself I spied 
 In black dress coat, silk waistcoat, ruffles round 
 My wrists, as I were for a wedding bound ; 
 
 And my love stood before me, tender-eyed. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2g 
 
 I made a bow to her, and said, " The bride ? 
 Oh, I congratulate you !" Forth they wound 
 These words of mine, slow, icy-chill — a sound 
 
 As though my throat choked, and my tongue 
 were tied. 
 
 Then all at once gushed bitter tear on tear 
 From my love's eyes, and in that stormy dew 
 
 Her image sweet did wellnigh disappear. 
 
 sweetest eyes, dear stars of love ! though ye, 
 Waking, oft played me false, and dreaming too, 
 
 To trust you still how ready would I be ! 
 
 4- 
 
 1 saw in dream a dapper mannikin 
 
 That walked on stilts, each stride an ell or 
 
 more ; 
 White linen and a dainty dress he wore, 
 But it was coarse and smirched and stained 
 
 within. 
 All inwardly was mean and poor and thin, 
 Yet with a stately seeming lackered o'er ; 
 His words were full of bluster, and he bore 
 Himself like one well used to fight and win. 
 " And know'st thou who he is ? Come, look and 
 guess !" 
 So spake the God of Dreams, and showed me 
 
 then 
 Within a glass a billowy multitude. 
 The mannikin before an altar stood, 
 My love beside him : both of them said " Yes ! " 
 And countless fiends laughed loud and cried 
 " Amen ! " 
 
 5- 
 Why stirs and chafes my madden 'd blood ? 
 Why burns my heart in furious mood ? 
 
3° THE BOOK OF SONGS, 
 
 My blood fast boils, and foams and fumes. 
 And passion fierce my heart consumes. 
 
 My mad blood boils in foaming stream, 
 Because I've dreamt an evil dream : 
 Night's gloomy son appear'd one day, 
 And bore me in his arms away. 
 
 To a bright house soon brought he me, 
 Where sounded harp and revelry, 
 And torches gleam' d and tapers shone — 
 The hall I entered then alone. 
 
 I saw a merry wedding feast, 
 
 The glad guests round the table press'd ; 
 
 And when the bridal pair I spied, 
 
 woe ! my mistress was the bride. 
 
 There was my love, and strange to say, 
 A stranger claim'd her hand to-day. 
 Then close behind her chair of honor 
 
 1 silent stood and gazed upon her. 
 
 The music sounded — still I stood ; 
 Their joy but swell 'd my mournful mood ; 
 The bride she looked so highly blest, 
 Her hand the while the bridegroom press'd. 
 
 The bridegroom next fill'd full his cup, 
 And from it drank, then gave it up 
 Unto the bride ; she smiled a thank ; 
 O woe ! my red blood 'twas she drank. 
 
 The bride a rosy apple took, 
 And gave it him with smiling look ; 
 He took his knife, and cut a part ; 
 O woe ! it was indeed my heart. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 3 1 
 
 They lovingly each other eyed, 
 The bridegroom boldly clasp'd the bride, 
 And kissed her on her cheeks so red ; 
 O woe ! cold death kiss'd me instead. 
 
 Like lead my tongue within me lay, 
 Vainly I strove one word to say ; 
 A noise was heard — the dance began, 
 The bridal pair were in the van. 
 
 Whilst I stood rooted to the ground, 
 The dancers nimbly whirl'd around ; 
 The bridegroom spoke a whisper'd word — 
 She blush'd, well pleased with what she heard. 
 
 In blissful dream, in silent night, 
 There came to me, with magic might, 
 With magic might, my own sweet love, 
 Into my little room above. 
 
 I gazed upon the darling child, 
 I gazed, and she ail-gently smiled, 
 And smiled until my heart swell' d high. 
 When stormlike daring words breath'd I : 
 
 " Take, take thou everything that's mine, 
 
 My All will I to thee resign, 
 
 If I may be thy paramour 
 
 From midnight till the morning hour." 
 
 Then on me gazed the beauteous maid, 
 With looks that inward strife betray'd, 
 So sweet, so sad, while thus she said : 
 " Give me thy hope of heaven instead !" 
 
3 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " My life so sweet, my youthful blood, 
 I'll give with cheerful joyous mood, 
 For thee, O maiden angel-fair, — 
 But hope of heaven hereafter — ne'er !" 
 
 My daring speech flowed readily, 
 Yet ever fairer blossom' d she, 
 And still the beauteous maiden said, 
 " Give me thy hope of heaven instead !" 
 
 These words fell on me heavily, 
 Then rush'd, like some fierce flowing sei 
 Down to my spirit's depth most deep — 
 I scarce had power my breath to keep. 
 
 There came a band of angels white, 
 Graced with a golden halo bright, 
 But wildly follow'd in their track 
 A grisly train of goblins black. 
 
 They wrestled with the angels white, 
 And drove away those angels bright, 
 And then the gloomy squadron too 
 Melted like morning mist from view. — 
 
 Fain had I died of rapture there, 
 My arms upheld my maiden fair ; 
 She nestled near me like a roe, 
 But. also wept with bitter woe. 
 
 Sweet maiden wept ; well knew I why, 
 Her rosy mouth to peace kiss' d I : 
 " O still, sweet love, that tearful flood,, 
 Surrender to my loving mood ! 
 
 " Surrender to my loving mood !" — 
 When sudden froze to ice my blood ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 33 
 
 The earth beneath me groan'd and sigh'd, 
 A yawning chasm open'd wide. 
 
 And from the chasm's gloomy veil 
 
 Rose the black troop — sweet love turn'd pale ; 
 
 My arms were of sweet love bereft, 
 
 And I in solitude was left. 
 
 The gloomy troop around me danced 
 In wondrous circle, then advanced, 
 And seized and bore me to the ground, 
 While scornful laughter rose around. 
 
 And still the circle narrower grew, 
 And ever humm'd the fearful crew : 
 Thy hope of heaven was pledg'd by thee, 
 " Thou'rt ours for all eternity !" 
 
 Thou now hast the money — why longer delay ? 
 Thou dark scowling fellow, why lingering stay ? 
 I sit in my chamber, and patiently wait, 
 And midnight is near, but the bride is still late. 
 
 From the churchyard the shuddering breezes 
 
 arise ; — 
 Ye breezes, O say, has my bride met your eyes ? 
 Pale demons come round me, and hard on me 
 
 press, 
 Make courtsies with grinning, and nod their ' ' O 
 
 yes !" 
 
 Quick, tell me the message you're coming about, 
 
 Black villain, in liv'ry of fire trick'd out ! 
 
 My mistress sends word that she soon will be 
 
 here ; 
 In a car drawn by dragons she'll shortly appear. 
 
34 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Dear gray little man, say, what would'st thou to- 
 day ? 
 
 Dead master of mine, what's thy business, pray ? 
 
 He gazes upon me with mute, mournful mien, 
 
 Shakes his head, turns away, and no longer is 
 seen. 
 
 His tail wags the shaggy old dog, and he whines ; 
 All brightly the eye of the black tom-cat shines ; 
 The women are howling with long flowing hair — 
 Why sings my old nurse my old cradle-song 
 there ? 
 
 Old nurse stops at home, to her song to attend, 
 The eiapopeia is long at an end ; 
 To day I am keeping my gay wedding feast ; 
 Only watch the arrival of each gallant guest ! 
 
 Only watch them ! Good sirs, how polite is your 
 band ! 
 
 Ye carry your heads, 'stead of hats, in your hand ; 
 
 With your clattering bones, and like gallows- 
 birds dress'd, 
 
 Why arrive here so late, when the wind is at rest ? 
 
 The old witch on her broomstick comes galloping 
 
 on : 
 Ah, bless me, good mother, I'm really thy son. 
 The mouth in her pale face beginning to twitch, 
 " Forever, amen," soon replies the old witch. 
 
 Twelve wither'd musicians come creeping along, 
 The limping blind fiddler is seen in the throng ; 
 Jackpudding dress'd out in his motley array, 
 On the gravedigger's back is grimacing away. 
 
 With dancing twelve nuns from the convent 
 
 advance, 
 The leering old procuress leading the dance ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 35 
 
 Twelve merry young priests follow close in their 
 
 train, 
 And sing their lewd songs in a church-going 
 
 strain. 
 
 Till you're black in the face, good old clothesman, 
 
 don't yell, 
 Your fur-coat will nothing avail you in hell ; 
 'Tis heated for naught all the year with odd 
 
 things — 
 'Stead of wood, with the bones of dead beggars 
 
 and kings. 
 
 The girls with the flowers seem'd hunchback'd 
 
 and bent, 
 Tumbling head over heels in the room as they 
 
 went ; 
 With your faces like owls, and a grasshopper's 
 
 leg, 
 That rattling of bones discontinue, I beg. 
 
 The squadrons of hell all appear in their shrouds, 
 And bustle and hustle in fast-swelling crowds ; 
 The waltz of damnation resounds in the ear — 
 Hush, hush ! my sweet love is at length drawing 
 near. 
 
 Now, rabble, be quiet, or get you away ! 
 I scarcely can hear e'en one word that I say ; 
 Hark ! Is't not the sound of a chariot at hand? 
 Quick, open the door ! Why thus loitering stand ? 
 
 Thou art welcome, my darling ! how goes it, my 
 sweet ? 
 
 You're welcome, good parson ! stand up, I en- 
 treat ! 
 
 Good parson, with hoof of a horse and with tail, 
 
 I'm your dutiful servant, and wish you all hail ! 
 
3 6 THR BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Dear bride, wherefore stand'st thou so pale and 
 
 so dumb ? 
 The parson to join us together has come ; 
 Full dear, dear as blood, is the fee I must pay, 
 And yet to possess thee is merely child's play. 
 
 Kneel down, my sweet bride, by my side prythee 
 
 kneel ! 
 She kneels and she sinks — O what rapture I 
 
 feel !— 
 She sinks on my heart, on my fast-heaving 
 
 breast ; 
 With shuddering pleasure I hold her close 
 
 press'd. 
 
 Like billows her golden locks circle the pair, 
 'Gainst my heart beats the heart of the maiden so 
 
 fair ; 
 They beat with a union of sorrow and love, 
 And soar to the regions of heaven above. 
 
 While our hearts are thus floating in rapture's 
 
 wide sea, 
 In God's holy realms, all untrammell'd and free, 
 On our heads, as a terrible sign and a brand, 
 Has hell in derision imposed her grim hand. 
 
 In prop-rid persond the dark son of night 
 
 As parson bestows the priest's blessing to-night ; 
 
 From a bloody book breathes he the formula 
 
 terse, 
 Each prayer execration, each blessing a curse. 
 
 A crashing and hissing and howling is heard, 
 Like rolling of thunder, like waves wildly stirr'd ; 
 When sudden a bluish-tinged light brightly 
 
 flames, 
 " Forever, amen !" the old mother exclaims. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 37 
 
 I came from the house of my mistress dear, 
 And wander'd, half frenzied, in midnight fear, 
 And when o'er the churchyard I mournfully trod, 
 In solemn silence the graves seem'd to nod. 
 
 The musician's old tombstone seem'd nodding to 
 
 be; 
 'Tis the flickering light of the moon that I see. 
 There's a whisper "Dear brother, I soon shall 
 
 be- here !" 
 Then a misty pale form from the tomb doth 
 
 appear. 
 
 The musician it was who arose in the gloom, 
 And perch'd himself high on the top of the tomb; 
 The chords of his lute he struck with good will, 
 And sang with a voice right hollow and shrill : 
 
 ' ' Ah, know ye still the olden song, 
 
 That thrill'd the breast with passion strong, 
 
 Ye chords so dull and unmoving ? 
 The angels they call it the joys of heaven, 
 The devils they call it hell's torments even, 
 
 And mortals they call it — loving !" 
 
 The last word's sound had scarcely died, 
 When all the graves their mouths open'd wide ; 
 Many airy figures step forward, and each 
 The musician draws near, while in chorus they 
 screech : 
 
 " Love, O love, thy wondrous might 
 Brought us to this dreary plight, 
 Closed our eyes in endless night — 
 To disturb us why delight ?" 
 
3 8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Thus howl they confusedly, hissing and groaning, 
 With roaring and sighing and crashing and 
 
 moaning ; 
 The mad troop the musician surround as before, 
 And the chords the musician strikes wildly once 
 
 more : 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! How absurd ! 
 
 Welcome to ye ! 
 
 Plainly know ye 
 That I spake the magic word ! 
 
 '* As we pass the livelong year 
 Still as mice in prison drear, 
 Let's to-day be full of cheer ! 
 
 First, though, please 
 See that no one else is here ; 
 Fools were we as long as living, 
 To love's maddening passion giving 
 
 All our madden'd energies. 
 Let, by way of recreation, 
 Each one give a true narration 
 
 Of his former history — 
 How devour'd, 
 How o'erpower'd 
 
 In love's frantic chase was he." 
 
 Then as light as the air from the circle there 
 
 broke 
 A wizen'd thin being, who hummingly spoke : 
 
 1 ' A tailor was I by profession 
 With needle and with shears ; 
 
 None made a better impression 
 With needle and with shears. 
 
 " Then came my master's daughter 
 With needle and with shears, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 39 
 
 And pierced my sorrowing bosom 
 With needle and with shears." 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed ; 
 In solemn silence a second stepp'd aft : 
 
 " Great Rinaldo Rinaldini, 
 Schinderhanno, Orlandini, 
 And Charles Moor especially, • 
 Were my patterns made by me. 
 
 ' ' Like those mighty heroes, I 
 Fell in love, I'll not deny, 
 And the fairest woman most 
 Haunted me like any ghost, 
 
 " Sighing, cooing like a dove, 
 I was driven mad with love, 
 And my fingers, by ill-luck, 
 In my neighbor's pocket stuck. 
 
 ' ' But the constable abused me, 
 And most cruelly ill-used me, 
 And I sought to hide my grief 
 In my neighbor's handkerchief. 
 
 " Then their arms policemen placed 
 Quietly around my waist, 
 And the bridewell then and there 
 Took me 'neath its tender care. 
 
 ' ' There, with thoughts of love quite full, 
 Longtime sat I, spinning wool, 
 Till Rinaldo's ghost one day 
 Came and took my soul away." 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed ; 
 A third, all-berouged and bedizen'd, stepp'd aft : 
 
4° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " As monarch I ruled on the stage, 
 The part of the lover played I, 
 
 Oft bellowed ' Ye Gods,' in a rage, 
 Breath'd many a heart-rending sigh. 
 
 " I play'd Mortimer's part best, methinks, 
 
 Maria was always so fair ; 
 But despite the most natural winks, 
 
 She never gave heed to my prayer. 
 
 " Once when I, with desperate look, 
 ' Maria, thou holy one ! ' cried, 
 
 The dagger I hastily took, 
 
 And plunged it too deep in my side. " 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits then laugh'd ; 
 A fourth in a white flowing garment stepp'd aft : 
 
 " Ex cathedrd kept prating the learned professor, 
 
 He prated, and I went to sleep all the while; 
 Yet my pleasure had certainly not been the 
 lesser, 
 Had I revell'd instead in his daughter's sweet 
 smile. 
 
 44 From the window she oft to me tenderly 
 
 beckon'd, 
 
 That flower of flowers, my life's only light ; 
 
 Yet that flower of flowers was pluck'd in a 
 
 second 
 
 By a stupid old blockhead, an opulent wight. 
 
 " Then cursed I all women and rogues of high 
 station, 
 And mingled some poisonous herbs in my 
 wine, 
 And held with old Death a jollification, 
 
 While he said : ' Your good health ! from this 
 moment you're mine ! ' " 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 4 1 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits then laugh'd * 
 A fifth, with a rope round his neck, next stepp'd 
 aft: 
 
 " There boasted and bragg'd a count, over his 
 
 wine, 
 Of his daughter so fair, and his jewels so fine. 
 What care I, Sir Count, for thy jewels so fine ? 
 Far rather would I that thy daughter were mine ! 
 
 " 'Tis true under bar, lock, and key they both 
 
 lay, 
 And the Count many servants retain'd in his 
 
 pay. 
 What cared I for servants, for bar, lock, or 
 
 key ? 
 Up the rungs of the ladder I mounted with 
 
 glee. 
 
 " To my mistress's window I climb'd with good 
 
 cheer, 
 Where curses beneath me saluted my ear. 
 ' Stop, stop, my fine fellow ! I too must be 
 
 there, 
 I'm likewise in love with the jewels so fair.' 
 
 " Thus jested the Count, while he grappled me 
 
 tight, 
 His servants came round me with shouts of 
 
 delight. 
 4 Pooh, nonsense, you rascals ! No robber 
 
 am I, 
 I but came for my mistress — 'tis really no lie.' 
 
4 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " In vain was my talking, in vain what I said, 
 They got ready the rope, threw it over my 
 
 head, 
 And the sun, when he rose, with amazement 
 
 extreme, 
 Found me hanging, alas, from the gallows' high 
 
 beam !" 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits thftn laugh'd ; 
 A sixth, with his head in his hand, next stepp'd 
 aft: 
 
 " Love's torments made me seek the chace ; 
 Rifle in hand, I roam'd apace. 
 Down from the tree, with hollow scoff, 
 The raven cried : ' Head off ! head off ! ' 
 
 " O, could I only see a dove, 
 I'd take it home for my sweet love ! 
 Thus thought I, and midst bush and tree 
 With sportsman's eye sought carefully. 
 
 " What billing's that? What gentle cooing? 
 It sounds like turtle doves' soft wooing. 
 I stole up slyly, cock'd my gun, 
 And, lo, my own sweet love was one ! 
 
 " It was indeed my dove, my bride ; 
 A stranger clasp'd her waist with pride. 
 Old gun, now let thy aim be good ! — 
 The stranger welter'd in his blood. 
 
 1 ' Soon through the wood I had to pass, 
 With hangmen by my side, alas ! 
 Down from the tree, with bitter scoff, 
 The raven cried : ' Head-off ! head-off I ' " 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 43 
 
 In right merry chorus the spirits then laughed ; 
 At length the musician in person stepp'd aft : 
 
 " I've sung my own song, friends, demurely, 
 That charming song's at an end ; 
 
 When the heart is once broken, why surely 
 The song may homeward wend !" 
 
 Then began the wild laughter still louder to 
 
 sound, 
 And the pale spectral troop in a circle swept 
 
 round. 
 From the neighboring church-tow' r the stroke of 
 
 "One!" fell, 
 And the spirits rush'd back to their graves with a 
 
 yell. 
 
 I was asleep, and calmly slept, 
 
 All pain and grief allay'd ; 
 A wondrous vision o'er me crept, 
 
 There came a lovely maid. 
 
 As pale as marble was her face, 
 
 And, O, so passing fair ! 
 Her eyes they swam with pearl-like grace, 
 
 And strangely waved her hair. 
 
 And slowly, slowly did she glide, 
 
 So phantom-like and frail, 
 And down she lays her by my side, 
 
 That maiden marble-pale. 
 
 How shook and throbb'd, half sad, half blest, 
 My heart, which hotly burn'd ! 
 
44 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 But neither shook nor throbb'd her breast, 
 Which into ice seem'd turn'd. 
 
 " It neither shakes nor throbs, my breast. 
 
 And it is icy cold ; 
 And yet I know love's yearning blest, 
 
 Love's mighty pow'r of old. 
 
 " No color's on my lips and cheek, 
 No blood my veins doth swell ; 
 
 But start not, thus to hear me speak, 
 I love thee, love thee well !" 
 
 And madlier still she clasped me round, 
 
 Till my very breath 'gan fail : 
 The cock crew ; — gone, with never a sounc\ 
 
 Was the maiden marble-pale. 
 
 I oft have pale spectres before now 
 Conjured with magical might ; 
 
 They refuse to return any more now 
 To their former dwelling of night. 
 
 The word that commands their submission 
 I forgot in my terror and fear ; 
 
 My own spirits now seek my perdition. 
 Within their prison-house drear. 
 
 Dark demons, approach not a finger \ 
 Away, nor to torment give birth ! 
 
 Full many a joy still may linger 
 In the roseate light of this earth. 
 
 I needs must be evermore striving 
 To reach the flower so fair ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 45 
 
 O, what were the use of my living 
 If I may cherish her ne'er ? 
 
 To my glowing heart fain would I press her, 
 Would clasp her for once to my breast, 
 
 On her lips and her cheeks once caress her, 
 With sweetest of torments be blest. 
 
 If once from her mouth I could hear it, 
 Could hear one fond whisper bestow'd, 
 
 I would follow thee, beckoning spirit, 
 Yea, e'en to thy darksome abode. 
 
 The spirits have heard, and draw nigh me, 
 
 And nod with terrible glee : 
 Sweet love, with an answer supply me — 
 
 Sweet love, O lovest thou me ? 
 
 II. SONGS. 
 
 i. 
 
 I At morn get up, and " Will she 
 
 Come," I ask, "to-day?" 
 I lie down at eve, and " Still she 
 
 Cometh not ! " I say. 
 
 Sleepless, restless, with heart aching, 
 
 Night I wear away ; 
 Dreaming, half asleep, half waking, 
 
 Roam about by day ! 
 
4*> THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 I'm driven hither and thither along ! 
 
 But yet a few hours, I shall see her again, 
 Herself, the most fair of the fair maiden-train; 
 
 True heart, what means thy throbbing so strong ? 
 
 The hours are only a slothful race ! 
 Lazily they move each day, 
 And with yawning go their way ; — 
 
 Hasten on, ye slothful race ! 
 
 Wild-raging eagerness thrills me indeed ; 
 
 Never in love have the hours delighted ; 
 
 So, in a cruel bond strangely united, 
 Slyly deride they the lovers' wild speed. 
 
 By naught but sorrow attended, 
 
 I wander'd under the trees ; 
 That olden vision descended, 
 
 And stole to my heart by degrees. 
 
 Who taught you the word ye are singing, 
 Ye birds in the branches on high ? 
 
 O hush ! when my heart hears it ringing, 
 It makes it more mournfully sigh. 
 
 A fair young maiden 'twas taught it, 
 Who came here, and sang like a bird ; 
 
 And so we birds easily caught it, 
 That pretty, golden word." 
 
 No more shall this story deceive me, 
 Ye birds, so wondrously sly ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 47 
 
 Of my sorrow ye fain would bereave me, 
 On your friendship I cannot rely. 
 
 Sweet love, lay thy hand on my heart, and tell 
 If thou hearest the knocks in that narrow cell ? 
 There dwells there a carpenter, cunning is he, 
 And slyly he's hewing a coffin for me. 
 
 He hammers and knocks by day and by night, 
 My slumber already has banish'd outright ; 
 Oh, Master Carpenter, prythee make haste, 
 That I some slumber at length may taste. 
 
 5- 
 
 Beauteous cradle of my sorrow, 
 Beauteous grave of all my peace, 
 
 Beauteous town, we part to-morrow, 
 Fare thee well, our ties must cease ! 
 
 Fare thee well, thou threshold holy, 
 Where my loved one sets her feet ! 
 
 Fare thee well, thou spot so holy, 
 Where we chanced at first to meet ! 
 
 Had I but beheld thee never, 
 
 Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen, 
 
 Wretched now, and wretched ever, 
 Oh, I should not thus have been ! 
 
 Ne'er to stir thy bosom thought I, 
 For thy love I never pray'd ; 
 
 Silently to live but sought I 
 
 Where thy breath its balm convey'd. 
 
4-8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Yet thou spurn'st me in my sadness, 
 Bitter words thy mouth doth speak, 
 
 In my senses riots madness, 
 And my heart is faint and weak. 
 
 And my limbs, in wanderings dreary, 
 
 Sadly drag I, full of gloom, 
 Till I lay my head all weary 
 
 In a chilly distant tomb. 
 
 6. 
 
 Patience, surly pilot, shortly 
 
 To the port I'll follow you ; 
 From two maidens I'm departing, 
 
 From my love and Europe too. 
 
 Blood-spring, from mine eyes 'gin running, 
 Blood-spring, from my body flow, 
 
 So that I then, with my hot blood, 
 May write down my tale of woe. 
 
 Ah, my body, wherefore shudder 
 Thus to-day my blood to see ? 
 
 Many years before thee standing 
 
 Pale, heart-bleeding, saw'st thou me ! 
 
 Know'st thou still the olden story 
 
 Of the snake in Paradise, 
 Who, a cursed apple giving, 
 
 Caused our parents endless sighs ? 
 
 Apples brought all evils on us, 
 
 Death through Eve by apples came ; 
 
 Flames on Troy were brought by Eris, — 
 Both thou broughtest, death and flame ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 49 
 
 7- 
 Tower and castled peak look downward 
 
 On the mirror of the Rhine, 
 And my bark sails blithely onward 
 
 In the sunbeams' golden shine. 
 
 Calm I mark the ripple stealing 
 O'er the broken wavelet's crest ; 
 
 Silently awakes the feeling, 
 
 Cherish'd deep within my breast. 
 
 Looking tender in its splendor 
 
 On the stately river glides, 
 But the gleaming, fair in seeming, 
 
 Death and night within it hides. 
 
 Sweet to view, at core fallacious, 
 Stream, my lady's type thou art ; 
 
 She can wear a smile as gracious, 
 Look as meek and kind of heart. 
 
 First methought in my affliction, 
 I can never stand the blow. — 
 
 Yet I did — strange contradiction ! 
 How I did, ne'er seek to know. 
 
 With roses and cypress and tinsel gold 
 Lovingly, tenderly I would enfold 
 This book, as though it a coffin were, 
 And bury my songs in their cerements there. 
 
 Could I bury my love there, I were blest ! 
 On the grave of love grows the flower of rest ; 
 
50 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 It blooms there for all to pluck, but for me 
 'Twill bloom not, till laid in the grave I be. 
 
 Well, here are the songs that so wildly erst, 
 
 Like lava streams that from yEtna burst, 
 
 From the nethermost depths of my soul gush'd 
 
 out, 
 And with lightning-flashes were freak'd about. 
 
 Now silent and corpse-like they lie, and stare 
 Pallid and cold, with a mist-like air ; 
 But within them again the old fires would seethe, 
 If only Love's spirit should o'er them breathe. 
 
 And there come to my heart boding whispers, 
 
 that say, 
 Love's spirit shall over them weep one day, 
 If ever this volume should reach thy hand, 
 Thou love of my soul, in a distant land. 
 
 Then the spell shall be broken that binds my 
 
 lays, 
 The death-pale letters on thee shall gaze, — 
 Beseechingly gaze on thy beautiful eyes, 
 And breathe of love's passion, its pangs, its 
 
 sighs. 
 
 III. ROMANCES. 
 
 i. The Mournful One. 
 
 Every heart with pain is smitten 
 When they see the stripling pale, 
 
 Who upon his face bears written 
 Grief and sorrow's mournful tale. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 5 1 
 
 Breezes with compassion lightly 
 Fan his burning brow the while, 
 
 And his bosom many a sprightly 
 Damsel fair would fain beguile. 
 
 From the city's ceaseless bustle 
 To the wood for peace he flies. 
 
 Merrily the leaves there rustle, 
 Merrier still the bird's songs rise. 
 
 But the merry song soon ceases, 
 
 Sadly rustle leaf and tree, 
 When he, while his grief increases, 
 
 Nears the fGrest mournfully. 
 
 2. The Mountain Echo. 
 
 At sad slow pace across the vale 
 There rode a horseman brave : 
 " Ah ! travel I now to my mistress's arms, 
 Or but to the darksome grave ?" 
 The echo answer gave : 
 " The darksome grave !" 
 
 And farther rode the horseman on, 
 
 With sighs his thoughts express'd : 
 " If I thus early must go to my grave, 
 "Yet in the grave is rest." 
 
 The answering voice confess'd : 
 " The grave is rest !" 
 
 Adown the horseman's furrow' d cheek 
 
 A tear fell on his breast : 
 " If rest I can only find in the grave, 
 For me the grave is best." 
 
 The hollow voice confess'd : 
 *- The grave is best !" 
 
5 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 3. The Two Brothers. 
 
 On the mountain summit darkling 
 Lies the castle, veil'd in night ; 
 
 Lights are in the valley sparkling, 
 Clashing swords are gleaming bright. 
 
 Brothers 'tis, who in fierce duel 
 Fight, with wrath to fury fann'd ; 
 
 Tell me why these brothers cruel 
 Strive thus madly, sword in hand ? 
 
 By the eyes of Countess Laura 
 Were they thus in strife array'd ; 
 
 Both with glowing love adore her — 
 Her, the noble, beauteous maid. 
 
 Unto which now of the brothers 
 Is her heart the most inclined •? 
 
 She her secret feeling smothers — 
 Out, then, sword, the truth to find ! 
 
 And they fight with rage despairing, 
 Blows exchange with savage might ; 
 
 Take good heed, ye gallants daring — 
 Mischief walks abroad by night. 
 
 Woe, O woe, ye brothers cruel ! 
 
 Woe, O woe, thou vale abhorr'd ! 
 Both fall victims in the duel, 
 
 Falling on each other's sword. 
 
 Races are to dust converted, 
 Many centuries have flown, 
 
 And the castle, now deserted, 
 Sadly from the mount looks down. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS, 53 
 
 But at night-time in the valley 
 Wondrous forms appear again ; 
 
 At the stroke of twelve, forth sally 
 To the fight the brothers twain. 
 
 4. Poor Peter. 
 
 While Hans and Grettel are dancing with 
 glee, 
 
 And each of them loudly rejoices, 
 Poor Peter looks as pale as can be, 
 
 And perfectly mute his voice is. 
 
 While Hans and Grettel are bridegroom and 
 bride, 
 
 And glitter in smart ostentation, 
 Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide, 
 
 And bites his nails with vexation. 
 
 Then softly Peter said to himself, 
 
 As he gazed on the couple sadly : 
 " Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf, 
 
 It had fared with my life but badly !" 
 
 " Within my breast there sits a woe 
 That seems my breast to sever ; 
 
 Where'er I stand, where'er I go, 
 It drives me onward ever. 
 
 1 ' It makes me tow'rd my loved one fly, 
 As if she could restore me ; 
 
 Vet when I gaze upon her eye, 
 My sorrows rise before me. 
 
5 4 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " I clamber up the mountain tvow, 
 In lonely sorrow creeping, 
 
 And standing silent on its brow, 
 I cannot cease from. A^ping." 
 
 Poor Peter he goes shambling by 
 Very slow, death-pale, and shy ; 
 People on the streets, they will 
 To look at him, poor soul ! stand still. * 
 
 The girls they whisper as they pass, 
 " Has he come from the grave, alas ?" 
 Ah no ! ye maidens fair, I trow, 
 He's only going gravewards now. 
 
 His treasure he has lost, and so 
 'Tis the best place for him to go, 
 Where he his weary heart may lay, 
 And sleep on to the Judgment-Day. 
 
 5. The Prisoner's Song. 
 
 When my grandmother once had bewitch'd a 
 poor girl, 
 The mob would have burnt her quite readily ; 
 But though fiercely the judge his mustachios 
 might twirl, 
 She refused to confess her crime steadily. 
 
 And when in the caldron they held her fast, 
 She shouted and yell'd like a craven ; 
 
 But when the black vapor arose, she at last 
 Flew up in the air as a raven. 
 
 My black and feathery grandmother dear, 
 O visit me soon in this tower ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 55 
 
 Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me 
 here, 
 And bring me some cakes to devour ! 
 
 My black and feathery grandmother dear, 
 O prythee protect me from sorrow ! 
 
 For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear, 
 When I merrily soar hence to-morrow. 
 
 6. The Grenadiers. 
 
 Two grenadiers travell'd tow'rds France one day, 
 
 On leaving their prison in Russia, 
 And sadly they hung their heads in dismay 
 
 When they reach'd the frontiers of Prussia. 
 
 For there they first heard the story of woe, 
 
 That France had utterly perish'd, 
 The grand army had met with an overthrow, 
 
 They had captured their Emperor cherish'd. 
 
 Then both of the grenadiers wept full sore 
 
 At hearing the terrible story ; 
 And one of them said : " Alas ! once more 
 
 My wounds are bleeding and gory." 
 
 The other one said : " The game's at an end, 
 With thee I would die right gladly, 
 
 But I've wife and child, whom at home I should 
 tend, 
 For without me they'll fare but badly. 
 
 " What matters my child, what matters my wife ? 
 
 A heavier care has arisen ; 
 Let them beg, if they're hungry, all their life— 
 
 My Emperor sighs in a prison ! 
 
5^ THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 ' ' Dear brother, pray grant me this one last 
 prayer : 
 
 If my hours I now must number, 
 O take my corpse to my country fair, 
 
 That there it may peacefully slumber. 
 
 " The legion of honor, with ribbon red, 
 
 Upon my bosom place thou, 
 And put in my hand my musket dread, 
 
 And my sword around me brace thou. 
 
 V And so in my grave will I silently lie, 
 And watch like a guard o'er the forces, 
 
 Until the roaring of cannon hear I, 
 And the trampling of neighing horses. 
 
 " My Emperor then will ride over my grave, 
 While the swords glitter brightly and rattle ; 
 
 Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the 
 grave, 
 For my Emperor hasting to battle !" 
 
 7. The Message. 
 
 Up, boot and saddle, my boy ! Bestride 
 
 Your steed, and away pele-mele 
 To old King Duncan's castle ride 
 
 Through forest and over fell. 
 
 Slip into the stable, and wait, till you 
 
 Are by the groom espied, 
 Then ask, " Of King Duncan's daughters which, 
 
 Now tell me, is the bride ?" 
 
 And if he says, " 'Tis the nut-brown girl !" 
 Then speed with the tale to me ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 57 
 
 But if he says, " 'Tis the fair-hair'd maid !" 
 Then slacker your speed may be. 
 
 And to the Master Twinester go, 
 
 Buy a rope of the stoutest strand ; 
 Ride slowly back, speak never a word, 
 
 And lay it into my hand. 
 
 8. Taking the Bride Home. 
 
 I go not alone, fair lady mine ; 
 
 You must away with me 
 To the dear old vaulted chamber drear 
 In the sad cold house of sorrow and fear, 
 Where my mother cowers by the porch outside, 
 A-watch for her son to bring home his bride. 
 
 " Now let me go, thou gloomy man ! 
 
 What should I want with thee ? 
 Thy breath is hot, thine eyes flash light, 
 Thy hand is ice, thy cheek is white ; 
 But a merry life is the life for me, 
 'Mid roses' perfume and in sunshine free." 
 
 Let the rose waft perfume, the sun shine bright, 
 
 Darling, my sweet, my own ! 
 Thyself in the white flowing veil attire, 
 And sweep the strings of the sounding lyre, 
 And sing me a bridal song soft and low ; 
 The night wind shall pipe the tune as we go. 
 
 9. Don Ramiro. 
 
 " Donna Clara ! Donna Clara ! 
 Through long years the hotly-loved one ! 
 Thou hast will'd now my destruction, 
 Will'd it, too, without compassion. 
 
5 8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " Donna Clara ! Donna Clara ! 
 Very sweet the gift of life is ! 
 But beneath us all is fearful, 
 In the tomb so dark and chilly. 
 
 " Donna Clara, joy ! to-morrow 
 Will Fernando at the altar 
 As his wedded bride salute thee — 
 Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?" 
 
 " Don Ramiro ! Don Ramiro ! 
 Bitterly thy words are sounding, 
 Bitt'rer than yon stars' decree is, 
 Scoffing at my heart's own wishes. 
 
 " Don Ramiro ! Don Ramiro ! 
 Shake thy gloomy sadness from thee ; 
 On the earth are many maidens, 
 But by God have we been parted. 
 
 " Don Ramiro, who so bravely 
 Many Moors hast overpower'd, 
 Overpower now thyself too — 
 Come to-morrow to my wedding." 
 
 " Donna Clara ! Donna Clara ! 
 Yes, I swear it, yes, I'll come there ! 
 And the dance will lead off with thee ; — 
 So good-night, I'll come to-morrow." 
 
 " So good-night !" — The window rattled ; 
 Sighing stood below Ramiro, 
 Seeming turn'd to stone long stood he ; 
 Then he vanish'd in the darkness. 
 
 Lastly, after lengthen'd conflict, 
 Night to day in turn surrender'd ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 59 
 
 Like a blooming- flowery garden 
 Lies extended fair Toledo. 
 
 Palaces and splendid buildings 
 Glitter in the radiant sunlight, 
 And the churches' domes so lofty 
 Glisten proudly, as though gilded. 
 
 Humming like a busy beehive, 
 Merrily the bells are sounding ; 
 Sweetly rise the solemn psalm-tunes 
 From the God-devoted churches. 
 
 But look yonder ! but look yonder ! 
 Where from out the market chapel, 
 Midst the heaving crowd and uproar, 
 Streams the throng in checker' d masses. 
 
 Glittering knights and stately ladies 
 In gay courtly dresses sparkle, 
 And the clear-toned bells are ringing, 
 And the organ peals between times. 
 
 But with reverence saluted, 
 In the people's midst are walking, 
 Nobly clad, the youthful couple, 
 Donna Clara, Don Fernando. 
 
 To the bridegroom's palace entrance 
 Slowly moves the gay procession ; 
 There begin the ceremonies, 
 Stately, and in olden fashion. 
 
 Knightly games and merry feasting- 
 Interchange with loud rejoicing ; 
 Swiftly fly the hours thus gladly 
 TUl the shades of night have fallen. 
 
60 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And the wedding-guests assemble 
 
 In the hall, to hold the dances, 
 
 And their checker'd gala dresses 
 
 Midst the glittering lights are sparkling. 
 
 On a high-exalted dais 
 Bride and bridegroom are reclining, 
 Donna Clara, Don Fernando, 
 Holding loving conversation. 
 
 In the hall are gayly moving 
 All the festal crowd of people, 
 And the kettle-drums sound loudly, 
 And the trumpets, too, are crashing. 
 
 " Wherefore, O my heart's fair mistress, 
 Are thy glances so directed 
 Tow'rd the hall's most distant corner?" 
 Thus the knight exclaim'd with wonder. 
 
 " Seest thou not, then, Don Fernando, 
 Yonder man in dark cloak hidden ? " 
 And the knight with smiling answered : 
 " Ah, 'tis nothing but a shadow." 
 
 But the shadow soon approach'd them, 
 And a man was in the mantle, 
 And Ramiro recognizing, 
 Clara greeted him with blushes. 
 
 And the dancing has begun now, 
 And the dancers whirl round gayly 
 in the waltz's giddy mazes, 
 And the ground beneath them trembles. 
 
 " Gladly will I, Don Ramiro, 
 In the dance become thy partner, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 6 1 
 
 But thou didst not well to come here 
 In a black and night-like mantle." 
 
 But with eyes all fix'd and piercing 
 Looks Ramiro on the fair one ; 
 Clasping her, with gloom thus speaks he, 
 " At thy bidding have I come here !" 
 
 And the pair of dancers vanish 
 In the dance's giddy mazes, 
 And the kettle-drums sound loudly, 
 And the trumpets, too, are crashing. 
 
 " Snow-white are thy cheeks, Ramiro," 
 Clara speaks with secret trembling. 
 " At thy bidding have I come here !" 
 In a hollow voice replies he. 
 
 In the hall the wax-lights glimmer 
 Through the ebbing, flowing masses, 
 And the kettle-drums sound loudly, 
 And the trumpets, too, are crashing. 
 
 " Ice-cold are thy hands, Ramiro," 
 Clara speaks with shudd'ring terror. 
 " At thy bidding have I come here !" 
 And within the whirl they vanish. 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro ! 
 Ah, thy breath is like a corpse's !" 
 Once again the dark words speaks he : 
 " At thy bidding have I come here !" 
 
 And the very ground seems glowing, 
 Fiddle, viol sound right merry ; 
 Like a wondrous weft of magic 
 All within the hall is whirling. 
 
62 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, Don Ramiro !" 
 Sadly sounds amidst the tumult ; 
 Don Ramiro ever answers : 
 " At thy bidding have I come here !" 
 
 " In the name of God depart, then !" 
 Clara with a firm voice utters, 
 And the words she scarce had spoken 
 When Ramiro vanish' d from her. 
 
 Clara, death in every feature, 
 Chilly, night-surrounded, stood there, 
 And a swoon her lightsome figure 
 To its darksome kingdom carries. 
 
 But at last her misty slumber 
 Yields, at last her eyelids open ; 
 But again, with deep amazement, 
 Would she fain have closed her fair eyes. 
 
 For since they began the dancing, 
 From her seat had she not moved once, 
 And she still sits by the bridegroom, 
 And the anxious knight thus asks her : 
 
 ' ' Say, why are thy cheeks so pallid ? 
 Wherefore is thine eye so darksome ?" — 
 " And Ramiro ?" stammers Clara, 
 And her tongue is mute with horror. 
 
 But with deep and solemn wrinkles 
 Is the bridegroom's brow now furrow'd : 
 1 ' Lady, bloody news why seek'st thou ? 
 This day's noontide died Ramiro." 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 6$ 
 
 10. Belshazzar. 
 
 The midnight hour was drawing on ; 
 Hushed into rest lay Babylon. 
 
 All save the royal palace, where 
 
 Was the din of revel, and torches' flare. 
 
 There high within his royal hall 
 Belshazzar the king held festival. 
 
 His nobles around him in splendor shine, 
 And drain down goblets of sparkling wine. 
 
 The nobles shout, and the goblets ring ; 
 
 'Twas sweet to the heart of thatstiff-neck'd king. 
 
 The cheeks of the king, they flushed with flame ; 
 As he drank, he grew bolder, more dead to 
 shame. 
 
 And, madden'd with pride, his lips let fall 
 Wild words, that blaspheme the great Lord of 
 all. 
 
 More vaunting he grew, and his blasphemous 
 
 sneers 
 Were hailed by his lordly rout with cheers. 
 
 Proudly the king has a mandate passed ; 
 Away hie the slaves, and come back full fast. 
 
 Many gold vessels they bring with them, 
 The spoils of God's House in Jerusalem. 
 
 With impious hand the king caught up, 
 Filled to the brim, a sacred cup ; 
 
64 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And down to the bottom he drain 'd it dry, 
 And with mouth a-foam thus aloud did cry — 
 
 " Jehovah ! I scoff at Thy greatness gone. 
 I am the king of Babylon !" 
 
 The terrible words were ringing still, 
 "When the king at his heart felt a secret chill. 
 
 The laughter ceased, the lords held their breath, 
 And all through the hall it was still as death. 
 
 And see, see there ! on the white wall, see, 
 Comes forth what seems a man's hand to be ! 
 
 And it wrote and wrote in letters of flame 
 On the white wall — then vanished the way it 
 came. 
 
 The king sat staring, he could not speak, 
 His knees knocked together, death-pale was his 
 cheek. 
 
 With cold fear creeping his lords sat round, 
 They sat dumb-stricken, with never a sound. 
 
 The Magians came, yet not one of them all 
 Could read the flame-writing upon the wall. 
 
 But or ever that night did to morning wane, 
 Belshazzar the king by his lords was slain. 
 
 11. The Minnesingers. 
 
 In the minstrels' strife engaging 
 
 Pass the Minnesingers by ; 
 Strange the war that they are waging, 
 
 Strange the tourney where they vie. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 65 
 
 Fancy, that for battle nerves him, 
 
 . Is the Minnesinger's steed ; 
 Art as trusty buckler serves him, 
 And his word's a sword indeed. 
 
 Beauteous dames, with glances pleasant, 
 
 From the balcony look down ; 
 But the right one is not present 
 
 With the proper laurel crown. 
 
 Other combatants, when springing 
 To the lists, at least are sound ; 
 
 Minnesingers must be bringing 
 To the fray a deadly wound. 
 
 He from whom the most there draineth 
 Song's blood from the inmost breast — 
 
 He is victor, and obtaineth 
 
 From fair lips the praise most blest. 
 
 12. Looking from the Window. 
 
 Fair Hedwig lay at the window, to see 
 If pale Henry would chance to detect her ; 
 
 She said half aloud : ' ' Why goodness me ! 
 The man is as pale as a spectre !" 
 
 With yearning pale Henry look'd above 
 At her window, in hopes to detect her ; 
 
 Fair Hedwig now felt the torments of love, 
 And she became pale as a spectre. 
 
 Love-sick, now stood fair Hedwig all day 
 At her window, lest he should reject her ; 
 
 But soon in pale Henry's arms she lay 
 All night, at the time for a spectre. 
 
66 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 13. The Wounded Knight. 
 
 I know a story of anguish, 
 
 A tale of the times of old ; 
 A knight with love doth languish, 
 
 His mistress is faithless and cold. 
 
 As faithless must he esteem now 
 Her whom in his heart he adored ; 
 
 His loving pangs must he deem now 
 Disgraceful and abhorr'd. 
 
 In vain in the lists would he wander, 
 And challenge to battle each knight ; 
 
 1 ' Let him who my mistress dares slander 
 Make ready at once for the fight !" 
 
 But all are silent, save only 
 
 His grief, that so fiercely doth burn ; 
 His lance he against his own lonely 
 
 Accusing bosom must turn. 
 
 14. The Voyage. 
 
 Each wave I counted, as I stood 
 And lean'd against the mast ; 
 
 Adieu, dear native land, adieu ! 
 My little bark sails fast. 
 
 I pass her house, the window-panes 
 
 Against the sunset shine ; 
 I look till I am almost blind, 
 
 But no one makes a sign ! 
 
 Crowd not, ye tears, into mine eyes, 
 
 Still leave me power to see ! 
 And thou, poor heart, break not with this 
 
 O'er whelming agony ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 6? 
 
 15. The Song of Repentance. 
 
 Sir Ulrich rides in the forest so green, 
 
 The leaves with joy seem laden ; 
 He sees, the trees' thick branches between, 
 
 The form of a beauteous maiden. 
 
 The youth then said : ' ' Well know I thee, 
 So blooming and glowing thy face is ; 
 
 Alluringly ever encircles it me, 
 In deserts or crowded places. 
 
 €< Those lips, by fresh loveliness ever stirr'd, 
 
 Appear a pair of roses ; 
 Yet many a hateful bitter word 
 
 That roguish mouth discloses. 
 
 " A pretty rosebush a mouth like this 
 
 Resembles very closely, 
 Where cunning poisonous serpents hiss 
 
 Amid the leaves morosely. 
 
 '* Within those beauteous cheeks there lies 
 
 A sweet and beauteous dimple ; 
 That is the grave where I fell by surprise, 
 
 Lured on by a yearning simple. 
 
 1 ' There see I the beauteous locks of hair, 
 That once so lovingly pleased me ; 
 
 That is the net so wondrous fair 
 Wherewith the Evil One seized me. 
 
 " And that blue eye, that so sweetly fell, 
 
 As clear as the ocean even, 
 It proved to be the portal of hell, 
 
 Though I thought it the gateway of heaven." 
 
6S 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In the wood still farther Sir Ulrich doth ride, 
 The leaves make a rustling dreary ; 
 
 A second figure afar he spied, 
 That seem'd so sad and weary. 
 
 The youth then said : " O mother dear, 
 
 "Who lov'dst me to distraction, 
 But to whom in life I caused many a tear, 
 
 By evil word and action ! 
 
 " O would that to dry thine eyes could avail 
 
 My sorrow so fiercely glowing ! 
 O could I but redden thy cheeks so pale 
 
 With the blood from my own heart flowing !" 
 
 And farther rides Sir Ulrich there, 
 The night o'er the forest is falling ; 
 
 Many singular voices fill the air, 
 The evening breezes are calling. 
 
 The youth then hears his sorrowing words 
 
 Full often near him ringing ; 
 'Tis the notes of the mocking forest birds 
 
 All twittering loudly and singing : 
 
 " Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song, 
 We call it the song of repentance ; 
 
 And when he has reach'd the end of his song, 
 He'll repeat it sentence by sentence." 
 
 16. On Hearing a Lady Sing an Old Ballad. 
 
 I see her still, that fair enchantress, 
 
 As first my eyes upon her fell ; 
 I hear her rich voice clear and pealing, 
 Into my heart's depths sweetly stealing, 
 Till tears relieve the quickened feeling — 
 How I was moved, I cannot tell. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 69 
 
 Away to dreamland I was wafted ; 
 
 Methought that I was still a child ; 
 I sit by lamplight in a nook 
 Of my dear mother's room, and look 
 In wonder on a story-book, 
 
 While winds without are piping wild. 
 
 The stories kindle into life, 
 
 Knights from the grave ascend anon ; 
 There is a fight at Roncesvalles, 
 Sir Roland's plume towers o'er it all, 
 Brave falchions may attend his call, 
 
 So, too, does caitiff Ganelon. 
 
 By him most vilely done to death, 
 
 Bleeding and breathless Roland lies ; 
 Scarce could he wind the signal horn, 
 That to great Charles's ear was borne, 
 When down he sank, foredone, forlorn— 
 And straight with him my vision dies. 
 
 Then came a crash, that from my dream 
 
 Awoke me, a chaotic sound ; 
 The legend now is all told out, 
 The people clap their hands, and shout 
 " Bravo ! Bravo !" all round about ; 
 
 The singer courtesy s to the ground. 
 
 17. The Song of the Ducats. 
 
 O my golden ducats dear, 
 Tell me why ye are not here ? 
 
 Are ye with the golden fishes 
 Which within the stream so gaily 
 Leap and splash and wriggle daily ? 
 
7° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Are ye with the golden flow'rets 
 
 Which, o'er green fields scattered lightly, 
 
 In the morning dew gleam brightly? 
 
 Are ye with the golden bird-kins 
 Which we see in happy chorus 
 In the blue skies hov'ring o'er us ? 
 
 Are ye with the golden planets 
 Which in radiant crowds each even 
 Smile in yonder distant heaven ? 
 
 Ye, alas, my golden ducats, 
 Swim not in the streamlet bright, 
 
 Sparkle not on meadow green, 
 
 Hover not in skies serene, 
 Smile not in the heavens by night. 
 Creditors, with greedy paws, 
 Hold you safely in their claws. 
 
 1 8. Dialogue on Paderborn Heath. 
 
 Hear'st thou not far music ringing, 
 As of double-bass and fiddle ? 
 
 Many fair ones there are springing 
 Gaily up and down the middle. 
 
 " You're mistaken, friend, in speaking 
 Thus of fiddle and its brother ; 
 
 I but hear young porkers squeaking, 
 And the grunting of their mother." 
 
 Hear'st thou not the forest bugle ? 
 
 Hunters in the chase are straying ; 
 Gentle lambs are feeding, frugal 
 
 Shepherds on their pipes are playing. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 7 1 
 
 *' Ah, my friend, what you just now heard 
 Was not bugles, pipes, or hunters ; 
 
 I can only see the sow-herd 
 
 Slowly driving home his grunters." 
 
 Hear'st thou not the distant voices 
 
 In sweet rivalry contending ? 
 Many an angel blest rejoices 
 
 Strains like these to hear ascending. 
 
 " Ah, that music sweetly ringing 
 
 Is, my friend, no rival chorus ; 
 'Tis but youthful gooseherds, singing 
 
 As they drive their geese before us." 
 
 Hear'st thou not the church-bells holy, 
 Sweet and clear, with deep emotion ? 
 
 To the village chapel slowly 
 Wend the people with devotion. 
 
 " Ah, my friend, the bells 'tis only 
 
 Of the cows and oxen also. 
 Who, with sunken heads and lonely, 
 
 Go back to their gloomy stalls so." 
 
 See'st thou not the veil just moving ? 
 
 See' st thou not those soft advances ? 
 There I see my mistress loving, 
 
 Humid sorrow in her glances. 
 
 " She, my friend, who nods so much, is 
 
 An old woman, Betsy namely ; 
 Pale and haggard, on her crutches 
 
 O'er the meadow limps she lamely." 
 
 Overwhelm me with confusion 
 
 At my questions, friend, each minute ', 
 
72 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Wilt thou deem a mere illusion 
 What my bosom holds within it ? 
 
 19. Life's Salutations. 
 
 (From an Album.) 
 
 This earth resembles a highway vast, 
 We men are the travelers along it ; 
 
 On foot and on horseback we hurry on fast, 
 And as runners or couriers throng it. 
 
 In passing each other, we nod and we greet 
 With our handkerchiefs waved from the 
 coaches ; 
 
 We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet, 
 And speed on, despite all reproaches. 
 
 Dear Prince Alexander, as onward we go, 
 We scarcely have met at a station, 
 
 When the signal to start the postilions blow, 
 Compelling our sad separation. 
 
 20. A Word to the Wise. 
 
 When spring with the sunny days comes in, 
 Then flowers to burgeon and bloom begin ; 
 When the moon has her radiant course begun, 
 The stars swim after her one by one ; 
 When a pair of sweet eyes on the poet beams, 
 From the depths of his soul songs gush in 
 
 streams ; 
 But songs and stars and flowers of all dyes, 
 And moonbeams and sunshine and sweetest 
 
 eyes — 
 Be as fond of this sort of thing as you may — 
 To make up a world go a very short way. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 73 
 
 IV. SONNETS. 
 
 TO A. W. VON SCHLEGEL. 
 
 In dainty hoop, with flowers ail-richly dight, 
 With beauty-patches on her painted face, 
 With pointed shoes all hung about with lace, 
 
 With tow'ring curls, and, wasp-like, fasten'd 
 tight— 
 
 Thus was the spurious muse equipp'd that night 
 When first she offer 'd thee her fond embrace ; 
 But thou eludedst her and leftst the place, 
 
 Led by a mystic impulse from her sight : 
 
 A castle in the desert thou didst find, 
 
 Where, like a lovely marble image shrin'd, 
 Lay a fair maid, in magic slumber sunk ; 
 
 But soon the spell was loosed — when kiss'd by 
 thee, 
 
 With smiles the lawful muse of Germany 
 
 Awoke, and sank within thine arms, love- 
 drunk. 
 
 To My Mother, B. Heine, nie Von Geldern. 
 
 I have been wont to bear my head right high, 
 My temper too is somewhat stern and rough ; 
 Even before a monarch's cold rebuff 
 
 I would not timidly avert mine eye. 
 
 Yet, mother dear, I'll tell it openly : 
 
 Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff, 
 I feel submissive and subdued enough 
 
 When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh. 
 
 Is it thy spirit that subdues me then, 
 
 Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken, 
 
 And soaring to the light of heaven again ? 
 
74 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 By the sad recollection I'm oppress'd 
 
 That I have done so much that grieved thy 
 
 breast, 
 Which loved me, more than all things else, the 
 
 best. 
 
 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. 
 
 To H. S. 
 
 When I thy book, friend, open hastily, 
 
 Full many a cherish'd picture meets my view, 
 And many a golden image that I knew 
 
 In boyish dreams and days of infancy. 
 
 Proudly tow'rd heaven upsoaring, then I see 
 The pious dome, rear'd by religion true, 
 I hear the sound of bell and organ too, 
 
 Love's sweet lament at times addressing me. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 75 
 
 Well see I, too, how o'er the dome they skip, 
 The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy 
 The beauteous flow'r- and carved- work 
 destroy, 
 But though the oak of foliage we may strip, 
 And rob it of its fair and verdant grace, 
 When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons 
 apace. 
 
 Fresco Sonnets to Christian S . 
 
 I take no notice of the blockheads tame 
 
 Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand ; 
 
 I never offer to that rogue my hand 
 Who secretly would injure my good name ; 
 I bow not to the harlots who proclaim 
 
 Boldly their infamy throughout the land ; 
 
 And when in victor-cars the rabble band 
 Draw their vain idols, with them I ne'er came. 
 Well know I that the oak must fall indeed, 
 While by the streamlet' s side the pliant reed 
 Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not ; 
 But say, what is the reed's eventual lot ? 
 What joy ! As walking-stick it serves the dandy, 
 Or else for beating clothes they find it handy. 
 
 Give me a mask, I'll join the masquerade 
 As country clown, so that the rabble rout 
 Who in their proud disguises strut about 
 
 May not suppose me one of their vile trade. 
 
 Give me low manners, words on purpose made 
 To show vulgarity beyond all doubt ; 
 All sparks of spirit I'll with care put out 
 
 Wherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid. 
 
7 6 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 So will I dance then at the great mask'd ball, 
 By German knights, monks, kings surrounded 
 
 too, 
 By Harlequin saluted, known to few. 
 With wooden swords they'll strike me, one and 
 all. 
 That is the joke. For if I show my face, 
 The rascals will be silenced in disgrace. 
 
 I laugh at all the fools who at me gape, 
 
 And whom with prying goat-like face I see ; 
 
 I laugh at every fox who knavishly 
 And idly snuffs me like a very grape ; 
 I laugh at every vain pretentious ape, 
 
 Who a proud judge of genius claims to be ; 
 
 I laugh at all the knaves who threaten me 
 With poisonous weapons whence there's n< 
 
 escape. 
 For when the charming fancies joy once gave 
 
 Are wrested from us by the hands of fate, 
 And at our feet in thousand atoms cast, 
 And when our very heart is torn at last, 
 
 All torn and cut and pierced and desolate, 
 A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save. 
 
 A strange and charming tale still haunts my 
 mind, 
 Wherein a song the leading part assumes, 
 And in the song there lives and twines and 
 blooms 
 A lovely specimen of womankind ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 77 
 
 And in this maiden is a heart enshrined, 
 And yet no love that little heart illumes ; 
 Her loveless frosty disposition dooms 
 Her life to suffer from her pride so blind. 
 Hear'st thou how in my head the tale comes 
 back? 
 And how the song sounds solemnly and sad ? 
 And how the maiden titters softly yet ? 
 I only fear lest my poor head should crack. 
 Alas ! it would indeed be far too bad, 
 If my unlucky reason were upset. 
 
 At evening's silent, melancholy hour, 
 
 Long-buried songs around me take their place, 
 And burning tears course swiftly down my 
 face, 
 
 And my old heart-wounds bleed with greater 
 power. 
 
 My love's dear image like a beauteous flower 
 As in a magic glass again I trace ; 
 In bodice red she sits and sews apace, 
 
 And silence reigns around her blissful bower. 
 
 But on a sudden springs she from her seat, 
 And cuts from her dear head a beauteous lock, 
 And gives it me — the very joy's a shock. 
 
 The Evil One soon spoilt my rapture sweet : 
 The hair he twisted in a rope full strong, 
 And many a year has dragg'd me thus along. 
 
 " When I a year ago again met thee, 
 
 No kiss thou gav'st me in that moment blest ; 
 Thus spake I, and my love a kiss impress'd 
 
 With rosy mouth upon my lips with glee. 
 
78 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 With a sweet smile she from a myrtle tree 
 Hard by us pluck'd a twig, and said in jest : 
 ' ' Take thou this twig, in fresh earth let it rest, 
 
 And o'er it place a glass " — then nodded she. 
 
 'Twas long ago. The twig died in the pot. 
 'Tis many a year since she hath cross'd my 
 sight ; 
 
 Yet in my head that kiss still burnetii hot. 
 
 Lately returning home, I sought the place 
 
 Where dwells my love. Before her house all 
 night 
 
 I stood, and left when morning show'dits face. 
 
 Of savage devils'-brats, my friend, beware, 
 
 But gentle angels'-brats more hearts will break ; 
 
 Once such a one a sweet kiss bid me take, 
 But when I came, I felt sharp talons there. 
 Of black and ancient cats, my friend, take care, 
 
 But white young kittens are still more awake ; 
 
 Once such a one my sweetheart did I make — 
 My heart my sweetheart savagely did tear. 
 O darling brat ! O maiden passing sweet ! 
 
 How could thy clear eye e'er deceive me so ? 
 
 How could thy paw e'er give me such a blow ? 
 O my dear kitten's paw so soft and neat ! 
 
 Could I but press thee to my glowing lip ! 
 
 And could my life-blood meanwhile cease to 
 drip ! 
 
 Thou oft hast seen me boldly strive with those — 
 Both spectacled old fop and painted dame — 
 Who gladly would destroy my honest name, 
 
 And gladly see my last expiring throes. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 79 
 
 Thou oft has seen how pedants round me close, 
 How fools with cap and bells my life defame, 
 How poisonous serpents gnaw my sinking 
 frame, 
 
 Whilst from a thousand wounds my life-blood 
 flows. 
 
 But firm as any tower there stood thy form ; 
 
 Thy head a lighthouse was amid the storm, 
 Thy faithful heart a haven was for me ; 
 
 Though round that haven roars the raging main, 
 
 And few the ships the landing-place that gain, 
 Once there, we slumber in security. 
 
 Fain would I weep, but, ah, I cannot weep ; 
 Fain would I upwards full of vigor spring, 
 But cannot ; to the earth I needs must cling, 
 
 Spurn'd by the reptiles that around me creep. 
 
 Fain would I near my beauteous mistress keep, 
 Near my bright light of life be hovering, 
 And in her dear sweet breath be revelling, 
 
 But cannot ; for my heart with sorrow deep 
 
 Is breaking ; from my broken heart doth flow 
 My burning blood, my strength within me 
 fades, 
 And darker, darker grows the world to me. 
 With secret awe I yearn unceasingly ■ 
 For yonder misty realm, where silent shades 
 
 Their gentle, loving arms around me throw. 
 
LYRICAL INTERLUDE. 
 1822-23. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 There once lived a knight, who was mournful 
 and bent, 
 His cheeks white as snow were, and hollow ; 
 He totter'd and stagger'd wherever he went, 
 
 A vain vision attempting to follow. 
 He seem'd so clumsy and awkward and gauche, 
 That the flowers and girls, when they saw him 
 approach, 
 Their merriment scarcely could swallow. 
 
 From his room's darkest corner he often ne'er 
 stirr'd, 
 
 Esteeming the sight of men shocking, 
 And extended his arms, without speaking a word, 
 
 As though some vain phantom were mocking. 
 But scarce had the hour of midnight drawn near, 
 'When a wonderful singing and noise met his ear, 
 
 And he heard at the door a strange knocking. 
 
 His mistress then secretly enters the room, 
 In a dress made of foam of the ocean ; 
 
 She glows like a rosebud, so sweet is her bloom, 
 Her jewell'd veil's ever in motion ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 61 
 
 Her golden locks play round her form slim and 
 
 tall, 
 Their eyes meet with rapture, and straightway 
 
 they fall 
 In each other's arms with devotion. 
 
 In his loving embraces the knight holds her fast, 
 The dullard with passion is glowing ; 
 
 He reddens, the dreamer awakens at last, 
 And bolder and bolder he's growing. 
 
 But she grows more saucy and mocking instead, 
 
 And gently and softly she covers his head, 
 Her white jewell'd veil o'er him throwing. 
 
 To a watery palace of crystal bright 
 The knight on a sudden is taken ; 
 His eyes are dazzled by radiant light, 
 By his wits he is wellnigh forsaken. 
 But the nymph holds him closely embraced by 
 
 her side, 
 The knight is the bridegroom, the nymph is the 
 bride, 
 While her maidens the lute's notes awaken. 
 
 So sweetly they play and so sweetly they sing, 
 
 In the dance they are moving so lightly, 
 That the knight before long finds his senses take 
 wing, 
 He embraces his sweet one more tightly — 
 When all of a sudden the lights disappear, 
 And the knight's once more sitting in solitude 
 drear 
 In his poet's low garret unsightly. 
 
8 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 '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. 
 
 Sweet flowers spring up, the fairest, 
 Where fell my tears, and burned ; 
 
 And all my sighs to melodies 
 Of nightingales are turned. 
 
 And, if thou'lt love me, Sweeting, 
 The flowers to thee I'll bring ; 
 
 And 'neath thy chamber window 
 The nightingales shall sing. 
 
 3. 
 The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun, 
 I loved them all dearly once, every one ; 
 I love them no longer, I love now alone 
 The small one, the neat one, the pure one, mine 
 
 own. 
 Yes, she herself, the fount of all love, 
 Is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove. 
 
 4- 
 
 Whene'er I look into thine eyes, 
 Then every fear that haunts me flies ; 
 But when I kiss thy mouth, oh then 
 I feel a giant's strength again. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 83 
 
 When leaning on thy darling breast, 
 I feel with heavenly rapture blest ; 
 But when thou sayest, " I love thee !" 
 Then must I weep, and bitterly. 
 
 5- 
 Thy face, so sweet and fair to see, 
 Of late has come in my dreams to me ; 
 It is so gentle and angel-fair, 
 And yet so wan, so wan with care. 
 
 The lips are rose-red ; but anon 
 Death kisses them — the rose is gone ; 
 And quench' d, alas ! the heavenly light, 
 That from thy sweet eyes flashes bright. 
 
 Thy cheek incline, dear love, to mine, 
 
 Then our tears in one stream will meet, love ! 
 
 Let thy heart be pressed till on mine it rest, 
 Then the flames together will beat, love I 
 
 And when the stream of our tears shall light 
 
 On that flame so fiercely burning, 
 And within my arms I clasp thee tight — 
 
 I shall die with love's wild yearning. 
 
 7- 
 I will steep my fainting spirit 
 
 In the lily's calyx pale, 
 The lily, in tones that stir it, 
 
 A song of my love shall exhale. 
 
 That song shall vibrate and shiver, 
 Like the ever-remembered kiss, 
 
 That from her lips on mine did quiver 
 In an hour of divinest bliss. 
 
84 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Immovable, unchanging, 
 The stars stand in the skies, 
 
 Upon each other gazing 
 With sad and loving eyes. 
 
 They speak throughout the ages 
 A speech so rich, so grand ; 
 
 But none of all the sages 
 
 That speech can understand. 
 
 But I that speech have mastered, 
 Can all its meanings trace ; 
 
 What for a grammar served me 
 Was my beloved's face. 
 
 Oh, I would bear thee, my love, my bride, 
 
 Afar on the wings of song, 
 To a fairy spot by the Ganges' side ; 
 
 I have known and have loved it long. 
 
 'Tis a garden a-flame with blossoms rare, 
 That sleeping in moonlight lies ; 
 
 The Lotus-flowers are awaiting there 
 A sister they dearly prize. 
 
 There the violets twine, and soft vows repeat, 
 
 And gaze on the stars above ; 
 The roses exhale in whispers sweet 
 
 Old legends of souls that love. 
 
 Gazelles come bounding from the brake, 
 And pause, and look shyly round ; 
 
 And the waves of the sacred river make 
 A far-off slumb'rous sound. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 85 
 
 There shall we couch by a rippling stream 
 
 In the shade of a stately palm, 
 And drink in love, and delight, and dream 
 
 Long dreams in a blissful calm. 
 
 The lotos flower is troubled 
 At the sun's resplendent light ; 
 
 With sunken head and sadly 
 
 She dreamily waits for the night. 
 
 The moon appears as her wooer, 
 She wakes at his fond embrace ; 
 
 For him she kindly uncovers 
 Her sweetly flowering face. 
 
 She blooms and glows and glistens, 
 
 And mutely gazes above ; 
 She weeps and exhales and trembles 
 
 With love and the sorrows of love. 
 
 In the Rhine, that beautiful river, 
 The sacred town of Cologne, 
 
 With its vast cathedral, is ever 
 Full clearly mirror' d and shown. 
 
 A picture on golden leather 
 In that fair cathedral is seen ; 
 
 On my life, so sad altogether, 
 It hath cast its rays serene. 
 
 The flowers and angels hover 
 Round our dear Lady there ; 
 
 Her eyes, lips, cheeks, all over 
 Resemble my mistress fair. 
 
S6 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Thou lov'st me not, thou tellest me. 
 
 It troubles me but slightly ; 
 But when thy beauteous face I see, 
 
 No king's heart beats more lightly. 
 
 Thou hatest me, thy red lips say 
 With well-pretended snarling ; 
 
 But when sweet kisses they convey, 
 I'm comforted, my darling. 
 
 13- 
 Full lovingly thou must embrace me, 
 
 My mistress beauteous and sweet ! 
 With pliant form interlace me, 
 
 And with thine arms and thy feet. 
 
 The fairest of snakes e'er created 
 
 With vigor encircles anon, 
 And clasps and twines round the elated 
 
 And happy Laocoon. 
 
 M. 
 
 Swear not at all, but only kiss ! 
 All woman's oaths I hold amiss ; 
 Thy word is sweet, but sweeter far 
 The kisses that my guerdon are. 
 These keep I, while thy words but seem 
 A passing cloud, or fragrant dream. 
 
 Now then, my loved one, swear away ! 
 I'll credit all that thou dost say ; 
 And when I sink upon thy breast, 
 I'll think that I am truly blest ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 87 
 
 I'll think that, love, eternally, 
 And even longer, thou'lt love me. 
 
 15. 
 
 Upon my mistress's eyes so clear 
 
 I write the fairest cantatas ; 
 Upon my mistress's mouth sincere 
 
 I write the best of terzinas ; 
 Upon my mistress's cheeks so dear 
 
 I write the cleverest stanzas ; 
 And had my mistress a heart, upon it 
 I soon would write a charming sonnet, 
 
 16. 
 
 The world's an ass, the world can't see, 
 
 And grows more stupid daily : 
 It says, my darling child, of thee, 
 
 Thou livest far too gaily. 
 
 The world's an ass, the world can't see t 
 
 Thy character not knowing ; 
 It knows not how sweet thy kisses be, 
 
 How rapturously glowing. 
 
 17. 
 Loved one — gladly would I know it — 
 
 Art thou but a vision fair, 
 Such as in his brain the poet 
 
 Loves in summer to prepare ? 
 
 No ! such eyes of magic splendor, 
 
 Lips so rosy and so warm, 
 Such a child, so sweet and tender, 
 
 Never did the poet form. 
 
Mi THE BOOK OF SONGS, 
 
 Basilisks ani vampires gory, 
 Dragons, monsters of the earth, 
 
 Suchlike evil beasts of story 
 In the poet's fire have birth. 
 
 But thyself, so artful-artless, 
 Thy sweet face, thy tender eyes, 
 
 With their looks so fond, so heartless, 
 Never poet could devise. 
 
 iS. 
 
 Fair she is as foam-born Venus, 
 She that was my love, my pride ; 
 
 But a churl has stept between us, 
 Vaunts her as his chosen bride. 
 
 Heart mine, chafe not at the treason, 
 O thou much-enduring one ! 
 
 Bear, nay, deem it quite in reason, 
 What the pretty fool has done. 
 
 19. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ves, thou art wretched, and I am not wroth : 
 O love, in pain we both most draw our breath ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 09 
 
 Yes, we are fated to be wretched both, 
 
 Till our sad hearts, love, shall break in 
 death. 
 
 I see the scorn upon thy lips express'd, 
 I see thine eyes flash fierce defiance now, 
 
 I see the spasm of pride that heaves thy breast, 
 Yet even as I am wretched, so art thou. 
 
 Yet round thy lips an unseen sorrow glides, 
 Tears, hidden tears, bedim those eyes of thine, 
 
 Thy proud breast cherishes a wound it hides — 
 Yes, to be wretched is thy lot and mine ! 
 
 Hark to yon fiddling and fluting, 
 The trumpets bray loudly out ! 
 
 My heart's very darling is footing 
 It there with her wedding rout. 
 
 Hark to yon booming and droning 
 Of hautboy, bassoon, and drum ! 
 
 And, mingled through all, the moaning 
 And sobs of good angels come. 
 
 Thou scarcely could'st have forgotten it faster, 
 That I of thine heart so long was the master ; 
 Thine heart so false, so small, and so sweet, 
 A sweeter and falser I never shall meet. 
 
 Thou now hast forgotten the love and disaster 
 That made my heart throb all the faster ; 
 I know not if love was the greatest, or woe ; 
 That both were great, full well I know. 
 
go THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 23. 
 If the little flowers knew how deep 
 
 Is the wound that is in my heart, 
 Their tears with mine they'd weep, 
 
 For a balm to ease its smart. 
 
 If the nightingales knew how ill 
 
 And worn with woe I be, 
 They would cheerily carol and trill, 
 
 And all to bring joy to me. 
 
 If they knew, every golden star, 
 The anguish that racks me here, 
 
 They would come from their heights afar 
 To speak to me words of cheer. 
 
 But none of them all can know ; 
 
 One only can tell my pain, 
 And she has herself — oh woe ! — 
 
 She has rent my heart in twain. 
 
 24. 
 O why have the roses lost their hue, 
 
 Sweet love, O tell me why ? 
 Why mutely thus do the violets blue 
 
 In the verdant meadows sigh ? 
 
 The lark, why sings he so sad a chime, 
 As he soars in the sky o'erhead? 
 
 Why, why exhales from the fragrant thyme 
 An odor as of the dead ? 
 
 Why wears the sun all the livelong day 
 A look of such chill and gloom ? 
 
 Oh, why is the earth so ashen-gray, 
 And desolate as a tomb ? 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 9 1 
 
 And why so heart-sick and sad am I ? 
 
 Oh, say, love, why this should be ! 
 Oh, say, my heart's very darling, why 
 
 Hast thou forsaken me ? 
 
 25- 
 
 For thine ear many tales they invented, 
 And loud complaints preferred ; 
 
 But how my soul was tormented, 
 Of this they said not a word. 
 
 They prated of mischief and evil, 
 And mournfully shook their head ; 
 
 They liken'd poor me to the devil, 
 
 And thou didst believe what they said. 
 
 But, oh, the worst and the saddest 
 
 Of this they nothing- knew ; 
 The saddest and the maddest 
 
 In my heart was hidden from view. 
 
 26. 
 
 The linden blossomed, the nightingale sung, 
 The sun was beaming with smiles of light ; 
 
 Then you kissed me, around me your arms you 
 flung, 
 To your heaving bosom you clasp'd me tight. 
 
 Leaves were falling, the raven croak'd hollow 
 and hoarse, 
 
 The sun was saddened, and sick with shade ; 
 We said " Farewell !" like some matter of course, 
 
 .And you the politest of curtseys made. ' 
 
92 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 27- 
 We have felt for each other emotions soft, 
 
 And yet our tempers always were matching, 
 At " man and wife " we have play'd full oft, 
 
 And yet ne'er took to fighting and scratching. 
 We have shouted together, together been gay, 
 And tenderly kiss'd and fondled away. 
 At last we play'd in forest and dell 
 
 At hide and seek, like sister and brother, 
 And managed to hide ourselves so well, 
 
 That never since then have we seen each 
 other. 
 
 28. 
 
 I've no belief in the heavens 
 Of which the parsons rave ; 
 
 In thine eyes believe I only, 
 In their heavenly light I lave. 
 
 I've no belief in the Maker 
 Of whom the parsons rave ; 
 
 In thine heart believe I only, 
 No other God will I have. 
 
 I've no belief in the devil, 
 In hell or the pains of hell ; 
 
 In thine eyes believe I only, 
 And thine evil heart as well. 
 
 29. 
 
 To me thou wert faithful and steady, 
 And madest for me supplication ; 
 In my troubles and sad tribulation 
 
 Thy comfort always was ready. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 93 
 
 Food and drink thou gav'st me in payment, 
 And plenty of money didst lend me, 
 And also a passport didst send me, 
 
 As well as some changes of raiment. 
 
 From heat and from coldness unpleasant 
 May heaven, my dear one, long guard thee, 
 And may it never reward thee 
 
 The kindness shown me at present ! 
 
 3o. 
 
 The earth had long been avaricious, 
 
 But May, when she came, gave with great 
 prodigality, 
 And all things now smile with rapture delicious, 
 
 But I for laughter have no partiality. 
 
 The blue bells are ringing, their beauty display- 
 ing, 
 
 The birds, as in fables, talk sentimentality ; 
 I take no pleasure in all they are saying, 
 
 And I am quite wretched in sober reality. 
 
 All men I detest, and now cannot meet one, 
 Not even my friend, with the least cordiality, 
 
 And this all because my amiable sweet one 
 
 They "madam" entitle, with chilling for- 
 mality. 
 
 31. 
 
 And as I linger'd so many a day 
 
 Dreaming and roystering far away, 
 
 The time on my love's heart hung like a load, 
 
 So a wedding-robe for herself she sewed, 
 
 And for bridegroom within her soft arms she 
 
 wound 
 The biggest young fool that might well be found. 
 
94 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 My love, so gentle, so fair is she, 
 
 That her sweet image keeps haunting me ; 
 
 Her violet eyes, her rosy cheeks, 
 
 They glow and they bloom through the months 
 
 and weeks. 
 Of all my mad follies, the maddest, I wis, 
 Was to let through my fingers a love like this. 
 
 The violets blue of those eyes of thine, 
 The roses red of thy cheeks divine, 
 The lilies white of thy hands so fine, 
 Bloom on and on, fresh, bright, and clear — 
 'Tis only your heart is dried up, my dear. 
 
 33- 
 
 The world is so fair, and the sky so blue, 
 And the breezes so soft, and so balmy, too, 
 And the meadow flowers are so bright of hue, 
 And they sparkle and gleam in the morning dew 
 And all men are merry and glad to view ; 
 Vet fain would I lie in the churchyard bed, 
 And nestle in close by my love that's dead. 
 
 34- 
 
 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 BOOK OF SONGS. 95 
 
 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. 
 
 35- 
 Y 
 
 A lonely fir tree is standing 
 
 On a northern barren height ; 
 It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift 
 Cast round it a garment of white. 
 
 It dreams of a slender palm tree, 
 Which far in the Eastern land 
 
 Beside a precipice scorching 
 In silent sorrow doth stand. 
 
 36. 
 
 Stars, that bright and golden are, 
 Greet my darling from afar ; 
 Say I'm still the same she knew — 
 Sick at heart, and pale, and true. 
 
 37- 
 ( The Head speaks.} 
 
 Oh, were I but the footstool, where 
 
 The feet of my dear lady rest, 
 Press how she might, I should not care, 
 
 The very pain would make me blest ! 
 
9 6 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 {The Heart speaks.) 
 
 Oh, were I but the cushion, where 
 She sticks her pins and needles in, 
 
 Prick how they might, I should not care, 
 Each prick a smile should only win ! 
 
 ( The Song speaks.) 
 
 Oh, were I but the paper roll 
 
 From which her papillotes she takes, 
 
 I'd whisper to her, how my soul 
 For her, her only, lives and aches ! 
 
 38. 
 
 SINCE my love did me beguile 
 I have quite forgot to smile ; 
 Stupid jokes I hear and chaff, 
 But I cannot, cannot laugh. 
 
 Since the day I lost her, I 
 Have to tears, too, said good-by ; 
 Sharp my heart's pangs are and deep, 
 But I cannot, cannot weep. 
 
 39. 
 My little songs do I utter 
 
 From out of my great, great sorrow ; 
 
 Some tinkling pinions they borrow, 
 And tow'rd her bosom they flutter. 
 
 They found it, and over it hover'd, 
 But soon return '-d they, complaining. 
 And yet to tell me disdaining 
 
 What they in her bosom discover'd. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 97 
 
 40. 
 
 Sweet darling, beloved by me solely, 
 The thoughts in my memory dwell 
 
 That once I possess'd thee wholly, 
 Thy soul and body as well. 
 
 Thy body, so young and tender, 
 
 I need, beyond all doubt ; 
 Thy soul to the tomb I'll surrender, 
 
 I've plenty of soul without. 
 
 I'll cut my soul in sunder, 
 
 And half of it breathe into thee, 
 
 And when I embrace thee — wonder ! — 
 One soul and body we'll be. 
 
 41. 
 
 The blockheads, their holidays keeping, 
 Are walking through forest and plain ; 
 
 They shout, and like kittens are leaping, 
 And hail sweet Nature again. 
 
 They gaze, with glances that glisten, 
 
 On each romantic thing ; 
 With ears like asses they listen 
 
 To hear the sparrows sing. 
 
 My chamber window to darken, 
 With black cloth I hang it by day ; 
 
 To the signal my spirits straight hearken, 
 Day-visits they hasten to pay. 
 
 My olden love also draws nigh me, 
 
 From the realms of the dead she appears ; 
 
 She, weeping, sits gently close by me, 
 And softens my bosom to tears. 
 
9° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 42. 
 
 Many visions of times long vanish'd 
 
 Arise from out of their tomb, 
 And show me how once in thy presence 
 
 I lived in my life's young bloom. 
 
 All day I mournfully totter'd 
 
 Through the streets, as though in a dream ; 
 The people gazed on me with wonder, 
 
 So silent and sad did I seem. 
 
 The night-time suited me better, 
 
 Deserted the streets were then, 
 And I and my shadow together 
 
 We wandered in silence again. 
 
 With footsteps echoing loudly 
 
 I wander'd over the bridge ; 
 The moon with solemn look hail'd me 
 
 As she burst through the cloudy ridge. 
 
 I stood in front of thy dwelling, 
 
 And fondly gazed up on high ; 
 I gazed up toward thy window, 
 
 My heart breathed many a sigh. 
 
 Well know I that thou from the window 
 
 Full often hast gazed below, 
 And in the moonlight hast seen me 
 
 Stand fix'd, the image of woe. 
 
 43- 
 A young man loves a maiden, 
 
 She somebody else prefers ; 
 That somebody else loves another, 
 
 Who makes him by wedlock hers. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 99 
 
 The maiden in mere vexation, 
 Because of the loss she has had, 
 
 Weds the first kind soul that offers, 
 And this drives the young man mad. 
 
 'Tis an old, a very old story, 
 
 But still it is always new ; 
 And when and wherever it happens 
 
 A man's heart is broken in two. 
 
 44- 
 
 Friendship, Love, the Philosopher's Stone, 
 I have heard them praised, all three, I own. 
 I have praised them, too, and for them have 
 
 sought, 
 But alas I alas 3 I have found them not. 
 
 45- 
 
 On hearing the strains enthralling 
 That my loved one sang to me erst, 
 
 With torments fierce and appalling 
 My heart is ready to burst. 
 
 Impell'd by a gloomy yearning 
 
 I seek in the forest relief, 
 And there in tears hotly burning 
 
 I quench my anguish and grief. 
 
 46. 
 
 I dreamt of a monarch's daughter fair, 
 
 And pale and sad was she ; 
 Clasp' d heart to heart we were sitting there, 
 
 All under a linden tree. 
 
lOO THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " Not for thy father's throne I pine, 
 Nor his sceptre of gold I want, 
 
 I want not his crown of the diamond shine, 
 'Tis for thy sweet self I pant." 
 
 II That cannot be !" to me she said ; 
 " In the grave I am lying low, 
 
 And I only come to thee at dead 
 Of night, for I love thee so !" 
 
 47- 
 Sweet love, in fond converse together 
 
 In the light canoe sat we, 
 Still the night was, and calm was the weather, 
 
 As we skimm'd o'er the wide-spreading sea. 
 
 The fair spirit-islands before us 
 In the glimmering moonlight lay ; 
 
 Sweet tones came floating o'er us, 
 
 "While the mists were dancing in play. 
 
 On danced they with merrier motion, 
 And sweeter still sounded the song ; 
 
 But over the boundless ocean 
 "We mournfully floated along. 
 
 43. 
 
 From the realm of old-world story 
 
 There beckons a lily hand, 
 That calls up the sweetness, the glory, 
 
 The sounds of a magic land. 
 
 Where huge flowers droop in the splendor 
 
 Of closing day's golden red, 
 And cast on each other looks tender, 
 
 As the looks are of lovers new wed ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. IOI 
 
 Where all the trees, too, have voices, 
 
 And all like a chorus sing, 
 And a sound as of music rejoices 
 
 In the babble of every spring ; 
 
 On the air songs of true love are swelling, 
 Such as never elsewhere thou hast heard, 
 
 Till by yearnings divine beyond telling 
 Thy soul is divinely stirred. 
 
 Oh me, if I might go thither, 
 
 And gladden my care-worn breast, 
 
 Shake off all the sorrows that wither, 
 Be happy and truly at rest ! 
 
 Ah, many a time in my dreaming 
 
 Through that region of rapture I roam ! 
 
 Then the morning sun comes with its beaming, 
 And scatters it all like foam. 
 
 49- 
 I loved thee, and oh, I love thee still ! 
 
 The world to wreck may crumble, 
 But the flames of the love that I bear thee will 
 
 Flash out, as the ruins tumble. 
 
 And when I thus have loved thee so well 
 Till the hour of death has sounded, 
 
 I'll take with me e'en to my tomb's dark cell 
 My love-pangs fierce and unbounded. 
 
 50. 
 
 In the glimmering summer morning 
 
 I pace the garden alone ; 
 The flowers are whisp'ring and speaking, 
 
 But silently wander I on. 
 
02 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The flowers are whisp'ring and speaking, 
 My form with compassion they scan : 
 
 Oh, pray be kind to our sister, 
 
 Thou mournful and pale-faced man I 
 
 51. 
 My love in its shadowy glory 
 
 Shines out with a lurid light, 
 Like a troubled and tragic story, 
 
 That is told on a summer night. 
 
 ' ' Lovers twain in a garden enchanted 
 
 Alone and in silence stray ; 
 By the nightingales' songs they are haunted, 
 
 And round them the moonbeams play. 
 
 "Statue-like stands the maid, uncompliant, 
 On his knees at her feet is the knight ; 
 
 When on strides a brute of a giant, 
 And the maiden flies off in a fright. 
 
 " The knight drops senseless and gory, 
 The giant reels home to his bed " 
 
 'Twill not be wound up, that story, 
 Till the turf is laid over my head. 
 
 52. 
 
 They often have vex'd me sadly 
 And worried me early and late ; 
 
 While some with their love have annoy 'd me, 
 The others pursued me with hate. 
 
 My bread they have utterly poison' d, 
 And poison' d my cup too of late ; 
 
 While some with their love have annoy 'd me, 
 The others pursued me with hate. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I03 
 
 But she who more than all others 
 
 Has vex'd me, and worried, and chafed, 
 
 She only with hate ne'er pursued me, 
 She only her love ne'er vouchsafed. 
 
 53- 
 'Tis summer, fiery summer 
 
 Upon thy cheeks divine ; 
 'Tis winter, icy winter 
 
 In that little heart of thine. 
 
 'Twill not be so forever, 
 My own dear love that art ; 
 
 On thy cheek it will be winter, 
 And summer in thy heart. 
 
 54. 
 When it comes to lovers' parting, 
 
 Each other's hands they press, 
 And then they fall a-weeping, 
 
 And sigh sighs numberless. 
 
 We wept not, thou and I, love, 
 
 Nor " Oh !" nor " Ah !" sigh'd we ! 
 
 The tears and sighs came after, 
 But alas ! they were to be. 
 
 55- 
 They sat round the tea-table drinking, 
 
 And speaking of love a great deal ; 
 The men of aesthetics were thinking, 
 
 The ladies more prone were to feel. 
 
 " All love ought to be but platonical," 
 The wither'd old counsellor said ; 
 
104 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 His wife by a smile quite ironical 
 
 Rejoin'd, and then sighed "Ah !" instead. 
 
 Said the canon with visage dejected, 
 " Love ne'er should be suffered to go 
 
 Too far, or the health is affected ;" 
 
 The maiden then simper'd, " How so?" 
 
 The Countess her sad feelings vented, 
 Said, " Love is a passion, I'm sure," 
 
 And then to the Baron presented 
 His cup with politeness demure. 
 
 A place was still empty at table ; 
 
 My darling, 'twas thou wert away ; 
 Thou hadst been so especially able 
 
 The tale of thy love, sweet, to say. 
 
 56. 
 
 My songs, they are poison'd — poison'd ! 
 
 How otherwise could it be? 
 Over the flowers of my life's fresh hours 
 
 Has poison been pour'd by thee. 
 
 My songs, they are poison'd — poison'd ! 
 
 How otherwise could it be ? 
 Many serpents I bear in my heart, and there 
 
 I bear with them, thee, love, thee. 
 
 57- 
 
 Again the old dream came back to me ; 
 
 'Twas eve in the May-time vernal, 
 We sat there under the linden tree, 
 
 And vowed troth-plight eternal. 
 
 Oh, the vowing and vowing o'er and o'er ! 
 How we coo, and we fondle and bill, too ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS, I °5 
 
 To make me remember the vow I swore, 
 You bit my hand — with a will, too. 
 
 Oh, darling, with the eyes of light, 
 Oh, darling, fair and mordant, 
 
 The vows were all as they should be, quite, 
 The bite was a trifle discordant. 
 
 53. 
 
 I stand on the brow of the mountain, 
 
 And sentimentally sigh. 
 "Oh, were I only a bird now ! " 
 
 I many a thousand times cry. 
 
 Oh, were I only a swallow, 
 
 My darling, to thee would I fly, 
 
 And soon a nest would I build me, 
 Thy lattice window hard by. 
 
 Oh, were I a nightingale only, 
 I would fly, my darling, to thee, 
 
 And sing my sweet songs by night-time 
 Perch 'd high in the green linden tree. 
 
 Oh, were I only a bullfinch, 
 
 I would fly straight into thy heart ; 
 
 To the bullfinch thou always wert kindly, 
 And healest the bullfinch's smart.* 
 
 59- 
 My carriage rumbles slowly 
 
 Through woodlands green and gay, 
 Through flowery dells, that in sunlight 
 
 Are blossoming fresh with May. 
 
 * The word " Gimpel " in the original has the double 
 meaning of "bullfinch" and "blockhead," and the 
 point of this verse is therefore lost in a translation. 
 
106 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 I sit, and I muse, and dream of 
 
 The lady I long to win, 
 When at the carriage-window 
 
 Three phantom shapes look in. 
 
 They caper and make grimaces, 
 
 So elf-like, and yet so shy ; 
 And swirl, as mists do, together, 
 
 And grin, and go whisking by. 
 
 60. 
 
 In dreams, oh, I have wept, love ! 
 
 I dreamed in the grave you were laid; 
 I awoke, and my cheek was wet, love, 
 
 And tears still adown it strayed. 
 
 In dreams, oh, I have wept, love ! 
 
 I dreamed you were false to me ; 
 I awoke, and I went on weeping 
 
 Long, long and bitterly. 
 
 In dreams, oh, I have wept, love ! 
 
 I dreamed you still held me dear ; 
 I awoke, and unto this hour, love, 
 
 "Weep many a scalding tear. 
 
 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. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 107 
 
 Whispering a word, thou Iay'st on my hair 
 A wreath with sad cypress shotten ; 
 
 I awake —the wreath is no longer there, 
 And the word I have forgotten. 
 
 62. 
 
 'Tis autumn, the night's dark and gloomy, 
 With rain and tempest above ; 
 
 Where tarries — oh, tell it unto to me — 
 My poor and sorrowing love ? 
 
 By the window I see her reclining, 
 In her chamber lonely and drear, 
 
 And out in the night, sadly pining, 
 She looks with many a tear. 
 
 63. 
 The trees in the autumn wind rustle, 
 
 The night is humid and cold ; 
 I ride all alone in the forest, 
 
 And round me my gray cloak I fold. 
 
 And as I am riding, before me 
 
 My thoughts unrestrainedly roam ; 
 
 They lightly and airily bear me 
 To my own dear mistress's home. 
 
 The dogs are barking, the servants 
 
 With glittering torches appear ; 
 I climb up the winding staircase, 
 
 My spurs ring loudly and clear. 
 
 In her bright-lighted tapestry chamber, 
 
 So full of magical charms, 
 My own sweet darling awaits me, 
 
 I hasten into her arms. 
 
io8 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The wind in the leaves is sighing, 
 
 The oak thus whispers to me : 
 " What means, thou foolish young horsema^ 
 
 Thy foolish re very ? " 
 
 64. 
 A glittering star is falling 
 
 From its shining home in the air ; 
 The star of love 'tis surely 
 
 That I see falling there. 
 
 The blossoms and leaves in plenty 
 From the apple tree fall each day ; 
 
 The merry breezes approach them, 
 And with them merrily play. 
 
 The swan in the pool is singing, 
 And up and down doth he steer, 
 
 And, singing gently ever, 
 Dips under the water clear. 
 
 All now is silent and darksome, 
 The leaves and blossoms decay, 
 
 The star has crumbled and vanish'd, 
 The song of the swan died away. 
 
 65 
 The Dream-God bore me to a giant keep, 
 
 Where gleaming lights, and heavy weird per-* 
 
 fume, 
 
 And motley mingling crowds of men did sweep 
 
 Through winding labyrinths of room on room ; 
 
 Pale crowds that hung about the doors did weep, 
 
 And wrung their hands, and cried as if for 
 
 doom : 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. IO9 
 
 Young maids and knights stood out amid the 
 
 throng, 
 And with the rush I too was borne along. 
 
 But all at once I am alone ; and Io ! 
 
 Passed out of view are all of human kincH 
 Onward I roam alone, and hurrying go 
 
 Through the still chambers, that so strangely 
 wind. 
 My feet turn lead, my heart is full of woe, 
 
 An outlet almost I despair to find ; 
 At length I reach the final door, and would 
 Go forth — O God ! what there before me stood ? 
 
 It was my darling at the door did stand, 
 
 On her brow sorrow, round her sweet lip's pain ; 
 
 I would have turn'd, she beckons with her hand, 
 I wist not if in warning or disdain ; 
 
 But in her eyes a light shone, that unmann'd 
 And thrill'd me through and through, both 
 heart and brain ; 
 
 Then, as she eyed me with a look that spoke 
 
 Sternly, yet with strange tenderness — I woke. 
 
 66. 
 
 The midnight was cold, and still, and sad, 
 
 I roam'd through the wood, and my heart was 
 
 mad ; 
 I scared from slumber tree after tree, 
 And in pity they shook their heads at me. 
 
 67. 
 At the cross-roads a wretch is buried, 
 
 Self-slain in an evil hour ; 
 There is a blue flower growing, 
 
 The Death-doomed-criminal's-flower. 
 
O THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 At the cross-roads I stood in the silence 
 And chill of the midnight hour ; 
 
 Slowly it waved in the moonlight, 
 
 The Death-doomed-criminal's-flower. 
 
 68. 
 
 Where'er I be, a darkness stronger, 
 Denser, all around me spreads, 
 
 Since thine eyes' dear light no longer 
 On my path its lustre sheds. 
 
 Sweet love-stars ! their golden dawning 
 Never more shall glad my sight ; 
 
 At my feet a chasm is yawning — 
 Sweep me hence, primeval night ! 
 
 69. 
 
 Night lay upon mine eyelids, 
 
 Upon my mouth lay lead ; 
 I in my grave was lying, 
 
 With frozen heart and head. 
 
 How long it was I know not 
 
 That I in slumber lay ; 
 I woke and heard a knocking 
 
 Upon my grave one day. 
 
 ' ' Wilt thou not rise up, Henry ? 
 
 The Judgment-Day is this, 
 The dead have all arisen, 
 
 To taste of endless bliss." 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling, 
 
 For I have lost my sight ; 
 Mine eyes, through very weeping, 
 
 Are veil'd in darkest night. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " I'll kiss away the darkness, 
 My Henry, from thine eyes ; 
 
 The angels shalt thou see then, 
 The glory of the skies." 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling, 
 The wound is bleeding yet, 
 
 Made by thee in my bosom 
 
 With one sharp word and threat. 
 
 " My hand all gently, Henry, 
 
 I'll lay upon thy heart ; 
 It then will bleed no longer, 
 
 And heal'd will be the smart." 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling, 
 My head still bleeds amain ! 
 
 'Twas there the bullet enter'd, 
 When thou wert from me ta'en. 
 
 *' With my long tresses, Henry, 
 I'll stanch the bleeding wound, 
 
 And drive the blood-stream backward, 
 And make thy head thus sound." 
 
 So gently, sweetly pray'd she, 
 I could not spurn her prayer ; 
 
 I sought to rise and hasten 
 To join my mistress fair. 
 
 Then all my wounds 'gan bleeding, 
 Then, wildly rushing, broke 
 
 From head and breast the bloodstream, 
 And lo ! — from sleep I woke. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 70. 
 
 The numbers old and evil, 
 The dreams so harrowing 1 , 
 
 Let's bury all together — 
 A mighty coffin bring ! 
 
 I'll place there much, but say not 
 What 'tis, till all is done ; 
 
 The coffin must be larger 
 Than Heidelberg's vast tun. 
 
 And also bring a death-bier, 
 Of boards full stout and sound ; 
 
 They also must be longer 
 
 Than Mayence bridge renown'd. 
 
 And also bring twelve giants 
 Whose strength of limb excels 
 
 Saint Christopher's, whose shrine in 
 Cologne Cathedral dwells. 
 
 The coffin they must carry, 
 And sink beneath the wave ; 
 
 For such a mighty coffin 
 Must have a mighty grave. 
 
 Why was the coffin, tell me, 
 So great and hard to move ? 
 
 I in it placed my sorrows, 
 And in it placed my love. 
 
THE BOOK OP- SONGS. 1 1 3 
 
 THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. 
 
 The May is here with all its golden gleams, 
 Its silky breezes, and its spicy odors ; 
 Kindly it beckons with its snowy blooms, 
 Greets us from countless azure violet eyes, 
 Spreads a green carpet out, begemm'd with 
 
 flowers, 
 Dappled with sunshine and with morning dew, 
 And calls on earth's dear sons to come abroad. 
 To her first call they, simple folk, give ear. 
 The men put on their breeches of nankin, 
 And Sunday coats, with buttons golden-bright ; 
 In innocent white the women robe themselves ; 
 The young men trim mustachios still in bud ; 
 The girls allow their bosoms fuller play ; 
 The poets of the town their pockets fill 
 With paper, pencil, and field-glass ; and so 
 The giddy throng make for the gate with shouts, 
 And camp outside upon the verdant grass, 
 Marvel how busily the trees do grow, 
 Play with the delicate many-tinted flowers, 
 List to the carols of the sportive birds, 
 And shout aloft to the blue vault of heaven. 
 The May came to me also. At my door 
 Thrice did she knock and cry, ' ' I am the May ! 
 Thou pale-faced dreamer, I will kiss thee J 
 
 Come !" 
 I kept my door close bolted, and cried out : 
 " In vain thou lurest me, thou ill-starr'd guest ; 
 I have seen through thee, ay, seen through and 
 
 through 
 The fabric of the world, have seen too much, 
 And far too deeply — all my joy is flown, 
 And ceaseless pangs have seized upon my heart. 
 I look right through the hard and stony husks 
 
114 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Of human houses and of human hearts, 
 
 And see in both lies, and deceit and woe. 
 
 Upon men's faces I can read their thoughts — 
 
 Bad, many. In the maiden's blush of shame 
 
 I see the throbbing of concealed desire ; 
 
 Upon the young enthusiast's haughty head 
 
 I see the motley jester's cap and bells ; 
 
 And on the earth I see but shapes grotesque 
 
 And sickly phantoms, and I know not if 
 
 It be a madhouse or an hospital. 
 
 I look down to the base of the old earth, 
 
 As though it were of crystal, and I see 
 
 The ghastly things that with her gladsome green 
 
 May vainly strives to hide. I see the dead ; 
 
 Penn'd in their narrow coffins low they lie 
 
 With folded hands, with vacant staring eyes, 
 
 And through their lips the yellow blind-worms 
 
 crawl. 
 I see the son, his paramour with him, 
 Sit down for pastime on his father's grave ; 
 The nightingales sing mocking songs around ; 
 The gentle meadow-flowers grin bitter scorn ; 
 Within his grave the sleeping father stirs, 
 And spasms of pain convulse old mother earth. 
 
 Thou hapless earth, thy miseries I know ! 
 I see the fever raging in thy breast ; 
 I see thee bleeding from a thousand veins ; 
 I see thy wounds, how they burst wide agape, 
 And from them flames gush out, and smoke, and 
 
 blood. 
 I see thy all-defying giant sons, 
 Primeval brood, from dusky chasms ascending, 
 And swinging flaming torches in their hands. 
 They fix their iron ladders, and dash up 
 Madly to storm the citadel of heaven ; 
 And swarthy dwarfs climb after them, and all 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. H5 
 
 The golden stars above crash into dust. 
 With reckless hands they tear the golden curtain 
 From God's own tent ; the angel hosts fall down 
 Upon their faces with a piercing cry ; 
 
 Near and more near the rabble rout sweeps on ; 
 The giants hurl their blazing brands afar 
 Through the vast firmament ; the dwarfs with 
 
 thonge 
 Of quick flame scourge the angels, where they 
 
 lie, 
 Who writhe and cower in agonies of pain, 
 And by the hair are dragg'd perforce away : 
 And mine own angel 'mongst the rest I see, 
 With his fair locks, and gracious lineaments, 
 With love that cannot die about his lips, 
 And in his azure eyes the calm of bliss ; — 
 And a black goblin, hideous to the sight, 
 Snatches him up, that angel pale of mine, 
 Eyes over with a grin his noble limbs, 
 Clutches him tight with a caressing gripe — 
 Then rings a wild shriek through the universe ; 
 The pillars topple, earth and heaven collapse, 
 And ancient Night resumes her ghastly reign. 
 
 RATCLIFF. 
 
 Into a country place the Dream-god took me, 
 Where weeping-willows waved a welcome to me 
 With their long verdant arms, and where the 
 
 flowers 
 With sisterly sage eyes look'd calmly at me ; 
 Where the birds twittered fearlessly around me, 
 
I 1 6 THE BOOK OF SOKGS. 
 
 Where even the dogs' bark seem'd well known to 
 
 me, 
 And moving- shapes and voices greeted me 
 As a familiar friend, and yet where all 
 Struck me as strange, so weirdly, wildly strange 3 
 Within my breast was tumult, in my head 
 A perfect calm ; and calmly I shook off 
 The dust of travel from my clothes ; the bell 
 Rang shrilly, and the door flew open wide. 
 Within were men and women, many old 
 Familiar faces. A mute sorrow lay 
 On all, and secret shrinking pain. With looks 
 Strangely confused and piteous did they eye me, 
 Whereon a shuddering fear ran through my soul, 
 Prophetic of disaster yet unknown. 
 Anon I recognized old Margaret. 
 
 I fix'd my eyes upon her, but she spoke not. 
 
 II Where is Maria ?" I said ; and still she spoke 
 
 not, 
 But took me gently by the hand and led me 
 Through a long range of chambers brightly lit, 
 Where wealth and pomp and deathlike silence 
 
 reign 'd. 
 At last she led me to a darken 'd room, 
 And pointed, with averted face the while. 
 To a figure seated on a sofa there. 
 14 Are you Maria ?" I inquired. I felt 
 An inward wonder at the gayety 
 With which I spoke. Metallic, stony hard 
 A voice resounded, " So the people call me !" 
 On this a cutting pang pierced me like ice, 
 For that cavernous chilly sound was yet 
 Maria's voice which was so sweet of yore — 
 That woman in the faded lilac dress, 
 Flung loosely on, with bosom all unbraced, 
 Her eyes set in a glassy stare, the muscles 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 1 7 
 
 Of her pale cheeks relax'd and leather-like — 
 
 Ah me ! that woman was Maria, once 
 
 So bright, so fair, so framed to kindle love ! 
 
 "You have been long upon the road ?" she cried, 
 
 In an uncanny, strange, familiar way. 
 
 " You look no longer delicate, dear friend ; 
 
 fou are well, and sturdiness in thigh and calf 
 
 Betokens solid health ! ; ' A winning smile 
 
 Trembled about the pallid saffron lips. 
 
 In my confusion the words blurted out 
 
 " They told me you were married !" " Yes, oh, 
 
 yes !" 
 Her voice was loud and reckless, and she smiled ; 
 " I have a wooden stick, that is encased 
 In leather, calls me spouse ; still, wood is wood !" 
 And then she laugh'd a grating, toneless laugh, 
 That sent a chilling anguish through my soul, 
 And there came over me the doubt— Are these 
 Maria's lips, the pure, the flowerlike-pure ? 
 But, as she spoke, she rose, caught quickly up 
 A cashmere from the sofa, threw it round 
 Her shoulders, put her arm in mine, and so 
 Led me away, pass'd through the open house- 
 door, 
 And took me on through field and wood and 
 glade. 
 The sun's red disk, a ball of fire, was low 
 Within the heavens, its purple blazed across 
 The trees, the flowers, the meadows, and the 
 
 stream, 
 That in the distance flow'd majestical. 
 1 ' Dost see the mighty golden eye that gleams 
 In the blue ether ?" suddenly she cried. 
 "Hush, thou poor soul!" I said, and on me 
 
 grew 
 A fairy vision in the fading light. 
 
1 1 8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Out of the meadows misty shapes arose, 
 
 With white thin arms about each other twined 
 
 The violets eyed each other tenderly ; 
 
 Fondly the lily bells bent each to each, 
 
 On all the roses passionate ardors glow'd, 
 
 And the carnations breathed out burning breath ; 
 
 In wealth of fragrance revell'd all the flowers, 
 
 And all wept tears of silent ecstasy, 
 
 And with one voice they sigh'd forth, " Love, 
 
 Love, Love !" 
 The butterfly Hashed to and fro, the bright 
 Anemones their fairy carols humm'd, 
 The evening breezes whisper'd, the oaks rustled, 
 The nightingale sang silver-toned and clear ; 
 And amid all the whispering, rustling, singing, 
 Prattled with cold metallic tuneless voice 
 The faded she, that hung upon my arm. 
 " I know their doings at the castle nightly: 
 Yonder long phantom is a good kind soul, 
 He nods and becks to everything one wants ; 
 The blue-coat is an angel ; but the red, 
 With the bare sword, he is your deadly foe ;" 
 And much else that was odd and marvellous 
 She went on prattling, and at length, tired out, 
 She sat down with me on a mossy bank, 
 That spread its velvet 'neath the aged oaks. 
 
 So sat we there together, still and sad, 
 Gazed each on each, and ever sadder grew. 
 The oak moan'd as with sighs of dying men ; 
 The nightingales sang threnodies o'erhead ; 
 Still through the leaves a red light made its way ; 
 It play'd around Maria's pallid face, 
 And drew out fire from her set, staring eyes ; 
 And with the sweet voice of old times she said, 
 " How didst thou know I am so wretched ? I 
 Read of it lately in thy frenzied songs." 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. H9 
 
 A chill like ic?e went through my breast — I 
 shudder' d 
 At my own mad impatience to behold 
 The future — darkness settled on my brain, 
 And out of very horror I awoke. 
 
 DONNA CLARA. 
 
 In the garden, 'neath the twilight, 
 The Alcaide's daughter wanders ; 
 Drum and trump send festal music 
 Downwards from the castle ramparts. 
 
 H Tedious are to me the dances, 
 And the honeyed words that flatter, 
 And the knights who, debonairly, 
 With the sun himself compare me. 
 
 " Everything is doubly tedious, 
 Since I saw, beneath the moonlight, 
 Yonder knight, who to my casement 
 With his lute o' nights has lured me. 
 
 " Oh, how brave he looked, and slender ! 
 And his eyes shot piercing splendors 
 From his face so nobly pallid. 
 Truly he St. George resembled !" 
 
 In this wise mused Donna Clara ; 
 On the ground her eyes were poring ; 
 Looking up, there stands the comely 
 Unknown Paladin before her. 
 
 Hand-locked, murmuring loving whispers, 
 In the moonlight they go dreaming ; 
 And the zephyr fans them softly, 
 Fairy-like the roses greet them. 
 
20 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Fairy-like the roses greet them, 
 Like Love's heralds, all a-glowing. 
 " Tell me wherefore, love, thou turnest 
 All at once so flushed and rosy ?" 
 
 " 'Twas a gnat that stung me, dearest ; 
 And these gnats in summer weather 
 Are to me as odious, as though 
 They were long-nosed Hebrew vermin." 
 
 " Think not, sweet, of gnats or Hebrews !" 
 Says the knight, in accents fondling. 
 " From the chestnut trees in thousands 
 Flakes of snow-white blooms are falling. 
 
 " Flakes of snow-white blooms in thousands 
 
 Breathe around delicious odors. 
 
 Ah ! my own beloved, tell me, 
 
 Is thy heart mine, all mine, only ?" 
 
 " Yes, I love thee. O my darling. 
 By the Saviour blest I swear it, 
 Whom the Jews, of heaven accursed, 
 In their malice murdered basely !" 
 
 ' ' Name not Saviour ! name not Hebrews !" 
 Says the knight, in accents wooing, 
 " Yonder like a dream, are waving 
 Milk-white lilies bathed in moonshine. 
 
 " Milk-white lilies, bathed in moonshine, 
 On the stars aloft are brooding : 
 Ah ! my own beloved, tell me, 
 Hast thou, too, not sworn untruly ?" 
 
 ' ' Untruth is not in me, dearest, 
 As within me there can be not 
 One small drop of blood of Moor, nor 
 Of that filthv race of Hebrews !" 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " Think not, sweet, of Moor or Hebrew .' 
 Says the knight, in tones caressing ; 
 And he leads the Alcaide's daughter 
 Onwards to a grove of myrtles. 
 
 Stealthily love's silken meshes 
 He has round and round her woven ! 
 Few the words and long the kisses, 
 And their hearts are overflowing. 
 
 Sings the nightingale, low-fluting, 
 As 'twere some bride-song ecstatic ; 
 And along the ground the glow-worms 
 As in mazy torch-dance scatter. 
 
 In the grove the hush grows deeper ; 
 Naught is heard save through the silence 
 Prudent myrtles, lowly lisping, 
 And the flowers their fragrance sighing. 
 
 Of a sudden from the castle 
 
 Comes the blare of drum and clarion ; 
 
 And, awaking, Donna Clara 
 
 Steals from the embrace that clasps her. 
 
 " Hark ! they call me, O my darling ! 
 But thou shalt, before we sever, 
 Tell me thy dear name, by thee, love, 
 Kept so long from me a secret." 
 
 And the lover, smiling gayly, 
 Kissed the fingers of his Donna — 
 Kissed her lips, and eyes, and forehead, 
 And her thus at length accosted ; 
 
 "I, Senora, your beloved, 
 Am the son of the high-honor 'd, 
 Far-famed, and most learned Rabbi, 
 Israel of Saragossa." 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS, 
 ALMANSOR. 
 
 In fair Cordova's cathedral 
 Stand the columns, thirteen hundred — 
 Thirteen hundred giant-columns 
 Bear the mighty dome in safety. 
 
 And on dome and walls and columns 
 From the very top to bottom 
 The Koran's Arabian proverbs 
 Twine in wise and flowery fashion. 
 
 Moorish Kings erected whilome 
 This vast house to Allah's glory, 
 Yet in many parts 'tis alter d 
 In the darksome whirl of ages. 
 
 On the turret where the watchman 
 Summon'd unto prayer the people, 
 Now the Christian bell is sounding 
 With its melancholy murmur. 
 
 On the steps whereon the faithful 
 Used to sing the Prophet's sayings, 
 Now baldpated priests exhibit 
 All the mass's trivial wonders. 
 
 How they twirl before the color'd 
 Puppets, full of antic capers, 
 Midst the incense smoke and ringing, 
 While the senseless tapers sparkle ! 
 
 In fair Cordova's cathedral 
 
 Stands Almansor ben Abdullah, 
 
 Viewing silently the columns, 
 
 And these words in silence murmuring : 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 23 
 
 " Oh, ye columns, strong, gigantic, 
 Once adorn'd in Allah's glory, 
 Now must ye pay humble homage 
 To this Christendom detested. 
 
 " To the times have ye submitted, 
 And ye bear the burden calmly ; 
 Still more reason for the weaker 
 To be patient all the sooner." 
 
 And Almansor ben Abdullah 
 Bent his head with face unruffled 
 O'er the font so decorated 
 In fair Cordova's cathedral. 
 
 The cathedral left he quickly, 
 On his wild steed speeding onward, 
 While his moist locks and the feathers 
 In his hat the wind is moving. 
 
 On the road to Alcolea, 
 By the side of Guadalquivir, 
 Where the snowy almond blossoms, 
 And the fragrant golden orange, 
 
 Thither hastes the merry rider, 
 Piping, singing, laughing gaily, 
 And the birds all swell the chorus, 
 And the torrent's noisy waters. 
 
 In the fort at Alcolea 
 Dwelleth Clara de Alvares ; 
 In Navarre her sire is fighting, 
 And she revels in her freedom. 
 
124 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And afar Almansor heareth 
 Sounds of kettle-drums and trumpets, 
 And the castle lights beholds he 
 Glittering through the trees' dark shadows. 
 
 In the fort at Alcolea 
 Dance twelve gayly trick' d-out ladies 
 With twelve knights attired as gayly, 
 But Almansor's the best dancer. 
 
 As if wing'd by merry fancies, 
 Round about the hall he flutters, 
 Knowing how to all the ladies 
 To address sweet flattering speeches. 
 
 Isabella's lovely hands he 
 Kisses quickly, and then leaves her, 
 And before Elvira stands he, 
 Looking in her face so archly. 
 
 He in turns assures each lady 
 That he heartily adores her ; 
 " On the true faith of a Christian " 
 Swears he thirty times that evening. 
 
 In the fort at Alcolea 
 Merriment and noise have ceased now, 
 Knights and ladies all have vanish 'd, 
 And the lights are all extinguished. 
 
 Donna Clara and Almansor 
 In the hall above still linger, 
 And one single lamp is throwing 
 On them both its feeble lustre. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I 25 
 
 On the seat the lady's sitting, 
 And the knight upon the footstool, 
 And his head, by sleep o'erpower'd, 
 On her darling knees is resting. 
 
 From a golden flask some rose-oil 
 Pours the lady, sadly musing, 
 On Almansor's dark-brown tresses — 
 From his inmost bosom sighs he. 
 
 With her soft lips then the lady 
 Gives a sweet kiss, sadly musing, 
 On Almansor's dark-brown tresses — 
 And his brow is clouded over. 
 
 From her light eyes tears in torrents 
 Weeps the lady, sadly musing, 
 On Almansor's dark-brown tresses — 
 And his lips begin to quiver. 
 
 And he dreams he's once more standing 
 With his head bent down and weeping 
 In fair Cordova's cathedral, 
 Many gloomy voices hearing. 
 
 All the lofty giant-columns 
 Hears he murmuring full of anger — 
 That no longer will they bear it, 
 And they totter and they tremble. 
 
 And they wildly fall together, 
 Pale turn all the priests and people, 
 Crashing falls the dome upon them, 
 And the Christian gods wail loudly. 
 
126 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 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 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 Collen is that procession, 
 At Collen upon the Rhine. 
 
 With the throng the mother follows ; 
 
 Her son she leads him ; and now 
 They both of them sing in the chorus, 
 
 " Ever honored, O Mary, be thou !" 
 
 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 to-day. 
 
 And her, for their votive offerings, 
 The suffering sick folk greet 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 27 
 
 With limbs that in wax are moulded, 
 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 blessed, 
 
 Thou virgin unspotted, divine, 
 Thou Queen of the Heavens, before thee 
 
 I lay all my anguish and pine. 
 
 " I lived with my mother at Collen, 
 At Collen 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 ! 
 
128 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " Heal thou my heart of its anguish, 
 
 And early and late, I vow, 
 With its whole strength to pray and to sing, too, 
 1 Ever honor'd, O Mary, be thou ! ' " 
 
 in. 
 The suffering son and his mother 
 
 In their little bedchamber 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 vanish'd away. 
 
 The mother sees all in her dreaming, 
 And other things too she mark'd ; 
 
 Then up from her slumber she waken'd, 
 So loudly the town dogs bark'd. 
 
 There lay her son, to his full length 
 
 Stretch'd 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 honor'd, O Mary, be thou !" 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 (From Salon.) 
 
 A vision I dreamt of a lovely child, 
 
 She wore her hair in tresses ; 
 In the blue nights of summer so calm and mild 
 
 We sat in the greenwood's recesses. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 29 
 
 In mutual rapture and torture we vied, 
 We loved and exchanged loving kisses ; 
 
 The yellow stars in the heavens all sigh'd 
 And seem'd to envy our blisses. 
 
 I now am awake, and around me gaze 
 In the darkness, alone and despairing ; 
 
 The stars in the heavens are shedding their rays 
 In silence and all-uncaring. 
 
NEW POEMS. 
 I. SERAPHINA. 
 
 When at evening in the forest, 
 In the dreamlike wood I rove, 
 
 Ever doth thy slender figure 
 Close beside me softly move. 
 
 See I not thy gentle features ? 
 
 Is it not thy veil that stirs? 
 Can it be the moonlight only 
 
 Breaking through the gloomy firs ? 
 
 Can it be mine own tears only 
 That I hear all-lightly flow? 
 
 Or, my loved one, dost thou really 
 Close beside me weeping go ? 
 
 O'er the silent strand of ocean 
 
 Night appears in gloomy splendor ; 
 
 From the clouds the moon is breaking, 
 As the waves these whispers send her : 
 
 " Yonder mortal, is he foolish, 
 Or is he by love tormented, 
 
 That he looks so sad, yet joyous, 
 So distress'd, yet so contented ?" 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I31 
 
 But the moon, with smiles replying, 
 Loudly said : " Full well I know it ; 
 
 He is both in love and foolish, 
 And moreover is a poet. 
 
 3- 
 
 'Tis surely a snow-white seamew 
 
 That I see fluttering there 
 Just over the darksome billows ; 
 
 The moon stands high in the air. 
 
 The shark and the ray snap fiercely 
 From out of the wave, and stare ; 
 
 The seamew is rising and falling, 
 The moon stands high in the air. 
 
 dear and wandering spirit, 
 So sad and full of despair ! 
 
 Too near art thou to the water, 
 The moon stands high in the air. 
 
 4- 
 
 1 knew that thou didst love me, 
 I knew it long, dear maid ; 
 
 Yet when thou didst confess it 
 I felt full sore afraid. 
 
 I clamber'd up the mountain 
 
 With loud exulting song, 
 At sunset rambled weeping 
 
 The ocean shore along. 
 
 The sun my heart resembleth, 
 
 So flaming to the sight, 
 And in a loving ocean 
 
 It setteth, great and bright. 
 
13 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 5- 
 How curiously the seamew 
 
 Looks over at us, dear, 
 Because against thy lips I 
 
 So firmly press my ear ! 
 
 She maybe would discover 
 
 What from thy mouth did flow— 
 
 If words alone or kisses 
 
 Thou in my ear didst throw. 
 
 O could I but decipher 
 
 What 'tis that fills my mind ! 
 
 The words are with the kisses 
 So wondrously combined. 
 
 As timid as the roe she fled, 
 And with its fleetness vying ; 
 
 She clamber'd on from crag to crag, 
 Her hair behind her flying. 
 
 Where to the sea the cliffs descend, 
 At length I caught the rover ; 
 
 And gently there with gentle words 
 Her coy heart soon won over. 
 
 High as the heavens we sat, both fill'd 
 With heavenly blest emotion ; 
 
 Beneath us by degrees the sun 
 Sank in the dark deep ocean. 
 
 In the dark sea beneath us far 
 The beauteous sun sank proudly ; 
 
 The billows with impetuous joy 
 Were meanwhile roaring loudly. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 33 
 
 Weep not, the sun in yonder waves 
 
 Hath not forever perish'd, 
 But lieth hidden in my heart, 
 
 Where all its glow is cherish'd. 
 
 7. 
 
 Gray night broodeth o'er the ocean, 
 And the tiny stars are sparkling ; 
 
 Long protracted voices oft-times 
 
 Sound from out the billows darkling. 
 
 There the aged north wind sporteth 
 With the glassy waves of ocean, 
 
 Which like organ pipes are skipping 
 With a never-ceasing motion. 
 
 Partly heathenish, partly churchlike, 
 Strangely doth this music move us, 
 
 As it rises boldly upwards, 
 
 Gladdening e'en the stars above us. 
 
 And the stars, still larger growing, 
 With a radiant joy are gleaming, 
 
 And at length around the heavens 
 Roam, with sunlike lustre beaming. 
 
 To far-reaching strains of music 
 They revolve in madden'd legions ; 
 
 Sunny nightingales are circling 
 In those fair and blissful regions. 
 
 With a mighty roar and crashing, 
 Sea and heaven alike are singing, 
 
 And I feel a giant-rapture 
 Wildly through my bosom ringing. 
 
134 THE £OOK OF SONGS. 
 
 8. 
 
 Shadowy love and shadowy kisses, 
 Shadowy life, how wondrous strange ! 
 
 Fool, dost think, then, that all this is 
 Ever true and free from change ? 
 
 Like an empty dream hath vanish' d 
 All we loved with love so deep ; 
 
 Memory from the heart is banish'd, 
 And the eyes are closed in sleep. 
 
 9- 
 The maid stood by the ocean, 
 
 And long and deep sigh'd she 
 With heartfelt sad emotion, 
 
 The setting sun to see. 
 
 Sweet maiden, why this fretting? 
 
 An olden trick is here ; 
 Although before us setting, 
 
 He rises in our rear. 
 
 With sails all black my ship sails on 
 
 Far over the raging sea ; 
 Thou know'st full well how sad am I, 
 
 And yet tormentest me. 
 
 Thy heart is faithless as the wind, 
 
 And flutters ceaselessly ; 
 With sails all black my ship sails on 
 
 Far over the raging sea. 
 
 Though shamefully thou didst entreat me, 
 To no man would I e'er unfold it. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 135 
 
 But travell'd far over the billows, 
 And unto the fishes I told it. 
 
 I've left thee thy good reputation 
 With earth and the beings upon her, 
 
 But every depth of the ocean 
 Knows fully thy tale of dishonor. 
 
 The roaring waves are dashing 
 
 High on the strand ; 
 They're swelling and they're crashing 
 
 Over the sand. 
 
 They come in noisy fashion 
 
 Unceasingly — 
 At length burst into passion — 
 
 But what care we ? 
 
 13- 
 The Runic stone 'mongst the waves stands high* 
 
 There sit I, with thoughts far roaming ; 
 The wind pipes loudly, the seamews cry, 
 
 The billows are curling and foaming. 
 
 I've loved full many a charming girl, 
 
 Loved many a comrade proudly — 
 Where are they now ? The billows curl 
 
 And foam, and the wind pipes loudly. 
 
 14. 
 
 The sea appears all golden 
 
 Beneath the sunlit sky, 
 O let me there be buried, 
 
 My brethren, when I die. 
 
136 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The sea I have always loved so, 
 It oft hath cool'd my breast 
 
 With its refreshing billows, 
 Each in the other's love blest. 
 
 II. ANGELICA. 
 
 Now that heaven my wish hath granted, 
 Why be dumb, like mutes inglorious — 
 
 I who, when unhappy, chanted 
 Of my woe with noise uproarious, 
 
 Till a thousand youths despairing 
 Sang like me with voices hollow, 
 
 And the song I sang uncaring 
 
 Made still greater mischief follow ? 
 
 O ye nightingale-like chorus, 
 That I bear within my spirit, 
 
 Let your song of joy rise o'er us 
 Merrily, that all may hear it. 
 
 Once more behind thee thou wert looking, 
 Swiftly as thou didst past me glide, 
 
 With open mouth, as if inquiring, 
 And in thy look a stormy pride. 
 
 O that I ne'er had sought to grasp it, 
 That flowing robe of snowy white ! 
 
 The little foot's enchanting traces, 
 O that they ne'er had met my sight ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 137 
 
 Thy wildness now indeed hath vanish'd. 
 Like other women tame art thou, 
 
 And mild, and somewhat over-civil, 
 And, ah, thou even lov'st me now. 
 
 3- 
 I'll not credit, youthful beauty, 
 
 What thy bashful lips may say ; 
 Eyes so black and large and rolling 
 
 Are not much in virtue's way. 
 
 Strip away this brown-striped falsehood — 
 
 Well and truly love I thee ; 
 Let thy white heart kiss me, dearest — 
 
 White heart, understand'st thou me ? 
 
 4- 
 Upon her mouth I give a kiss, 
 
 And close her either eye ; 
 She gives me now no peace for this, 
 
 But asks the reason why. 
 
 From night to morn, because of this, 
 
 This is her constant cry : 
 "When on my mouth thou giv'st a kiss, 
 
 Why close my either eye ?" 
 
 I tell her not the cause of this, 
 
 Nor know the reason why, 
 Yet on her mouth I give a kiss, 
 
 And close her either eye. 
 
 5- 
 When I am made blest with kisses delicious, 
 And lie in thine arms, O in that happy season 
 
13^ THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Thou ne'er must discourse of Germany, dear- 
 est- 
 It spoils my digestion — there's plenty of reason. 
 
 With Germany leave me in peace, I implore 
 thee, 
 Thou must not torment me with question on 
 question 
 Of home and relations and manner of living — 
 There's plenty of reason — it spoils my diges- 
 tion. 
 
 The oaks there are green, and blue are the dear 
 eyes 
 Of German women ; they sigh as they please 
 on 
 The blisses of love and of hope and religion — 
 It spoils my digestion — there's plenty of rea- 
 son. 
 
 6. 
 
 Whilst I after other people 
 
 And their treasures have been prying, 
 
 And with ever-restless yearning, 
 
 At strange doors of love been spying, 
 
 Probably those other people 
 
 Have been taking their own pleasure 
 
 Similarly, and been ogling 
 
 At my window my own treasure. 
 
 This is human ! God in heaven 
 
 In our even' action guard us ! 
 God in heaven give us blessings, 
 
 And with happiness reward us ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 139 
 
 O YES, thou art my ideal forsooth, 
 I've often confirmed it till dizzy 
 
 With kisses and oaths unnumber'd in truth ; 
 To-day I however am busy. 
 
 Return to-morrow between two and three, 
 And then a fresh-kindled passion 
 
 Shall prove my love, and afterward we 
 Will dine in a friendly fashion. 
 
 And if I in time the tickets receive, 
 
 We'll join in a merry revel, 
 And go to the Opera, where I believe 
 
 They're playing Robert the Devil. 
 
 A wondrous magic play is here, 
 
 With devils' loves and curses ; 
 The music is by Meyerbeer, 
 
 By Scribe the wretched verses. 
 
 Dismiss me not, although thy thirst 
 The pleasant draught has still'd ; 
 
 Some three months longer keep me on, 
 Till I too have been fill'd. 
 
 If thou my love canst not remain, 
 
 O be my friend, I pray ; 
 For when one has outloved one's love s 
 
 Friendship may have its way. 
 
 This wild carnival of loving, 
 This delirium of ourtiosoms 
 Comes unto an end, and now we 
 Soberly gape on each other ! 
 
14° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Drain'd the cup is to the bottom, 
 Brimming with intoxication, 
 Foaming, glowing to the margin ; 
 Drain'd the cup is to the bottom 
 
 And the fiddles too are silent, 
 Which for dancing gave the signal, 
 Signal for the dance of passion ; 
 Yes, the fiddles too are silent. 
 
 And the lamps too are extinguish'd, 
 Which their wild light shed so brightly 
 On the masquerade exciting ; 
 Yes, the lamps too are extinguish'd. 
 
 And to-morrow comes Ash-Wednesday, 
 When I'll sign upon thy forehead 
 With the cross of ashes, saying : 
 " Woman, that thou'rt dust, forget not.*'' 
 
 O how rapidly develop 
 
 From mere fugitive sensations 
 
 Passions that are fierce and boundless, 
 Tenderest associations ! 
 
 Tow'rds this lady grows the bias 
 Of my heart on each occasion, 
 
 And that I'm enamored of her 
 Has become my firm persuasion. 
 
 Beauteous is her spirit. Truly 
 Thus I learn to rise superior 
 
 To the overpowering beauty 
 Of her form and mere exterior. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I4 1 
 
 Ah, what hips ! and, ah, what forehead ! 
 
 Ah, what nose ! Could aught serener 
 Be than this sweet smile she's wearing ? 
 
 And how noble her demeanor ! 
 
 Ah, how fair art thou, whenever 
 Thou thy mind disclosest sweetly, 
 
 And thy language with the grandest 
 Sentiments o'erflows discreetly ! 
 
 When thou tell'st me how thou always 
 Worthily and nobly thoughtest ; 
 
 How unto thy pride of heart thou 
 Greatest sacrifices broughtest ! 
 
 How with countless millions even 
 Men could woo and win thee never ; 
 
 Sooner than be sold for money 
 
 Thou wouldst quit this world forever. 
 
 And I stand before thee, listening ' 
 To the end with due emotion ; 
 
 Like an image mute of faith, I 
 
 Fold my hands with meek devotion. 
 
 Have no fear, dear soul, I pray thee, 
 Thou art safe here evermore ; 
 
 Fear not lest they'll take away thee 
 For I'll forthwith bar the door. 
 
 Though the wind may roar around us, 
 It will do no mischief here ; 
 
 That a fire may not confound us, 
 Let us put the light out, dear ! 
 
I4 2 THE BOOK Oh SONGS. 
 
 Let me in mine arm, dear small one, 
 Thy enchanting neck enfold ; 
 
 In the absence of a shawl, one 
 Gets so very quickly cold. 
 
 III. DIANA. 
 
 These fair limbs, of size so massive, 
 Of colossal womanhood, 
 Now are, in a yielding mood, 
 
 Under my embraces passive. 
 
 Had I, with unbridled passion, 
 
 Trusting in my strength drawn near, 
 I had soon had cause for fear ! 
 
 She had thrashed me in strange fashion. 
 
 How her bosom, neck, throat charm me 
 (Higher I can scarcely see) ; 
 Ere alone I'd with her be, 
 
 Pray I that she may not harm me. 
 
 'Twas in the Bay of Biscay 
 That she first saw the light ; 
 
 Two kittens in the cradle 
 
 She squeezed to death outright. 
 
 Across the Pyrenees she 
 With feet uncover'd ran ; 
 
 Then for her size gigantic 
 Was shown at Perpignan. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 143 
 
 She's now the grandest dame in 
 
 The Faubourg Saint-Denis, 
 Where unto small Sir William 
 
 Some thousand pounds cost she. 
 
 Often when I am with thee, 
 Much-beloved and noble lady, 
 
 The remembrance steals o'er me 
 Of Bologna's market shady. 
 
 There a massive fount doth stand — 
 'Tis the Giants' Fountain pretty — 
 
 With a Neptune, by the hand 
 Of Giovanni of that city. 
 
 IV. HORTENSE. 
 
 Once I thought each kiss a woman 
 Gives us, or receives instead, 
 
 By some influence superhuman 
 Was from old predestined. 
 
 I both took and gave back willing 
 
 Kisses then as earnestly 
 As if I were but fulfilling 
 
 Actions of necessity. 
 
 Kisses are superfluous — this I 
 Have discover'd on life's stage, 
 
 And with small concern now kiss I 
 Heedless of the surplusage. 
 
144 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Beside the corner of the street 
 We stood in fond communion 
 
 For full an hour, and talked about 
 Our spirits' loving union. 
 
 We loved each other — this we said 
 A hundred times repeating ; 
 
 Beside the corner of the street 
 We stood, and went on greeting. 
 
 The Goddess of Occasion, brisk 
 As waiting maids, and sprightly, 
 
 Fass'd by that way and saw us stand, 
 And smiled, and went on lightly. 
 
 In all my dreams by daytime, 
 In all my watchings nightly, 
 
 Thy sweet delicious laughter 
 Rings through my spirit lightly. 
 
 Remember'st Montmorency, 
 Where, on the donkey riding, 
 
 Thou fell'st among the thistles, 
 From off the saddle gliding ? 
 
 The ass stood still, the thistles 
 Demurely looking after — 
 
 I never shall forget, love, 
 Thy sweet delicious laughter. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 145 
 
 4- 
 {She speaks.) 
 
 In the garden fair a tree stands, 
 
 And an apple hangeth there, 
 And around the trunk a serpent 
 
 Coils himself, and I can ne'er 
 From the serpent's eyes enchanting 
 
 Turn away my troubled sight, 
 And he whispers words alluring, 
 
 And enthralls me with delight. 
 
 ( The otJier one speaks.) 
 
 'Tis the fruit of life thou spyest — 
 
 Its delicious flavor taste, 
 That thy life until thou diest 
 
 May not be forever waste ! 
 Darling dove, sweet child, no sighing ! 
 
 Quickly taste, and never fear ; 
 Follow my advice, relying 
 
 On thy aunt's sage counsel, dear. 
 
 5- 
 On my newly-tuned guitar I 
 
 Play new tunes that seem much fitter 
 Old the text is, for the words are 
 
 Solomon's : A woman's bitter. 
 
 To her husband she is faithless, 
 
 And she treats her friend with malice ; 
 
 Wormwood are the last remaining 
 Drops in love's once-golden chalice. 
 
 Tell me, is»the ancient legend 
 Of the curse of sin no libel ? 
 
14^ THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Did the serpent bring- it on thee, 
 As recorded in the Bible ? 
 
 Creeping on the earth, the serpent 
 Lurks in every bush around thee, 
 
 Still, as formerly, caresses, 
 
 And her hisses still confound thee. 
 
 Ah, how cold and dark 'tis growing ! 
 
 Round the sun the ravens hover 
 Croakingly, and love and rapture 
 
 Now forevermore are over. 
 
 The bliss that thou didst falsely pledge 
 For but a short time cheated ; 
 
 Thine image, like a vision false, 
 Soon from my bosom fleeted. 
 
 The morning came, the mist soon fled, 
 Before the sun's rays splendid ; 
 
 And well-nigh ere it had commenced, 
 Our passing fondness ended. 
 
 V. CLARISSA. 
 
 All my charming loving offers 
 Thou art eagerly declining ; 
 
 If I say : "Is this refusal ? " 
 Thou at once beginnest whining. 
 
 Seldom pray I, but now hear me, 
 
 Gracious God ! O help this maiden ! 
 
 Dry her sweet tears, and enRghten 
 Her poor brains so sorrow-laden ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 147 
 
 Wheresoever thou mayst wander, 
 Thou dost every hour behold me, 
 
 And I love thee all the fonder, 
 
 When thou dost rebuke and scold me. 
 
 Charming malice will ensnare me, 
 While I hate a kindly action ; 
 
 And the surest way to scare me, 
 Is to love me to distraction. 
 
 May the devil take thy mother 
 And thy father, for their cruel 
 
 Conduct at the play, in hiding 
 
 Thee from me, my precious jewel ! 
 
 There they sat, their spreading dresses 
 Leaving but few spaces only 
 
 Through the which to spy thee sitting 
 In the box's rear, all lonely. 
 
 There they sat, and saw two lovers 
 Both destroy'd, with eyes admiring ; 
 
 And they clapp'd a loud approval 
 When they saw them both expiring. 
 
 Go not through the naughty quarters 
 Where the pretty eyes are living ; 
 
 Ah, they fain would spare their lightnings 
 With a semblance of forgiving. 
 
148 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 From the high bow-window looking 
 In a loving way they greet thee, 
 
 Smiling kindly (death and devil !) 
 Sister-like their glances meet thee. 
 
 But thou'rt on thy way already, 
 And in vain is all thy striving ; 
 
 Thou wilt have a very breastful 
 Of distress, when home arriving. 
 
 5- 
 
 It comes too late, thy present smiling, 
 It comes too late, thy present sigh ! 
 
 The feelings all long since have perish'd 
 That thou didst spurn so cruelly. 
 
 Too late has come thy love responsive, 
 My heart thou vainly seek'st to stir 
 
 With burning looks of love, all falling 
 Like sunbeams on a sepulchre. 
 
 This would I learn : when life is ended, 
 
 O whither doth our spirit go ? 
 Where is the flame when once extinguish'd ? 
 
 The wind, when it hath ceased to blow ? 
 
 6. 
 
 Wounded, in distress, and sickly, 
 On a lovely summer's morrow 
 
 Men I fly, and bury quickly 
 In the wood my bitter sorrow, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 149 
 
 As I move, in mute compassion 
 
 All the noisy birds are vying ; 
 At my grief in wondrous fashion 
 
 Each dark linden tree is sighing. 
 
 In the vale I sadly sit on 
 
 Some green bank, sweet balm exhaling ; 
 " Kitten ! O my pretty kitten !" 
 
 And the hills repeat my wailing. 
 
 Kitten ! O my pretty kitten ! 
 
 Why delightest thou to do ill ? 
 Sadly is my poor heart smitten 
 
 By thy tiger-talons cruel. 
 
 For my heart, grown stern and sadden'd, 
 Long had been to joy a stranger, 
 
 Till by new love I was gladden'd 
 At thy sight, and fear'd no danger. 
 
 Thou in secret seem'dst to mew thus : 
 1 ' Have no fear of being bitten ; 
 
 Prythee trust me when I sue thus, 
 I'm a very gentle kitten." 
 
 Whilst sweet Philomel in airy 
 
 Woods at random sings and wildly, 
 
 Thou preferrest the canary 
 
 Doubtless, as it flutters mildly. 
 
 In the cage I see thee feeding 
 
 This small bird, so tame and yellow. 
 
 And it picks thy fingers, pleading 
 For some sugar, pretty fellow i 
 
3 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Charming is the scene and moving 
 Angels must enjoy the notion ! 
 
 I myself, with look approving, 
 Drop a tear of deep emotion. 
 
 With wedding gifts the spring has arrived, 
 
 With music and exultation ; 
 It brings the bridegroom and the bride 
 
 Its hearty congratulation. 
 
 It brings its violets, rosebuds fair, 
 
 And jasmine and herbs sweet-scented, 
 
 And for the bride asparagus too — 
 
 The bridegroom's with salad contented. 
 
 God protect thee from o'erheating, 
 And thy heart from palpitation, 
 
 Keep thee from excessive eating, 
 And excessive perspiration. 
 
 As upon thy day of marriage 
 May thy love be ever blessed 
 
 Ne'er the bridal yoke disparage ! 
 Be thy frame with health possessed ! 
 
 Pretty maid, if so inclined, 
 
 Thou mayest now thus think anent me : 
 This man's conduct is unkind, 
 
 For he's seeking to torment me ; — 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 15 * 
 
 Me, who never said a word 
 
 That could possibly offend him ; 
 
 Who, when others' blame I heard, 
 Did my utmost to befriend him. 
 
 Me, who had resolved in fact 
 
 By-and-by to love him dearly, 
 Had he not begun to act 
 
 As if he were frantic nearly ! 
 
 How thou snarlest, laughest, broodest. 
 
 How thou in ill humor twistest, 
 When thou, to all love a stranger 
 
 Yet on jealousy existest ! 
 
 'Tis not red and fragrant roses 
 
 Thou dost smell and love so dearly ; 
 
 No, amongst the thorns thou sniffest, 
 Till they scratch thy nose severely. 
 
 VI. YOLANTE AND MARY. 
 
 Both these ladies know by instinct 
 How a poet well to treat, 
 
 For they ask'd me and my genius 
 Luncheon with them once to eat. 
 
 Ah ! the soup was quite delicious, 
 And the wine was old and rare, 
 
 And the game was really heavenly 
 And well-larded was the hare. 
 
152 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 They of poetry kept talking-, 
 Till I had enough at last, 
 
 And I thank'd them for the honor 
 Of this very kind repast. 
 
 With which shall I become enamor'd/ 
 Since both are lovable and mild ? 
 
 The mother's still a pretty woman, 
 The daughter is a pretty child. 
 
 The white and inexperienced members 
 
 Are very pleasant to the view, 
 And yet the genial eyes that answer 
 
 Our tenderness are charming too. 
 
 My heart the jackass gray resembles, 
 
 Who when 'twixt two hay-bundles placed, 
 
 Eyes them with hesitation, doubting 
 Which of the two the best will taste. 
 
 The bottles are empty, the breakfast was good, 
 The ladies are gay and impassion'd ; 
 
 They open their corsets in right merry mood, 
 Methinks they with point lace are fashion'd. 
 
 Their bosoms how fair ! their shoulders how 
 white ! 
 
 My heart is soon trembling all over ; 
 They presently jump on the bed with delight, 
 
 And hide themselves under the cover. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 53 
 
 The curtains around them before long they pull, 
 And snore away, free from intrusion ; 
 
 I stand in the chamber alone, like a fool, 
 And stare at the bed in confusion. 
 
 4- 
 
 Now that I'm fast growing older, 
 Youth's by keener fire replaced, 
 
 And my arm, becoming bolder, 
 Circles many a loving waist. 
 
 Though at first they were affrighted, 
 Yet they soon were reconcil'd ; 
 
 Modest doubts and wrath united 
 Were o'ercome by flattery mild. 
 
 Yet the best of all is wanting 
 When I taste my victory ; 
 
 Can it be my youth's enchanting 
 Bashful weak stupidity ? 
 
 This tricolor'd flow'r now worn is 
 In my breast, to show I'm free, 
 
 Proving that my heart freeborn is, 
 And a foe to slavery. 
 
 Sweet Queen Mary, who thy quarters 
 In my heart hast fix'd, pray list : 
 
 Many of earth's fairest daughters 
 
 There have reign'd, then been dismiss'd. 
 
154 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 VII. EMMA. 
 
 He stands as firm as a tree stem, 
 In heat and tempest and frost ; 
 
 His toes in the ground are planted, 
 His arms are heavenward toss'd. 
 
 Thus long is Bagiratha tortured, 
 
 And Brama his torments would end ; 
 
 He makes the mighty Ganges 
 Down from the heavens descend. 
 
 But I, my loved one, am vainly 
 Tormented and stricken with woe ; 
 
 From out of thine heavenly eyelids 
 No drops of pity e'er flow. 
 
 FoUR-and-twenty hours I still must 
 Wait, to see my bliss complete, 
 
 As her sidelong glances tell me, 
 Glances, O how dazzling sweet ! 
 
 Language is but inexpressive, 
 Words are awkward and in vain t 
 
 Soon as they are said, the pretty 
 Butterfly flies off again. 
 
 But a look may last forever, 
 
 And with joy may fill thy breast, 
 
 Making it like some wide heaven, 
 Full of starry rapture blest. 
 
THE BOOK OB SONGS, 1 55 
 
 Not one solitary kiss 
 
 After months of loving passion ; 
 So my mouth must still continue 
 
 Dry, in very wretched fashicn. 
 
 Happiness seem'd once at hand, 
 And her breath I e'en felt nigh me { 
 
 But without my lips e'er touching, 
 She, alas ! soon fleeted by me, 
 
 Emma, foi my satisfaction 
 Say if I'm distracted driven, 
 By my love, or is love only 
 
 The result of my distraction ? 
 
 Ah \ I'm tortured, charming Emma, 
 Not alone by my mad loving, 
 Not alone by loving madness, 
 
 But besides by this dilemma. 
 
 When I'm with thee, strife and need I 
 
 So I on my travels started ; 
 
 Yet my life, when from thee parted, 
 Is no life, but death indeed. 
 
 Pondering all the livelong night, 
 
 I 'twixt death and hell lay choosing — 
 Ah, methinks this strife confusing 
 
 Now has driv'n me mad outright ! 
 
156 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Fast is creeping on us dreary 
 
 Night with many a ghostly shape, 
 
 And our souls are growing weary, 
 And we at each other gape. 
 
 Thou art old and I still older, 
 
 And our spring has ceased to bloom J 
 
 Thou art cold, and I still colder, 
 At th' approach of winter's gloom. 
 
 At the end, how all is sadden'd ! 
 
 After love's sweet cares are past, 
 Cares draw nigh, by love ungladden'd, 
 
 After life comes death at last. 
 
 VIII. FREDERICA. 
 
 O LEAVE Berlin, with its thick-lying sand, 
 
 Weak tea, and men who seem so much to know 
 That they both God, themselves, and all below 
 
 "With Hegel's reason only understand. 
 
 O come to India, to the sunny land 
 
 Where flowers ambrosial their sweet fragrance 
 throw, 
 
 Where-pilgrim troops on tow'rd the Ganges go 
 With reverence, in white robes, a festal band. 
 
 There, where the palm trees wave, the billows 
 smile, 
 And on the sacred bank the lotus-tree 
 
 Soars up to Indra's castle blue — yes there, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 157 
 
 There will I kneel to thee in trusting style, 
 And press against thy foot, and say to thee : 
 " Madam, thou art the fairest of the fair !" 
 
 The Ganges roars ; amid the foliage see 
 The sharp eyes of the antelope, who springs 
 Disdainfully along ; their color'd wings 
 
 The peacocks as they move show haughtily. 
 
 Deep from the bosom of the sunny lea 
 
 Rises a newborn race of flowers, sweet things ; 
 With yearning-madden'd voice Cocila sings — 
 
 Yes, thou art fair, no woman's like to thee ! 
 
 God Cama* lurks in all thy features fair, 
 
 He dwells within thy bosom's tents so white, 
 And breathes to thee the sweetest songs h» 
 knows. 
 
 Upon thy lips Vassant f has made his lair, 
 I find within thine eyes new worlds of light, 
 In my own world no more I find repose. 
 
 3- 
 
 The Ganges roars ; the mighty Ganges swells, 
 The Himalaya glows in evening's light, 
 And from the banyan-forest's gloomy night 
 
 The elephantine herd breaks forth and yells. 
 
 O for a type to show how she excels ! 
 A type of thee, so lovely to the sight, 
 Thee the incomparable, good and bright, 
 
 So that sweet rapture in my bosom dwells. 
 
 * The Hindoo god corresponding to Cupid, 
 t Spring. 
 
15^ THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In vain thou see'st me seek for types, and prate — 
 See'st me with feelings struggle, and with 
 rhyme, 
 And, ah, thou smilest at my pangs of love ! 
 
 But smile ! For when thou smil'st, Gandarvas 
 straight 
 Seize on the sweet guitar, and all the time 
 Sing in the golden sunny halls above. 
 
 IX. CATHERINE. 
 
 A beauteous star arises o'er my night, 
 
 A star which smiles down on me comfort bright, 
 
 And new life pledges to supply — 
 
 O do not lie ! 
 
 As leaps to the moon the sea with sullen roar, 
 So gladly, wildly, doth my spirit soar 
 Up to thy blissful light on high — 
 O do not lie ! 
 
 1 ' Will you not be presented to her ?" 
 The duchess whisper'd once to me. 
 
 " On no account ! for I to woo her 
 Methinks have too much modesty." 
 
 How gracefully she stands before me ! 
 
 I fancy, when I near her go, 
 A newborn life is stealing o'er me, 
 
 With newborn joy and newborn woe. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 59 
 
 I'm from her kept as though by anguish, 
 While yearning drives me to draw near ; 
 
 Her eyes, as they so sweetly languish, 
 The wild stars of my fate appear. 
 
 Her brow is clear, yet in the distance 
 The future lightning gathers there, 
 
 The storm which, spite of all resistance, 
 My spirit's deepest seat will tear. 
 
 Her mouth is lovely, but with terror 
 
 I see beneath the roses hiss 
 The serpents which will prove my error, 
 
 With honeyed scorn and treach'rous kiss. 
 
 Impell'd by yearning, still more near I 
 Draw to the dear but dangerous place ; 
 
 Her darling voice already hear I — 
 Bright flames her every sentence grace. 
 
 " Sir, what's the name " — I hear her utter 
 These words — " Of her whose voice I heard T 
 
 I only answer with a stutter : 
 
 " Madam, I did not hear one word !" 
 
 Yes, I now, a poor magician, 
 Like sage Merlin, am held fast 
 In my magic ring at last, 
 
 In disconsolate condition. 
 
 At her feet imprison'd sweetly 
 I am lying all the while, 
 Gazing on her eyes' sweet smile, 
 
 And the hours are passing fleetly. 
 
l6o THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Thus, for hours, days, weeks behold me ! 
 Like a vision time has fled, 
 Scarcely know I what I said, 
 
 And I know not what she told me. 
 
 Just as if her lips were dearly 
 Press'd to mine, beyond control 
 I am stirr'd, till in my soul 
 
 I can trace the flames full clearly. 
 
 Thou lie'st in my arms so gladly, 
 So gladly thou lie'st on my heart ! 
 
 I am thy one sole heaven, 
 My dearest star thou art. 
 
 The foolish race of mortals 
 
 Is swarming far below ; 
 They're shouting and storming and scolding 
 
 (And each one is right, I well know). 
 
 Their cap and bells they jingle, 
 
 And quarrel without a cause, 
 And with their heavy club-sticks 
 
 They break each other's jaws. 
 
 How happy are we, my darling, 
 
 That we so far away are ; 
 Thou hidest in thy heaven 
 
 Thy head, my dearest star ! 
 
 I love such white and snowy members, 
 The thin veil of a spirit tender, 
 
 Wild and large eyes, a brow encompass'd 
 With flowing locks of swarthy splendor. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 161 
 
 Thou art indeed the very person 
 
 Whom I in every land have sought for, 
 
 While girls like thee a man of honor 
 
 Like me have always cared and thought for. 
 
 The very man thou stand'st in need of 
 Is found in me. At first thou 'It pay me 
 
 Richly with sentiments and kisses, 
 And then, as usual, wilt betray me. 
 
 6. 
 
 The spring's already at the gate 
 
 With looks my care beguiling ; 
 The country round appeareth straight 
 
 A flower-garden smiling. 
 
 My darling sitteth by my side, 
 
 In carriage onward fleeting ; 
 She looks on me with tender pride, 
 
 Her heart, I feel it beating. 
 
 What warbling, what fragrance the sun's light 
 awakes ! 
 
 Like jewels the verdure is gleaming, 
 His snowy-blossoming head soon shakes 
 
 The sapling with joyous seeming. 
 
 The flowers peep forth from the earth to see, 
 
 With longing in every feature, 
 The lovely woman Avon by me, 
 
 And me, the happy creature. 
 
 O transient bliss ! Across the corn 
 
 To-morrow will pass the sickle, 
 The beauteous spring wither, and I all forlorn 
 
 Be left by the woman fickle. 
 
162 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 7> 
 
 Each person to this feast enchanting 
 His mistress takes, and with delight 
 Roams in the blooming summer night. 
 
 I wander alone, for my loved one is wanting. 
 
 Like some sick man, I wander all lonely, 
 And far from the mirth and dancing go, 
 The music sweet and the lamps' bright glow ; 
 
 My thoughts are away, and in England only. 
 
 I pluck the pinks and I pluck the roses, 
 
 Distractedly and full of woe, 
 
 And know not on whom the flow'rs to be- 
 stow ; 
 My heart soon withers along with the posies. 
 
 Long songless and oppress'd with sadness, 
 I now compose again with yearning ! 
 
 Like tears that from us burst with madness 
 My songs are suddenly returning. 
 
 Again I chant, with voice melodious, 
 Of great love and still greater sorrow ; 
 
 Of hearts which, to each other odious 
 To-day, when parted break to-morrow. 
 
 I ofttimes think I feel the greeting 
 Of German oak trees waving o'er me, 
 
 "With whispers of a glad re-meeting — 
 A dream ! they vanish from before me. 
 
 I ofttimes think I hear the singing 
 
 Of German nightingales once cherish'd ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 63 
 
 Sweetly their notes are round me clinging — 
 A dream ! the vision soon has perish'd. 
 
 Where are the roses whose delicious 
 
 Perfume once bless'd me ? Every blossom 
 
 Long since has died ! With taint pernicious 
 Their ghostly scent still haunts my bosom* 
 
 X. ABROAD. 
 
 From place to place thou'rt wandering stilL 
 
 Thou scarcely knowest why ; 
 A gentle word the wind doth fill — 
 
 Thou look'st round wond'ringly. 
 
 My loved one, who was left behind, 
 
 Is calling softly now : 
 " Return, I love thee, O be kind, 
 
 My only joy art thou ! " 
 
 But on, still on, no peace, no rest, 
 
 Thou nere* still mayst be ; 
 What thou of yore didst love the best, 
 
 Thou ne er again shalt see. 
 
 Thou art to-day of sadder seeming 
 Than thou hast been for long before ; 
 
 Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming, 
 Thy sighs wax louder more and more. 
 
164 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Of thy far home long vanish'd is it 
 That thou art thinking-, full of pain ? 
 
 Wouldst thou not joyfully revisit 
 Thy much-loved fatherland again ? 
 
 Art thinking now of her who sweetly 
 
 With tiny rage enchanted thee ? 
 Vex'd by her oft, ye soon completely 
 
 Were reconciled, and laugh'd with glee. 
 
 Art thinking of the friends whom yearning 
 
 Impell'd to fall upon thy breast ? 
 Within the heart the thoughts were burning, 
 
 And yet the lips remain'd at rest. 
 
 Or of the sister and the mother 
 
 Art thinking, who approved thy suit ? 
 
 Methinks within thy breast, good brother, 
 Wild passions fast are growing mute. 
 
 Of the fair garden art thou thinking, 
 
 Its birds and trees, where love's young dream 
 
 Ofttimes sustain'd thy spirits sinking, 
 
 And hope shone forth with trembling beam ? 
 
 'Tis late. The snow has fallen thickly, 
 Bright night illumes the humid mass ; 
 
 I now must go, and hasten quickly 
 To dress for company — Alas ! 
 
 3- 
 
 Of my fair fatherland I once was proud ; 
 
 Beside the stream 
 The oak soar'd high, the violets gently bow'd ; 
 
 It was a dream. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 65 
 
 German the kisses were, in German too 
 
 (Sweet then did seem 
 The sound) they spake the words : ' ' Yes, I 
 love you ! " 
 
 It was a dream. 
 
 XI. TRAGEDY. 
 
 O FLY with me, and be my wife, 
 And to my heart for comfort come ! 
 
 Far, far away hence be my heart, 
 Thy fatherland and father's home. 
 
 If thou'lt not go, I here will die, 
 And all alone abandon thee ; 
 
 And if thou in thy father's home 
 
 Dost stay, thou'lt seem abroad to be. 
 
 (A genuine national song, heard by Heine on the 
 Rhine.) 
 There fell a frost in a night of spring, 
 It fell on the tender flowerets blue, 
 They all soon wither'd and faded. 
 
 A youth once loved a maiden full well, 
 They secretly fled away from the house, 
 Unknown to father and mother. 
 
 Tney wander'd here and they wander'd there, 
 And neither joy nor star could they find, 
 And so they droop'd and they perish'd. 
 
i66 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 3- 
 Upon her grave a linden is springing, 
 Where birds and the evening breeze are singing, 
 And on the green sward under it 
 The miller's boy and his sweetheart sit. 
 
 The winds are blowing so softly and fleetly, 
 The birds are singing so sadly and sweetly, 
 The prattling lovers are mute by-and-by, 
 They weep and they know not the reason why. 
 
 XII. THE TANNIIAUSER. 
 A Legend. 
 
 (Written in 1836.) 
 
 O ALL good Christians, be on your guard, 
 
 Lest Satan's wiles ensnare you ! 
 I'll sing you the song of the Tannhauser bold, 
 
 That ye may duly beware you. 
 
 The noble Tannhauser, a valiant knight, 
 
 For love and pleasure yearning, 
 To the Venus' mount travell'd, and there he 
 dwelt 
 
 Seven years without returning. 
 
 " Dear Venus, lovely mistress, farewell ! 
 
 Though much thou mayst enchant me, 
 No longer will I tarry with thee, 
 
 Permission to leave now grant me." 
 
THE BOOK OF, SONGS. 1 67 
 
 " Tannhauser, dear and noble knight, 
 To-day you have kept from kissing- ; 
 
 So kiss me quickly and tell me true, 
 What is there in me you find missing ? 
 
 " Have I each day the sweetest wine 
 
 Not pour'd out for you gayly ? 
 And have I not always crown 'd your head 
 
 With fragrant roses daily ? " 
 
 " Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth 
 
 My soul no longer finds pleasing 
 These endless kisses and luscious wine — 
 
 I long for something that's teasing. 
 
 "Too much have we jested, too much have we 
 laugh'd, 
 
 My heart for tears has long panted ; 
 Each rose on my head I fain would see 
 
 By pointed thorns supplanted." 
 
 " Tannhauser, dear and noble knight, 
 You fain would vex and grieve me ; 
 
 An oath you have sworn a thousand times 
 That you would never leave me. 
 
 " Come, let us into the chamber go, 
 To taste of love's rapture and gladness, 
 
 And there my fair and lily-white form 
 Shall drive away thy sadness." 
 
 " Dear Venus, lovely mistress, thy charms 
 
 Will bloom forever and ever ; 
 As many already have glow'd for thee, 
 
 So men will forget thee never ! 
 
1 68 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " But when I think of the heroes and gods 
 Who erst have taken their pleasure 
 
 In clasping thy fair and lily-white form 
 My anger knows no measure. 
 
 11 Thy fair and lily-white figure with dread 
 
 Is filling me even this minute, 
 When thinking how many in after times 
 
 Will still take pleasure in it ! " 
 
 " Tannhauser, dear and noble knight, 
 You should not utter such treason ; 
 
 'Twere better to beat me, as you have before 
 Oft done for many a season. 
 
 " 'Twere better to beat me, than such harsh 
 words 
 
 Of insult thus to have spoken, 
 Whereby, O Christian ungrateful and cold, 
 
 The pride in my bosom is broken. 
 
 " Because I love you so much, I forgive 
 Your evil words, thankless mortal ; 
 
 Farewell, I grant you permission to leave, 
 I'll open myself the portal." 
 
 In Rome, in the holy city of Rome, 
 
 With singing and ringing and blowing, 
 
 A grand procession is moving on, 
 The Pope in the middle is going. 
 
 The pious Pope Urban is his name, 
 The triple crown he is wearing, 
 
 He wears a red and purple robe, 
 And Barons his train are bearing. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 69 
 
 " O holy Father, Pope Urban, stay ! 
 
 I will not move from my station, 
 Until thou hast saved my soul from hell, 
 
 And heard my supplication ! " 
 
 The ghostly songs are suddenly mute, 
 The people fall backward dumbly ; 
 
 O who is the pilgrim pale and wild 
 Who bends to the Pope so humbly ? 
 
 " O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom 
 To bind and to loose not too much is, 
 
 O save me from the pangs of hell, 
 And out of the Evil One's clutches ! 
 
 " By name, I'm the noble Tannhauser call'd ; 
 
 For love and pleasure yearning, 
 To the Venus' mount I travell'd and dwelt 
 
 Seven years there without returning. 
 
 " This Venus is a woman fair 
 With charms of dazzling splendor ; 
 
 Like light of sun and flowers' sweet scent 
 Her voice is gentle and tender. 
 
 "Asa butterfly flutters around a flower 
 
 And from its calyx sips too, 
 So flutters my soul forevermore 
 
 Around her rosy lips too. 
 
 ' ' Around her noble features entwine 
 
 Her blooming black locks wildly ; 
 Thy breath would be gone if once her great eyes 
 
 Were fix'd upon thee mildly. 
 
 " If her great eyes upon thee were fix'd, 
 They surely would harass thee greatly ; 
 
17° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 'Twas with the greatest trouble that I 
 Escaped from the mountain lately. 
 
 "From out of the mountain I made my escape, 
 
 And yet forever pursue me 
 The looks of the beautiful woman, which seem 
 
 To say, ' O hasten back to me ! ' 
 
 " A wretched spectre by day I've become, 
 
 At night I vainly would hide me 
 In sleep, for I dream that my mistress dear 
 
 Is sitting and laughing beside me. 
 
 " How clearly, how sweetly, how madly she 
 laughs, 
 
 Her white teeth all the while showing ! 
 Whenever I think of thaj laugh, in streamg 
 
 The tears from my eyes begin flowing. 
 
 " I love her indeed with a boundless love 
 
 That scorches me up to a cinder ; 
 'Tis like a wild waterfall, whose fierce flood 
 
 No barrier ever can hinder. 
 
 " It nimbly leaps from rock to rock 
 
 With noisy foaming and boiling ; 
 Its neck it may break a thousand times, 
 
 Yet on, still on, it keeps toiling. 
 
 " If all the expanse of the heavens were mine, 
 To Venus the whole I'd surrender ; 
 
 I'd give her the sun, I'd give her the moon, 
 I'd give her the stars in their splendor. 
 
 " I love her indeed with a boundless love, 
 
 Whose flame within me rages ; 
 O say can this be the fire of hell, 
 
 The glow that will last through all ages ? 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 17 l 
 
 ' ' O holy Father, Pope Urban, to whom 
 To bind and to loose not too much is, 
 
 O save me from the pangs of hell, 
 And out of the Evil One's clutches ! " 
 
 His hands the Pope raised sadly on high, 
 And sigh'd till these words he had spoken : 
 
 ' ' Tannhauser, most unhappy knight, 
 The charm can never be broken. 
 
 " The Devil whom they Venus call 
 Is mighty for hurting and harming ; 
 
 I'm powerless quite to rescue thee 
 From out of his talons so charming. 
 
 1 ' And so thy soul must expiate now 
 
 Thy fleshly lusts infernal ; 
 Yes, thou art rejected, yes, thou art condemn'd 
 
 To suffer hell's torments eternal." 
 
 The knight Tannhauser roam'd on till his feet 
 Were sore with his wanderings dreary. 
 
 At midnight's hour he came at length 
 To the Venus' mountain, full weary. 
 
 Fair Venus awoke from out of her sleep, 
 And out of her bed sprang lightly, 
 
 And clasped her fair and lily-white arms 
 Around her beloved one tightly. 
 
 From out of her nose the blood fell fast, 
 The tears from her eyes descended ; 
 
 She cover' d the face of her darling knight 
 With blood and tears closely blended. 
 
I 7 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The knight lay quietly down in the bed, 
 And not one word has he spoken ; 
 
 While Venus went to the kitchen, to make 
 Some soup, that his fast might be broken. 
 
 She gave him soup, and she gave him bread, 
 She wash'd his wounded feet, too ; 
 
 She comb'd his rough and matted hair, 
 And laugh 'd with a laugh full sweet, too. 
 
 " Tannhauser, dear and noble knight, 
 Full long hast thou been wandering ; 
 
 O say in what lands hast thou thy time 
 So far from hence been squandering?" 
 
 " Dear Venus, lovely mistress, in truth 
 
 In Italy I have been staying ; 
 I've had some bus'ness in Rome, and now 
 
 Return without further delaying. 
 
 " Rome stands on the Tiber, just at the spot 
 
 Where seven hills are meeting ; 
 In Rome I also beheld the Pope — 
 
 The Pope he sends thee his greeting. 
 
 "And Florence I saw, when on my return, 
 And then through Milan I hasted, 
 
 And next through Switzerland scrambled fast, 
 And not one moment wasted. 
 
 "And when I travell'd over the Alps, 
 
 The snow already was falling ; 
 The blue lakes sweetly on me smiled, 
 
 The eagles were circling and calling. 
 
 "And when on the Mount St. Cothard I stood, 
 Below me snored Germany loudly ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 173 
 
 Beneath the mild sway of thirty-six kings 
 It slumber'd calmly and proudly. 
 
 " In Swabia I saw the poetical school 
 Of dear little simpleton creatures ; 
 
 They sat together all ranged in a row, 
 With "very diminutive features. 
 
 ' ' In Dresden I saw a certain dog, 
 
 A sprig of the aristocracy ; 
 His teeth he had lost, and bark'd and yell'd 
 
 Like one of the vulgar democracy. 
 
 "At Weimar, the Muses' widow'd seat, 
 I heard them their sentiments giving ; 
 
 They wept and lamented that Goethe was dead, 
 And Eckermann still 'mongst the living ! 
 
 ' ' At Potsdam I heard a very loud cry — 
 I said in amaze : ' What's the matter ? ' — 
 
 'Tis Gans * at Berlin, who last century's tale 
 ' Is reading and making this clatter.' 
 
 ' ' At Gottingen knowledge was blossoming still, 
 But bringing no fruit to perfection ; 
 
 'Twas dark as pitch when I got there at night, 
 No light was in any direction. 
 
 " In the bridewell at Zell Hanoverians alone 
 Were confined ; at our next Reformation 
 
 A national bridewell and one common lash 
 We must have for the whole German nation. 
 
 " At Hamburg, in that excellent town, 
 Many terrible rascals dwell still ; 
 
 * The eminent Professor and Editor of Hegel's Works. 
 He died in 1839. 
 
174 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And when I wander'd about the Exchange, 
 I fancied myself in Zell still ! 
 
 " At Hamburg I Altona saw ; 'tis a spot 
 
 In a charming situation ; 
 And all my adventures that there I met 
 
 I'll tell on another occasion."* 
 
 XIII. ROMANCES, 
 i. A Woman. 
 
 They loved each other beyond belief, 
 
 The woman a rogue was, the man was a thief ; 
 
 At each piece of knavery, daily 
 
 She fell on the bed, laughing gaily. 
 
 In joy and pleasure they pass'd the day, 
 Upon his bosom all night she lay ; 
 When they carried him off to Old Bailey, 
 At the window she stood, laughing gaily. 
 
 He sent her this, message : O come to me, 
 I yearn, my love, so greatly for thee*; 
 I want thee, I pine, and look palely, — 
 Her head she but shook, laughing gaily. 
 
 At six in the morning they hang'd the knave, 
 At seven they laid him down in his grave ; 
 At eight on her ears this fell stalely, 
 And a bumper she drank, laughing gaily. 
 
 * It is with real hesitation that I publish this lame and 
 impotent conclusion to a legend the first two parts of 
 which are in Heine's best style. — E. A. B. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 175 
 
 2. Celebration of Spring. 
 
 O list to this spring time's terrible jest ! 
 In savage troops the maidens fair 
 Are rushing along with fluttering hair, 
 
 And howls of anguish and naked breast : — 
 Adonis ! Adonis ! 
 
 The night falls fast. By torchlight clear 
 They sadly explore each forest track, 
 Which mournful answers is echoing back 
 
 Of laughter, sobs, sighs, and cries of fear : — 
 Adonis ! Adonis ! 
 
 That youthful figure, so wondrous fair, 
 Now lies on the ground all pale and dead ; 
 His blood has dyed each floweret red, 
 
 And mournful sighs resound through the air : — 
 Adonis ! Adonis ! 
 
 3. Childe Harold. 
 
 Slow and weary, moves a dreary 
 Stout black bark the stream along ; 
 
 Visors wearing, all-uncaring, 
 
 Funeral mutes the benches throng. 
 
 'Mongst them dumbly, with his comely 
 Face upturn'd, the dead bard lies ; 
 
 Living seeming, toward the beaming 
 Light of heaven still turn his eyes. 
 
 From the water, like a daughter 
 
 Of the stream's voice, comes a sigh, 
 
 And with wailing unavailing 
 
 'Gainst the bark the waves dash high. 
 
176 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 4. The Exorcism. 
 
 The young- Franciscan friar sits 
 
 In his cloister silent and lonely ; 
 He reads a magical book, which speaks 
 
 Of exorcisms only. 
 
 And when the hour of midnight knell'd, 
 An impulse resistless came o'er him ; 
 
 The underground spirits with pallid lips 
 He summon'd to rise up before him : 
 
 " Ye spirits I Go, fetch me from out of the gra^ 
 The corpse of my mistress cherish'd ; 
 
 For this one night restore her to life, 
 Rekindling joys long perish'd." 
 
 The fearful exorcising word 
 
 He breathes, and his wish is granted ; 
 
 The poor dead beauty in grave-clothes white 
 Appears to his vision enchanted. 
 
 Her look is mournful ; her ice-cold breast 
 Her sighs of grief cannot smother ; 
 
 The dead one sits herself down by the monk, 
 In silence they gaze on each other. 
 
 5. Extract from a Letter. 
 {The Sun speaks.) 
 
 What matter all my looks to thee ? 
 It is the well-known right of the sun 
 To shed down his rays on ev'ry one ; 
 
 I beam because 'tis proper for me. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1/7 
 
 What matter all my looks to thee ? 
 
 Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf ; 
 
 Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself, 
 And so a German worthy be ! 
 
 I beam because 'tis proper for me. 
 I wander up and down in the sky, 
 From mere ennui I peep from on high — 
 
 What matter all my looks to thee ? 
 
 {The Poet speaks.} 
 
 It is in truth my special merit 
 That I can bear thy radiant light, 
 
 Pledge of an endless youthful spirit, 
 
 Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright ! 
 
 But now mine eyes are growing weary, 
 On my poor eyelids fast are falling, 
 
 Like a black covering, the dreary 
 
 Dark shades of night with gloom appalling. 
 
 {Chorus of Monkeys.) 
 
 We monkeys, we monkeys, 
 Like impudent flunkies, 
 Stare at the sun, 
 Who can't prevent its being done. 
 
 {Chorus of Frogs.) 
 
 The water is better, 
 But also much wetter 
 Than 'tis in the air, 
 And merrily there 
 We love to gaze 
 On the sun's bright rays. 
 
I 7 S THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 {Chorus of Moles.) 
 
 How foolish people are to chatter 
 
 Of beams and sunny rays bewitching ! 
 With us, they but produce an itching, 
 
 We scratch it and so end the matter. 
 
 (A Glow-worm speaks.) 
 
 How boastingly the sun displays 
 His very fleeting daily rays ! 
 But I'm not so immodest quite, 
 And yet I'm an important light, — 
 I mean by night, I mean by night ! 
 
 6. The Evil Star. 
 
 The star, after beaming so brightly, 
 From the sky fell, a vision unsightly, 
 What is the love by poets sung ? 
 A star amid a heap of dung. 
 
 Like a poor mangy dog, when he's dying, 
 Beneath all this fdth it is lying ; 
 Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow 
 And wallows in the fearful slough. 
 
 In the garden O had I descended, 
 By fair flowerets lovingly tended, 
 Where I oft yearn'd to find my doom, 
 A virgin death, a fragrant tomb ! 
 
 7. Anno 1829. 
 
 Give me a wide and noble field 
 Where I may perish decently ! 
 
 O let me in this narrow world 
 
 Of shops be not condemned to die ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 179 
 
 They eat full well, they drink full well, 
 And revel in their mole-like bliss ; 
 
 Their magnanimity's as great 
 As any poor-box opening is. 
 
 Cigars they carry in their mouths, 
 
 Their hands we in their breeches view, 
 And their digestive powers are great, — 
 
 could we but digest them too I 
 
 They trade in every spice that grows 
 Upon the earth, yet we can trace, 
 
 Despite their spices, in the air 
 The odor of a grovelling race. 
 
 Could I some great transgressions, yes, 
 Colossal bloody crimes but see — 
 
 Aught but this virtue flat and tame, 
 This solvent strict morality ! 
 
 Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence, 
 To some far spot without delay ! 
 
 To Lapland or to Africa, 
 To Pomerania e'en — away ! 
 
 O bear me hence !— They hearken not — 
 The clouds on high so prudent are ! 
 
 They fly above this town, to seek 
 
 With trembling haste some region far c 
 
 8. Anno 1839. 
 
 Dear distant Germany, how often 
 
 1 weep when I remember thee ! 
 Gay France my sorrow cannot soften, 
 
 Her merry race gives pain to me. 
 
i8o 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In Paris, in this witty region, 
 
 'Tis cold dry reason that now reigns ; 
 
 O bells of folly and religion, 
 
 How sweetly sound at home your strains ! 
 
 Courteous the men ! Their salutation 
 
 I yet return with feelings sad ; 
 The rudeness shown in every station 
 
 In my own country made me glad ! 
 
 Smiling the women ! but their clatter, 
 Like millwheels, never seems to cease ; 
 
 The Germans (not to mince the matter) 
 Prefer I, who lie down in peace. 
 
 And all things here with restless passion 
 Keep whirling, like some madden'd dream J 
 
 "With us, they move in jog-trot fashion, 
 And well-nigh void of motion seem. 
 
 Methinks I hear the distant ringing 
 
 Of the soft bugle's note serene ; 
 The watchman's songs I hear them singing, 
 
 With Philomel's sweet strains between. 
 
 At home the bard, a happy vagrant 
 In Schilda's oak woods loved to rove ; 
 
 From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant 
 My tender verses there I wove. 
 
 9. At Dawn. 
 
 On the Faubourg Saint Marceau 
 Lay the mist this very morning, 
 Mist of autumn, heavy, thick, 
 And a white-hued night resembling. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I°J 
 
 Wandering through this white-hued night, 
 
 I beheld before me gliding 
 
 An enchanting female form 
 
 Which the moon's sweet light resembled. 
 
 Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet, 
 Lightly floating, tender, graceful ; 
 Such a slender shape of limbs 
 I had here in France ne'er witness'd. 
 
 Was it Luna's self perchance, 
 
 Who with some young dear and handsome 
 
 Fond Endymion had to-day 
 
 In th' Quartier Latin been ling'ring? 
 
 On my way home thus I thought : 
 Wherefore fled she when she saw me ? 
 Did the Goddess think that I 
 Was perchance the Sun-God Phoebus ? 
 
 10. Sir Olave. 
 
 At the door of the cathedral 
 Stand two men, both wearing red coats, 
 And the first one is the monarch, 
 And the headsman is the other. 
 
 To the headsman spake the monarch : 
 "By the priest's song I can gather 
 That the wedding is now finish 'd — 
 Keep thy trusty hatchet ready ! " 
 
 To the sound of bells and organ 
 From the church the people issue 
 
152 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In a motley throng, and 'mongst them 
 Move the gay-dress'd bridal couple. 
 
 Pale as death and sad and mournful 
 Looks the monarch's lovely daughter ; 
 Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave, 
 And his ruddy lips are smiling. 
 
 And with smiling ruddy lips he 
 Thus the gloomy king addresses : 
 " Father of my wife, good morning ! 
 Forfeited to-day my head is. 
 
 " I to-day must die, — O suffer, 
 Suffer me to live till midnight, 
 That I may with feast and torch-dance 
 Celebrate my happy wedding ! 
 
 1 ' Let me live, O let me live, sire, 
 Till I've drain'd the final goblet, 
 Till the final dance is finish'd — 
 Suffer me to live till midnight !" 
 
 To the headsman spake the monarch : 
 " To our son-in-law a respite 
 Of his life we grant till midnight — 
 Keep thy trusty hatchet ready !" 
 
 Sir Olave he sits at his wedding repast, 
 And every goblet is drained at last ; 
 Upon his shoulder reclines 
 His wife and pines — 
 
 At the door the headsman is standing. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 03 
 
 The dance begins, and Sir Olave takes hold 
 Of his youthful wife, and with haste uncontroll'd 
 They dance by the torches' glow 
 Their last dance below — 
 
 At the door the headsman is standing. 
 
 The fiddles strike up, so merry and glad, 
 The flutes they sound so mournful and sad ; 
 Whoever their dancing then saw 
 Was filled with awe — 
 
 At the door the headsman is standing. 
 
 And as they dance in the echoing hall, 
 
 To his wife speaks Sir Olave, unheard by them all: 
 
 " My love will be ne'er known to thee — 
 
 The grave yawns for me — " 
 
 At the door the headsman is standing. 
 
 Sir Olave, 'tis the midnight hour, 
 
 Thy days of life are number'd ; 
 In a king's daughter's arms instead 
 
 Thou thoughtest to have slumber'd. 
 
 The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead, 
 
 The man the red coat wearing 
 Already before the black block stands, 
 
 His polish'd hatchet bearing. 
 
 Sir Olave descends to the court below, 
 
 Where the swords and the lights are gleaming ; 
 
 The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile, 
 
 And he speaks with a countenance beaming : 
 
 "I bless the sun, and I bless the moon, 
 And the stars in the heavens before me ; 
 
1 84 
 
 TTE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 I bless too the little birds that sing 
 In the air so merrily o'er me. 
 
 " I bless the sea and I bless the land, 
 And the flow'rs that the meadow's life are ; 
 
 I bless the violets, which are as soft 
 As the eyes of my own dear wife are. 
 
 " Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife, 
 My life for your sakes I surrender ! 
 
 I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade 
 "We plighted our vows of love tender." 
 
 ii. The Water Nymphs. 
 
 The waves were plashing against the lone strand. 
 
 The moon had risen lately, 
 The knight was lying upon the white sand, 
 
 In vision musing greatly. 
 
 The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep, 
 
 Their veils around them floated ; 
 They softly approach'd, and fancied that sleep 
 
 The youth's repose denoted. 
 
 The plume of his helmet the first one felt, 
 To see if perchance it would harm her ; 
 
 The second took hold of his shoulder belt, 
 And handled his heavy chain armor. 
 
 The third one laugh' d, and her eyes gleam'd 
 bright, 
 As the sword from the scabbard drew she ; 
 On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the 
 knight, 
 And heartfelt pleasure knew she. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 85 
 
 The fourth one danced both here and there, 
 And breath'd from her inmost bosom : 
 
 " O would that I thy mistress were, 
 Thou lovely mortal blossom !" 
 
 The fifth her kisses with passionate strength 
 On the hand of the knight kept planting ; 
 
 The sixth one tarried, and kissed at length 
 His lips and his cheeks enchanting. 
 
 The knight was wise, and far too discreet 
 To open his eyes midst such blisses ; 
 
 He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweet 
 Continue their loving kisses. 
 
 12. Bertrand de Born. 
 
 A noble pride on every feature, 
 
 His forehead stamp'd with thought mature, 
 He could subdue each mortal creature, 
 
 Bertrand de Born, the troubadour. 
 
 How wondrously his sweet notes caught her, 
 
 Plantagenet the Lion's queen ! 
 Both sons as well as lovely daughter 
 
 He sang into his net, I ween. 
 
 The father too he fool'd discreetly ! 
 
 Hush'd was the monarch's wrath and scorn 
 On hearing him discourse so sweetly, 
 
 The troubadour, Bertrand de Born. 
 
 13. Spring. 
 
 The waters glisten and merrily glide, — » 
 
 How lovely is love midst spring's splendor I 
 
 The shepherdess sits by the streamlet's side, 
 And twines her garlands so tender. 
 
i86 
 
 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 All nature is budding with fragrant perfume, 
 How lovely is love midst spring's splendor ! 
 
 The shepherdess sighs from her heart; "O 
 whom 
 Shall I my garlands surrender ?" 
 
 A horseman is riding beside the clear brook, 
 
 A kindly greeting he utters ; 
 The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look, 
 
 The plume in his hat gaily flutters. 
 
 She weeps, and into the gliding waves flings 
 
 Her flowery garlands so tender ; 
 Of kisses and love the nightingale sings — 
 
 How lovely is love midst spring's splendor ! 
 
 14. Ali Bey. 
 
 Ali Bey, the true Faith's hero, 
 Happy lies in maids' embraces ; 
 Allah granteth him a foretaste 
 Here on earth of heavenly rapture. 
 
 Odalisques, as fair as houris, 
 Like gazelles in every motion — 
 While the first his beard is curling, 
 See, the second smooths his forehead. 
 
 And the third the lute is playing, 
 Singing, dancing, and with laughter 
 Kissing him upon his bosom, 
 Where the flames of bliss are glowing. 
 
 But the trumpets of a sudden 
 Sound outside, the swords are rattling, 
 Calls to arms, and shots of muskets — 
 Lord, the Franks are marching on us 1 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 1 87 
 
 And the hero mounts his war-steed, 
 Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming ; 
 For he fancies he is lying 
 As before in maids' embraces. 
 
 Whilst the heads of the invaders 
 He is cutting off by dozens, 
 He is smiling like a lover, 
 Yes, he softly smiles and gently. 
 
 15. Psyche. 
 
 In her hand the little lamp, and 
 Mighty passion in her breast, 
 
 Psyche creepeth to the couch where 
 Her dear sleeper takes his rest. 
 
 How she blushes, how she trembles, 
 When his beauty she descries ! 
 
 He, the God of love, unveil'd thus, 
 Soon awakes and quickly flies. 
 
 Eighteen hundred years' repentance ! 
 
 And the poor thing nearly died ! 
 Psyche fasts and whips herself still, 
 
 For she Amor naked spied. 
 
 16. The Unknown One. 
 
 Every day I have a meeting 
 With my golden-tressed beauty 
 In the Tuileries' fair garden 
 Underneath the chestnuts' shadow. 
 
 Every day she goes to walk there 
 With two old and ugly women — 
 Are they aunts ? or else two soldiers 
 Muffled up in women's garments ? 
 
1 88 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Overawed by the mustachios 
 Of her masculine attendants, 
 And still further overawed too 
 By the feelings in my bosom, 
 
 I ne'er ventured e'en one sighing 
 Word to whisper as I pass'd her, 
 And with looks I scarcely ventured 
 Ever to proclaim my passion. 
 
 For the first time I to-day have 
 I earnt her name. Her name is Laura, 
 f ike the Provencal fair maiden 
 ,Vhom the famous poet loved so. 
 
 Laura is her name ! I've gone now 
 Just as far as Master Petrarch, 
 Who the fair one celebrated 
 In canzonas and in sonnets. 
 
 Laura is her name ! like Petrarch 
 I can now platonically 
 Revel in this name euphonious — 
 He himself no further ventured. 
 
 17. The Change. 
 
 With brunettes I now have finish'd, 
 And this year am once more fond 
 
 Of the eyes whose color blue is, 
 Of the hair whose color's blond. 
 
 Mild the blond one, whom I love now, 
 And in meekness quite a gem ! 
 
 She would be some blest saint's image, 
 Held her hand a lily stem. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I«9 
 
 Slender limbs of wondrous beauty, 
 Little flesh, much sympathy ; 
 
 All her soul is glowing but for 
 Faith and hope and charity. 
 
 She maintains she understands not 
 German, — but it can't be so ; 
 
 Hast ne'er read the heavenly poem 
 Klopstock wrote some time ago ? 
 
 1 8. Fortune. 
 
 Madam Fortune, thou in vain 
 Act'st the coy one ! I can gain 
 By my own exertions merely 
 All thy favors prized so dearly. 
 
 Thou art overcome by me, 
 To the yoke I fasten thee ; 
 Thou art mine beyond escaping — 
 But my bleeding wounds are gaping. 
 
 All my red blood gushes out, 
 My life's courage to the rout 
 Soon is put ; I'm vanquish'd lying, 
 And in victory's hour am dying. 
 
 19. Lamentation of an Old-German Youth. 
 
 The man on whom virtue smiles is blest, 
 He is lost who neglects her instructions ; 
 
 Poor youth that I am, I am ruin'd 
 By evil companions' seductions. 
 
 For cards and dice soon dispossess'd 
 My pockets of all their money ; 
 
 At first the maidens consoled me 
 With smiles as luscious as honey. 
 
19° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 But when they had fuddled with wine their guest, 
 And torn my garments, straightway 
 
 (Poor youth that I am) they seized me, 
 And bundled me out at the gateway. 
 
 On waking after a bad night's rest, — 
 
 Sad end to all my ambition ! — 
 Poor youth that I am, I was filling 
 
 At Cassel a sentry's position. 
 
 20. Away ! 
 
 The day's enamour'd of the night, 
 The springtime loves the winter, 
 And life's in love with death, — 
 And thou, thou lovest me ! 
 
 Thou lov'st me— thou'rt already seized 
 By fear-inspiring shadows, 
 And all thy blossoms fade, 
 To death thy soul is bleeding. 
 
 Away from me, and only love 
 The butterflies, gay triflers, 
 "Who in the sunlight sport — 
 Away from me and sorrow ! 
 
 21. Madam Mette. 
 
 (From the Danish.) 
 
 Says Bender to Peter over their wine : 
 
 "I'll wager (though doubtless you're clever) 
 
 That though your fine singing may conquer the 
 world, 
 My wife 'twill conquer never." 
 
 Then Peter ieplied : "I'll wager my horse 
 To your dog, or the devil is in it, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. I9 1 
 
 I'll sing Madam Mette into my house 
 This evening, at twelve to a minute." 
 
 And when the hour of midnight drew near, 
 Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing ; 
 
 Right over the forest, right over the flood 
 His charming notes were ringing. 
 
 The fir-trees listen'd in silence deep, 
 
 The flood stood still and listen'd, 
 The pale moon trembled high up in the sky, 
 
 The wise stars joyously glisten'd. 
 
 Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep : 
 " What singing ! How sweet the seduction ]" 
 
 She put on her dress, and left the house- 
 Alas, it proved her destruction ! 
 
 Right through the forest, right through the flood, 
 
 She speeded onward straightway ; 
 While Peter, with the might of his song, 
 
 Allured her inside his own gateway. 
 
 And when she at morning return'd back home, 
 At the door her husband caught her : 
 
 " Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the 
 night ? 
 Your garments are dripping with water." 
 
 " I spent the night at the water-nymphs' stream, 
 And heard the Future told by them ; 
 
 The mocking fairies wetted me through 
 
 With their splashes, for going too nigh them." 
 
 " You have not been to the water-nymphs' stream, 
 The sand there could ne'er make you muddy ; 
 
 Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn, 
 Your cheeks are also bloody." 
 
I9 2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " I spent the night in the elfin wood, 
 
 To see the elfin dances ; 
 I wounded my feet and face with the thorns 
 
 And fir-boughs cutting like lances." 
 
 " The elfins dance in the sweet month of May 
 
 On flowery plains, but the chilly 
 Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth, 
 
 The wind in the forests howls shrilly." 
 
 " At Peter Nielsen's I spent the night, 
 
 lie sang so mightily to me. 
 That through the forest and through the flood 
 
 lie irresistibly drew me. 
 
 " His song is mighty as death itself, 
 
 To night and perdition alluring ; 
 Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart, 
 
 A speedy death insuring." 
 
 The door of the church is hung with black, 
 
 The funeral bells are ringing, 
 Poor Madam Mette's terrible death 
 
 To public notice bringing. 
 
 Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier — 
 
 'Twas sad to hear him call so ! — 
 " I now have lost my beautiful wife, 
 
 And lost my true dog also." 
 
 22. The Meeting. 
 
 The music under the linden tree sounds, 
 The boys and the maidens dance lightly ; 
 
 Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows. 
 Of figures noble and sightly. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 193 
 
 They float about here, they float about there, 
 In a way that strange habits expresses ; 
 
 They smile at each other, they shake their heads, 
 The maiden the youth thus addresses : 
 
 " My handsome youth, upon thy hat 
 
 There nods a lily splendid, 
 That only grows in the depths of the sea — 
 
 From Adam thou art not descended. 
 
 " The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village 
 maids 
 
 Would'st allure with thy arts of seduction ; 
 I knew thee at once, at the very first sight, 
 
 By thy teeth of fish-like construction." 
 
 They float about here, they float about there, 
 In a way that strange habits expresses ; 
 
 They smile at each other, they shake their heads, 
 The youth the maid thus addresses : 
 
 " My handsome maiden, tell me why 
 
 Thy hand so icy cold is ? 
 And tell me why thy snow-white dress 
 
 So moist in every fold is ? 
 
 " I knew thee at once, at the very first sight, 
 
 By thy bantering salutation ; 
 Thou art no mortal child of man, 
 
 But the water-nymph, my relation." 
 
 The fiddles are silent, and finish'd the dance, 
 
 They part like sister and brother, 
 They know each other only too well, 
 
 And shun now the sight of each other. 
 
194 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 23. King Harold Harfagar. 
 
 The great King Harold Harfagar 
 
 In ocean's depths is sitting, 
 Beside his lovely water-fay ; 
 
 The years are over him flitting. 
 
 By water-sprite's magical arts chain'd down, 
 He is neither living nor dead now, 
 
 And while in this state of baneful bliss 
 Two hundred years have sped now. 
 
 The head of the king is laid on the lap 
 Of the beautiful woman, and ever 
 
 He yearningly gazes up tow'rd her eyes, 
 And looks away from her never. 
 
 His golden hair is silver gray, 
 
 His cheekbones (of time's march a token) 
 Project like a ghost's from his yellow face, 
 
 His body is wither'd and broken. 
 
 And many a time from his sweet dream of love 
 
 He suddenly is waking, 
 For over him wildly rages the flood, 
 
 The castle of glass rudely shaking. 
 
 He oftentimes fancies he hears in the wind 
 The Northmen shouting out gladly ; 
 
 He raises his arms with joyous haste, 
 Then lets them fall again sadly. 
 
 He oftentimes fancies he hears far above 
 
 The seamen their voices raising, 
 The great King Harold Harfagar 
 
 In songs heroical praising. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 195 
 
 Aad then the king from the depth of his heart 
 Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing, 
 
 When quickly the water-fay over him bends, 
 With loving kisses replying. 
 
 24. The Lower World. 
 
 Many a time poor Pluto sigh'd thus : 
 ' ' Were I but a single man ! 
 Since my married life began, 
 Hell, I've learnt, was not a hell 
 
 Till I to a wife was tied thus ! 
 
 "Would that I remain 'd still single ! 
 Since I Proserpine did wed, 
 Each day wish I I was dead ! 
 With the bark of Cerberus 
 
 Her loud scoldings ever mingle. 
 
 ' ' Each attempt I make is fruitless 
 After peace. There's not a ghost 
 Half so sad in all my host, 
 And I envy Sisyphus, 
 
 And the Danaid's labor bootless." 
 
 II. 
 
 On golden chair in the regions infernal, 
 Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal 
 
 Queen Proserpine's sitting 
 
 With mien ill befitting 
 Her station, and sadly she's sighing : 
 
 " For roses I yearn, and the rapturous blisses 
 Of Philomel's song, and the sun's sweet kisses 1 
 
 And here 'mongst the pallid 
 
 Lemures and squalid 
 Dead bodies, my youth's days are flying. 
 
*9 6 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 "I'm firmly bound in the hard yoke of marriage 
 In this hole, which I'm sure e'en a rat would 
 disparage ! 
 
 And the spectres unsightly 
 Through my window peep nightly, 
 Their wails with the Styx's groans vying. 
 
 " This very day I've invited to dinner 
 Old Charon, the bald-pated spindle-shank'd 
 sinner — 
 
 And also the Judges, 
 
 Those wearisome drudges — 
 Such company's really too trying !" 
 
 Whilst these murmurs unavailing 
 
 In the lower world found vent, 
 Ceres on the earth was wailing, 
 
 And the crazy goddess went, 
 With no cap on, with no collar, 
 
 And with loose dishevell'd hair, 
 Uttering, in a voice of dolor, 
 
 That lament known everywhere :* 
 
 " Is't the beauteous spring I see? 
 
 Hath the earth grown young again ? 
 Sunlit hills glow verdantly, 
 
 Bursting through their icy chain. 
 From the streamlet's mirror blue 
 
 Smiles the now unclouded sky, 
 Zephyr's wings wave milder too, 
 
 Youthful blossoms ope their eye. 
 
 ♦The following three verses are extracted by Heine 
 verbatim from Schiller's well-known " Lament of Ceres." 
 The version of them here given is taken from the trans- 
 lation of Schiller's Poems published by me in 1851. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 197 
 
 In the grove sweet songs resound, 
 While the Oread thus doth speak : 
 
 * Once again thy flow'rs are found, 
 Vain thy daughter 'tis to seek. ' 
 
 "Ah, how long 'tis-since I went 
 
 First in search o'er earth's wide face I 
 Titan, all thy rays I sent, 
 
 Seeking for the loved one's trace ! 
 Of that form so dear, no ray 
 
 Hath as yet brought news to me, 
 And the all-discerning Day 
 
 Cannot yet the lost one see. 
 Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn ? 
 
 Or to Orcus' gloomy stream, 
 Hath she been by Pluto borne, 
 
 Smitten by her beauty's beams ? 
 
 " Who will to yon dreary strand 
 
 Be the herald of my woe ? 
 Ever leaves the bark the land, 
 
 Yet but shadows in it go. 
 To each blest eye evermore 
 
 Closed those night-like fields remain ; 
 Styx no living form e'er bore, 
 
 Since his stream first wash'd the plain. 
 Thousand paths lead downward there, 
 
 None lead up again to light ; 
 And her tears no witness e'er 
 
 Brings to her sad mother's sight." 
 
 " Ceres ! my good wife's relation ! 
 
 Prythee cease to weep and call so ! 
 I now grant your application — 
 
 I have suffer'd greatly also I 
 
19** THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 *' Comfort take ! we'll share your daughter's 
 
 Sweet society, and let her 
 Have on earth six months her quarters 
 
 Yearly, if you like it better. 
 
 " She, when men in summer swelter, 
 
 Can assist your rural labors, 
 'Neath a straw hat taking shelter, 
 
 Flow'r-bedizen'd, like her neighbors'. 
 
 " She can rant, when colors glowing 
 Robe the evening sky in splendor, 
 
 When beside the stream is blowing 
 On his flute a bumpkin tender. 
 
 " She'll rejoice with lads and lasses 
 At the harvest-home's gay dances, 
 
 And amongst the sheeps and asses 
 Be a lioness, the chance is. 
 
 " I'll recruit my spirits sinking 
 
 Here in Orcus in a canter, 
 Mingled punch and Lethe drinking, 
 
 And forget my wife instanter !" 
 
 " Methinks at times thy brow is shaded 
 With yearnings that in secret dwell ; 
 Thy hapless lot I know full well ; 
 
 Lost love, a life untimely faded ! 
 
 " Thou nodd'st a sad assent ! I never 
 Can give thee back thy youthful prime ; 
 Thy heart's woes cannot heal with time ; 
 
 A faded life, love lost forever !" 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 199 
 
 XIV. MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I. MULEDOM. 
 
 Thy father, as is known to all, 
 
 A donkey was, beyond denial ; 
 Thy mother on the other hand 
 
 A noble brood-mare proved on trial. 
 
 Thy mulish nature, worthy friend, 
 
 Though little liked, a thing of course is ; 
 
 Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth, 
 That thou belongest to the horses. 
 
 Thou spring'st from proud Bucephalus ; 
 
 Thy fathers were with the invaders 
 Who to the Holy Sepulchre 
 
 Of old time went, the famed Crusaders. 
 
 Thou countest 'mongst thy relatives 
 The charger ridden by the glorious 
 
 Sir Godfrey of Bouillon the day 
 
 He took God's town with arm victorious. 
 
 Thou canst aver that Bayard's steed 
 Thy cousin was, and say (andante) 
 
 Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore, 
 The most heroic Rosinante. 
 
 But Sancho's donkey thou'lt not own 
 As kin, he being much too lowly ; 
 
 Thou'lt e'en disown the ass's foal 
 That whilome bore the Saviour holy. 
 
 And thou art not obliged to stick 
 A long-ear surely in thy scutcheon ; 
 
 Of thine own value be the judge, 
 
 And thou wilt never lay too much on. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 3. Pride. 
 
 O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town, 
 
 Because you are wealthy, you're held in renown 
 
 With not less than four horses contented, 
 
 At court you are duly presented ; 
 
 In carriage of gold you go lightly 
 
 To the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly ; 
 
 Up the marble stairs rustle 
 
 Your clothes with their bustle, 
 
 And then at the top, on the landing 
 
 The servants in gay dresses standing 
 
 Shout : Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld ! 
 
 Your fan in your hand, talking loudly, 
 
 Through the chamber you wander on proudly ; 
 
 With diamonds gaily bedizen'd, 
 
 In pearls and Brussels lace prison'd, 
 
 Your snowy bosom with madness 
 
 Is heaving in uncontroll'd gladness, 
 
 What smiles, nods, polite interjections ! 
 
 What curtsies and deep genuflexions ! 
 
 The Duchess of Pavia 
 
 Calls you her cava mia ; 
 
 The nobles and courtiers advancing 
 
 Invite you to join in the dancing ; 
 
 And the heir to the crown (who's thought witty) 
 
 Says loudly : How graceful and pretty 
 
 Are all the stem movements of Gudelfeld ! 
 
 But if, poor creature, you money did lack, 
 
 The world would straightway show you its back } 
 
 The very lackeys with loathing 
 
 Would spit on your clothing ; 
 
 'Stead of bows and civility, 
 
 Naught but vulgar scurrility ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 20J 
 
 The Duchess would cross herself rudely, 
 
 And the Crown Prince take snuff, and sa; 
 
 shrewdly : 
 She smells of garlic — this Gudelfeld ! 
 
 4. Away ! 
 
 If by one woman thou'rt jilted, love 
 
 Another, and so forget her ; 
 To pack up thy knapsack, and straight remove 
 
 From the town will be still better. 
 
 Thou'lt soon discover a blue lake fair, 
 
 By weeping willows surrounded ; 
 Thy trifling grief thou'lt weep away there, 
 
 Thy pangs so little founded. 
 
 Whilst climbing up the hillside fast, 
 Thou'lt pant and groan full loudly ; 
 
 But when on the rocky summit at last, 
 Thou'lt hear the eagle scream proudly. 
 
 An eagle thyself thou'lt seem to be, 
 New life the change will bestow thee ; 
 
 Thou'lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free, 
 Not much in the world below thee. 
 
 5. Winter. 
 
 The cold may burn us sadly 
 Like fire, and mortals hurry 
 
 Amidst the snow-drift madly, 
 With still-increasing flurry. 
 
 O winter stern and chilly, 
 When frozen are our noses, 
 
 And piano-strumming silly 
 Our ears so discomposes ! 
 
!02 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 I like the summer only 
 
 When in the woods I'm roving 
 
 With my own griefs all-lonely, 
 And scanning verses loving. 
 
 6. The Old Chimneypiece. 
 
 Outside fall the snowflakes lightly 
 
 Through the night, loud raves the storm ; 
 
 In my room the fire glows brightly, 
 And 'tis cosey, silent, warm. 
 
 Musing sit I on the settle 
 
 By the firelight's cheerful blaze, 
 
 Listening to the busy kettle 
 Humming long-forgotten lays. 
 
 And beside me sits a kitten, 
 Warming at the blaze her feet ; 
 
 Strangely are my senses smitten 
 As the flickering flames they meet. 
 
 Many a dim long-buried story 
 
 O'er me soon begins to rise, 
 But with dead and faded glory, 
 
 And in strange and mask'd disguise. 
 
 Lovely women with shrewd faces 
 
 Greet me with a secret smile, 
 Then the harlequins run races, 
 
 Laughing merrily the while. 
 
 Distant marble-gods nod kindly, 
 
 Dreamily beside them grow 
 Fable-flow'rs. whose leaves wave blindly 
 
 In the moonlight to and fro. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 203 
 
 Magic castles, once resplendent, 
 Ruin'd now, in sight appear ; 
 
 Knights in armor, squires attendant 
 Quickly follow in their rear. 
 
 All these visions I discover 
 
 As with shadowy haste they pass — 
 
 Ah, the kettle's boiling over, 
 And the kitten's burnt, alas ! 
 
 7. Longing. 
 
 Thou beholdest in thy vision 
 Fable's silent flow'rs before thee, 
 And a yearning wild steals o'er thee 
 
 At their fragrant scent elysian. 
 
 But thou from those flow'rs art parted 
 By a gulf both deep and fearful ; 
 Thou becomest sad and tearful, 
 
 And at last art broken-hearted. 
 
 How they glitter ! how they lure me ! 
 
 Could I but the gulf pass over 1 
 
 How the secret to discover, 
 And a bridge across procure me ? 
 
 8. Helena. 
 
 Thou hast call'd me forth from out of the grare 
 
 By means of thy magic will now, 
 And fill'd me full of love's fierce glow — 
 
 This glow thou never canst still now. 
 
 O press thy mouth against my mouth, 
 Man's breath with heaven is scented ; 
 
 Thy very soul I'll drain to the dregs, 
 The dead are never contented. 
 
204 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 9. The Wise Stars. 
 
 The flowerets sweet are crush'd by the feet 
 
 Full soon, and perish despairing- ; 
 One passes by, and they must die, 
 
 The modest as well as the daring. 
 
 The pearls all sleep in the caves of the deep, 
 Where one finds them, despite wind and 
 weather 
 
 A hole is soon bored and they're strung on a cord, 
 And there fast yoked together. 
 
 The stars are more wise, and keep in the skies, 
 
 And hold the earth at a distance ; 
 They shed their light in the heavens so bright, 
 
 In safe and endless existence. 
 
 10. Tin; Angels. 
 
 Faithless as Saint Thomas, never 
 Could I in the heaven believe 
 
 Which both Jew and Priest endeavor 
 To compel men to receive. 
 
 That the angels, though, are real 
 
 I have never held in doubt ; 
 Spotless, and of grace ideal, 
 
 On this earth they move about. 
 
 Still I doubt if such a being 
 
 Wing'd is, it must be confess'd ; 
 
 I have recently been seeing 
 Wingless angels, I protest. 
 
 With their dear and loving glances, 
 With their loving hands so white 
 
 Men they guard, and all advances 
 Of misfortune put to flight. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 205 
 
 Every one can comfort borrow 
 From their favor and regard ; 
 
 Most of all that child of sorrow 
 Whom the people call a bard. 
 
 XV. POEMS FOR THE TIMES. 
 1. Sound Doctrine. 
 
 Quick, beat the drum, and be not afraid, 
 
 The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss ; 
 This is the whole of knowledge, in truth, 
 
 The deepest book-learning lies in this. 
 
 Quick, drum the people out of their sleep, 
 
 And drum the reveille with the ardor of youth. 
 
 And as you march, continue to drum — 
 This is the whole of knowledge, in truth. 
 
 All Hegel's philosphy here is found, 
 The deepest book-learning lies in this ; 
 
 I've found it out, because I'm no fool, 
 And also because I drum not amiss. 
 
 2. Warning. 
 
 Worthy friend, 'twill be perdition 
 Books like this to think of printing ! 
 Wouldst thou money earn or honor, 
 
 Thou must bend in meek submission. 
 
 Never in this manner flighty 
 Shouldest thou before the public 
 Thus have spoken of the parsons 
 
 And of monarchs high and mighty ! 
 
206 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Friend, thou'lt be by all forsaken ! 
 Princes have long arms, the parsons 
 Have long tongues, and then the public 
 
 Have long ears, or I'm mistaken ! 
 
 3. To a Quondam Follower of Goethe, 
 (1S32.) 
 
 Hast thou, then, superior risen 
 To the chilly dream of glory 
 "Which great Weimar's poet hoary 
 
 Wove around thee, like a prison ? 
 
 Are thy old friends bores now voted ? — 
 Clara, Gretchen — names familiar — 
 Serlo's chaste maid, and Ottilia 
 
 In the " Wahlverwandschaft " noted? 
 
 Thou'rt with Germany enchanted, 
 Art become a Mignon-hater, 
 And thou seek'st for freedom greater 
 
 Than Philina ever granted. 
 
 Like a Luneburgomaster, 
 Thou dost battle for the nation, 
 Holding up to execration 
 
 Kings, as causing all disaster. 
 
 And I hear with pleasure hearty, 
 What a pitch thy praises grow to, 
 And how thou'rt a Mirabeau, too, 
 
 At each Luneburg tea-party ! 
 
 4. The Secret. 
 
 We sigh not, and the eye's not moisten'd, 
 We laugh at times, we often smile ; 
 
 In not a look, in not a gesture 
 
 The secret comes to light the while. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 207 
 
 Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden, 
 
 It lies in silent misery ; 
 If in our wild heart it finds language, 
 
 The mouth's still closed convulsively. 
 
 Ask of the suckling in the cradle, 
 Ask of the dead man in the grave ; 
 
 They may perchance disclose the secret 
 To which I never utt'rance gave. 
 
 5. On the Watchman's Arrival in Paris. 
 
 1 ' Good watchman with face so sad and de- 
 spairing, 
 Why runnest thou hither with headlong speed ? 
 My dear fellow-countrymen, how are they far- 
 ing? 
 My fatherland, is it from tyranny freed ?" 
 
 All's going on well, and liberty's blessing 
 Is showering silently on us its stores, 
 
 And Germany, calmly and safely progressing, 
 Unfolds and develops herself within doors. 
 
 Unlike France, superficial are none of her blos- 
 soms — 
 There freedom but touches the outside of life ; 
 'Tis but in the depths of their innermost bosoms 
 That freedom with Germans is found to be 
 rife. 
 
 They'll finish Cologne's great cathedral, they tell 
 us, 
 
 The Hohenzollerns* have brought this to pass ; 
 A Hapsburg* has shown himself equally zealous, 
 
 A Wittelsbach* gives it some fine painted glass. 
 
 * Names for the three royal houses of Prussia, Austria, 
 and Bavaria, 
 
2o8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 That true Magna Charta, a free constitution, 
 They've promised, and surely their promise 
 they'll keep ; 
 A king's word's a prize, without circumlocution — 
 Like the Nibelung stone in the Rhine it lies 
 deep. 
 
 The Brutus of rivers, the free Rhine, they surely 
 Can never remove him from out of his bed ; 
 
 The Dutchman his feet have fasten'd securely, 
 The Switzers securely are holding his head. 
 
 God will grant us a fleet, if we prove persever- 
 ing ; 
 
 Our patriotic exuberant strength 
 "Will find a vent in sailing and steering, 
 
 The pain of imprisonment ending at length. 
 
 The seeds cast their shells and the spring's 
 blooming sweetly, 
 We draw a free breath at this time of the 
 year ; 
 If permission to print is denied us completely, 
 The censorship will of itself disappear. 
 
 6. The Drum-Major.* 
 
 The old drum-major it is that we see ; 
 
 Poor fellow, he's pull'd down sadly ! 
 In the Emperor's time a youngster was he, 
 
 And merrily lived and gladly. 
 
 He used to balance his ponderous stick, 
 While a smile on his face play'd lightly ; 
 
 * See the account of the old Drum-Major Le Grand 
 contained in the prose section of Heine's "Pictures of 
 Travel," entitled " Book Le Grand." 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 209 
 
 The silver-lace on his tunic so thick 
 In the rays of the sun gleam'd brightly. 
 
 Whene'er with a mighty roll of the drum 
 
 He enter'd a village or city, 
 He caused an echo responsive to come 
 
 In the heart of each girl, plain or pretty. 
 
 He came and saw and conquer'd too 
 
 Each fair one welcomed him in ; 
 His black mustache was wetted through 
 
 With tears of German women. 
 
 Resistance was vain ! In every land 
 That the foreign invaders came to, 
 
 The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, and 
 The drum-major each maiden and dame toot 
 
 Our sorrows full long we patiently bore 
 Like oaks, with no one to heed 'em, 
 
 Until the Authorities gave us once more 
 The signal to battle for freedom. 
 
 Like buffaloes rushing on to the fray, 
 
 We toss'd our horns up proudly, 
 The yoke of France we cast away, 
 
 The songs of Korner sang loudly. 
 
 O terrible verses ! the tyrant's ear 
 
 At their awful sound revolted ; 
 The Emperor and the drum-major in fear 
 
 Precipitately bolted. 
 
 They both of them reap'd the wages of sin, 
 
 And came to an end inglorious ; 
 The Emperor Napoleon tumbled in 
 
 The hands of the Britons victorious. 
 
2IO THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In Saint Helena his time he now pass'd 
 In martyrdom, banish'd from France, Sir, 
 
 And, after long suff ring, died at last 
 Of that terrible ailment, cancer, 
 
 The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace, 
 
 And lost his situation ; 
 In our hotel he took the place 
 
 Of boots — what degradation ! 
 
 He warms the oven, he scours the pots, 
 
 And wood and water fetches ; 
 His gray head wags as he wheezingly trots 
 
 Up the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is. 
 
 When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himself 
 
 Inclined to jeer and rally 
 The comical lanky poor old elf 
 
 And his motions shilly-shally. 
 
 O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please ! 
 
 The sons of Germany never 
 Should fallen greatness love to tease, 
 
 Or to torment endeavor. 
 
 Such people you ought to regard with pride 
 
 And filial piety rather ; 
 Perchance upon the mother's side 
 
 The old man is your father ! 
 
 7. Degeneracy. 
 
 Has Nature's self been going backward, 
 And human faults assuming, then ? 
 
 The very plants and beasts, I fancy, 
 Now lie as much as mortal men. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS, ' 
 
 I trust not in the lily's chasteness ; 
 
 The color 'd fop, the butterfly, 
 Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters, 
 
 Till lost is all her purity. 
 
 The violet's modesty moreover 
 
 I hold full cheap. The little flower 
 
 With the coquettish breezes trifles, 
 In secret pants for fame and power. 
 
 I doubt if Philomel appreciates 
 
 The tune she sings with pompous mien ; 
 She overdoes it, sobs, and warbles 
 
 Methinks from naught but pure routine. 
 
 Truth from the earth is fast departing, 
 The days of Faith are also o'er ; 
 
 The dogs still wag their tails, smell badly 
 And yet are faithful now no more. 
 
 8. Henry. 
 
 In Canossa's castle courtyard 
 Stands the German Caesar Henry, 
 Barefoot, clad in penitential 
 Shirt — the night is cold and rainy. 
 
 From the window high above him 
 Peep two figures, and the moonlight 
 Gregory's bald head illumines 
 And the bosom of Mathilda. 
 
 Henry, with his lips all pallid, 
 Murmurs pious paternosters ; 
 Yet in his imperial heart he 
 Secretly revolts and speaks thus °- 
 
2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 " In my distant German country 
 Upward rise the sturdy mountains ; 
 In the mountain-pits in silence 
 Grows the iron for the war-axe. 
 
 " In my distant German country 
 Upward rise the fine oak-forests ; 
 In the loftiest oak-stem 'mongst them 
 Grows the handle for the war-axe. 
 
 " Thou, my dear and faithful country, 
 Wilt beget the hero also 
 Who in time will crush the serpent 
 Of my sorrows with his war-axe." 
 
 9. Life's Journey, 
 
 What laughter and singing ! The sun's rays 
 crossing 
 
 Each other gleam brightly ; the billows are toss- 
 ing 
 
 The joyous bark, and there I reclined 
 
 W r ith friends beloved and lightsome mind. 
 
 The bark was presently wreck'd and shatter'd, 
 My friends were poor swimmers, and soon were 
 
 scatter'd, 
 And all were drown'd, in our fatherland ; 
 / was thrown by the storm on the Seine's far 
 
 strand. 
 
 Another ship I now ascended, 
 
 My journey by new companions attended ; 
 
 By strange waves toss'ed and rock'd, I depart — 
 
 How far my home ! how heavy my he^rt ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 213 
 
 Once more arises that singing and laughter ! 
 The wind pipes loud, the planks crack soon 
 
 after — 
 In heaven is quench'd the last last star — 
 How heavy my heart ! My home how far ! 
 
 10. The New Jewish Hospital at Hamburg. 
 
 A hospital for Jews who're sick and needy, 
 For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow, 
 Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunes 
 Of poverty, disease, and Judaism. 
 
 The worst by far of all the three the last is, 
 That family misfortune, thousand years old, 
 That plague which had its birth in Nile's far 
 
 valley, 
 The old Egyptian and unsound religion. 
 
 Incurable deep pain ! 'gainst which avail not 
 Nor douche nor vapor-bath, the apparatus 
 Of surgery, nor all the means of healing 
 Which this house offers to its sickly inmates. 
 
 Will Time, eternal goddess, e'er extinguish 
 This glowing ill, descending from the father 
 Upon the son, — and will the grandson ever 
 Be cured, and rational become and happy ? 
 
 I cannot tell ! Yet in the mean time let us 
 Extol that heart which lovingly and wisely 
 Sought to alleviate pain as far as may be, 
 Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring. 
 
 Dear worthy man ! He here has built a refuge 
 For sorrows which by the physician's science 
 (Or else by death's !) are curable, providing 
 Cushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and 
 nurses. 
 
2T4 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 A man of deeds, he did his very utmost, 
 Devoted to good works his hard-earned savings 
 In his life's evening, kindly and humanely, 
 Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy. 
 
 He gave with open hand — but gifts still richer, 
 His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling, 
 Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploring 
 His brethren's great, incurable misfortune. 
 
 ii. George Herwegh.* 
 
 When Germany first drank her fill, 
 You then were her obedient vassal, 
 
 Believing in each pipe-bowl still, 
 And in its black-red-golden tassel. 
 
 But when the fond delirium ceased, 
 
 Good friend, how great your consternation ! 
 
 The public seem'd a very beast, 
 After its sweet intoxication ! 
 
 Telted by vile abusive swarms 
 
 With rotten apples, in disorder, 
 Under an escort of gendarmes 
 
 You reach 'd at length the German border. 
 
 There you stood still. A tear you wiped 
 Away, the well-known posts on spying 
 
 Which like the zebra's back are striped, 
 With heavy heart as follows sighing : — 
 
 * A well-known republican poet and writer, born at 
 Stuttgart ; at one time caressed, and afterwards ban- 
 ished, by the King of Prussia. He took an active part in 
 the political troubles of 1848. 
 
THE LOOK OF SONGS. 21 5 
 
 " Aranjuez, in lightsome mood 
 
 Once stay'd I in thy halls so splendid, 
 
 When I before King Philip stood, 
 By all his proud grandees attended. 
 
 " He gave me an approving smile 
 When I the Marquis Posa acted ; 
 
 My prose he could not relish, while 
 My verses his applause attracted." * 
 
 12. The Tendency. 
 
 German bard ! extol our glorious 
 
 German freedom, that thy lay 
 May possess our souls, and fire us, 
 And to mighty deeds inspire us, 
 Like the Marseillaise notorious. 
 
 Be no more, like Werther, tender, 
 
 Who for Lotte sigh'd all day ; 
 Thou shouldst tell the people proudly 
 What the bells proclaim so loudly, — 
 Speak of dirks, swords, no surrender. 
 
 Gentle flutes no more resemble, 
 
 Be not so idyllic, pray ! 
 Fire the mortars, beat to quarters, 
 Crash, kill, thunder, make them tremble. 
 
 Crash, kill, thunder like a devil 
 
 Till the last foe flies away ; 
 To this cause devote thy singing, 
 Thy poetic efforts bringing 
 To the common public's level. 
 
 * See Schiller's Play of "Don Carlos." 
 
21 6 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 13. The Child. 
 
 The good their gifts in dream enjoy, 
 
 How did it fare with thee ? 
 Scarce feeling it, you've got a boy, 
 
 Poor virgin Germany ! 
 
 This boy an urchin frolicsome 
 
 Ere long shall we behold 
 A first-rate archer he'll become, 
 
 As Cupid was of old. 
 
 He'll pierce the soaring eagle through J 
 And, proudly though be fly, 
 
 The double-headed eagle too, 
 Struck by his bolt, shall die. 
 
 But that blind heathen god of love 
 
 Will he resemble not 
 In wearing neither clothes nor glove, 
 
 Nor be a sans culotte. 
 
 The seasons in our land combine 
 
 With morals and police 
 To make both old and young incline 
 
 To wear their clothes in peace. 
 
 14. The Promise. 
 
 You no more shall barefoot crawl so 
 
 Through the dirt, poor German freedom ! 
 Stockings (as you find you need 'em) 
 
 You shall have, and stout boots also. 
 
 As respects your head, upon it 
 To protect your ears from freezin, 
 In the chilly winter-season, 
 
 You shall have a nice warm bonnet. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2 1 J 
 
 You shall have, too, savory messes — 
 Grand the future that's before you ! 
 Let no Satyr, I implore you, 
 
 Lure you onward to excesses ! 
 
 Do not haste or fast and faster ! 
 
 Render, as becomes inferiors, 
 
 Due respect to your superiors 
 And the worthy burgomaster. 
 
 15. The Changeling. 
 
 A child with monstrous pumpkin head, 
 Gray pigtail and mustache light red, 
 With lanky arms and yet stupendous, 
 No bowels, yet with maw tremendous, — 
 
 A changeling which a Corporal 
 
 Into our cradle had let fall 
 
 On stealing from it our own baby — 
 This monster, falsehood's child (or may be 
 
 'Twas in reality the son 
 
 Of his own favorite dog alone) — 
 
 What need to say how much we spurn it ? 
 For heaven's sake, drown it or else burn it ! 
 
 16. The Emperor of China.* 
 
 My father was a dreadful bore, 
 
 A good-for-nothing dandy ; 
 But I'm a mighty Emperor, 
 
 And love a bumper of brandy. 
 
 These glorious draughts all others surpass 
 
 In this, their magical power ; 
 As soon as I have drain' d my glass, 
 
 All China bursts into flower. 
 
 * Evidently a satire on the King of Prussia. 
 
2l8 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The Middle Kingdom bursts into life, 
 A blossoming meadow seeming ; 
 
 A man I well-nigh become, and my wife 
 Soon gives me signs of teeming. 
 
 On ever)' side abundance reigns, 
 The sick no longer need potions ; 
 
 Confucius, Court-philosopher, gains 
 Distinct and positive notions. 
 
 The rye bread the soldiers used to eat 
 Of almond cakes is made now ; 
 
 The very vagabonds in the street 
 In silk and satin parade now. 
 
 The knightly Order of Mandarins, 
 Those weak old invalids, daily 
 
 Are gaining strength and tilling their skins, 
 And shaking their pigtails gaily. 
 
 The great pagoda, faith's symbol prized, 
 Is ready for those who're believing ; 
 
 The last of the Jews are here baptized, 
 The Dragon's order receiving. 
 
 The noble Manchoos exclaim, when freed 
 From the presence of revolution : 
 
 " The bastinado is all that we need, 
 "We want no constitution ! " 
 
 The pupils of iEsculapius perhaps 
 May tell me that drink's dissipation ; 
 
 But I continue to drink my Schnapps, 
 To benefit the nation. 
 
 And so in drinking I persevere ; 
 
 It tastes like very manna ! 
 My people are happy, and drink their beer, 
 
 And join in shouting Hosanna ! 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2ig 
 
 17. Church-Counsellor Prometheus. 
 
 Good Sir Paulus,* noble robber, 
 
 All the gods are on thee gazing 
 With their brows in anger knitted, 
 
 Furious at the theft amazing 
 
 Thou hast practised in Olympus — 
 Sorry for it they will make thee ! 
 
 Fear the fate of poor Prometheus 
 If Jove's bailiffs overtake thee ! 
 
 Worse indeed his theft, because he 
 Stole the light in heaven dwelling 
 
 To enlighten us weak mortals — 
 
 Thou didst steal the works of Schelling, 
 
 Just the opposite of light — nay, 
 Darkness we can feel and handle 
 
 Like the old Egyptian darkness — 
 Not one solitary candle ! 
 
 18. To the Watchman. 
 
 (On a recent occasion.) 
 
 If heart and style remain still true, 
 I'll not object, whatever you do. 
 My friend, I never will mistake you, 
 E'en though a Counsellor they make you. 
 
 They now are raising a terrible din 
 Because you've been sworn as a Counsellor in ; 
 From the Seine to the Elbe, regardless of reason, 
 For months they've declaim'd thus against your 
 sad treason : 
 
 * A famous theological writer, who died in 1850, at the 
 age of ninety. He was formerly Counsellor of the Con- 
 sistory (KirchenratK) at Wiirzburg, and for many years 
 Professor of Church History, etc., at Heidelberg. 
 
2 20 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 His progress onward is changed of late 
 
 To progress backward ; O, answer us straight — 
 
 On Swabian crabs are you really riding ? 
 
 Is't only court-ladies you now take pride in ? 
 
 Perchance you are tired, and long for rest ; 
 
 All night on your horn you've been blowing 
 
 your best, 
 And now on a nail you quietly stow it ; 
 No longer for Germany's hobby you'll blow it. 
 
 You lie down in bed, and straightway close 
 Your eyes, but vainly you seek for repose ; 
 Before the window the mockers salute us ; 
 Awake, Liberator! What! sleeping, Brutus? 
 
 Ah, bawlers like these can never know why 
 The best of watchmen ceases to cry ; 
 These young braggadocios cannot discover 
 Why man his exertions at length gives over. 
 
 You ask me how matters are going on here ? 
 No breeze is stirring, the atmosphere's clear ; 
 The weathercocks all are perplex d, not discerning 
 The proper direction in which to be turning. 
 
 19. Consoling Thoughts. 
 
 We sleep as Brutus slept of yore — 
 And yet he awoke, and ventured to bore 
 In Ccesar's bosom his chilly dagger ! 
 The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger. 
 
 No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke, 
 Each nation its favorite taste can invoke ; 
 Each nation its special merit possesses — 
 The finest dumplings Swabia dresses. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 221 
 
 But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave, 
 We sleep as soundly as though in the grave ; 
 And when we awake, our thirst is excessive, 
 But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive. 
 
 'Tis our great pride to be as true 
 
 As heart of oak and linden too ; 
 
 The land which oaks and lindens gives birth to 
 
 Can never produce a Brutus of worth too. 
 
 And e'en if amongst us a Brutus were found, 
 No Caesar exists in the country round ; 
 Despite all his search, he would find him never — 
 We make good gingerbread, however. 
 
 We've six-and-thirty masters and lords, 
 (Not one too many !) who wear their swords 
 And stars on their regal breasts to protect them ; 
 The Ides of March can never affect them. 
 
 We call them Father, and Fatherland 
 We call the country they command 
 By right of descent, and love to call so — 
 We love sour-crout and sausages also. 
 
 And when our Father walks in the street 
 We take off our hats with reverence meet ; 
 Our guileless Germany, injuring no man, 
 Is not a den of murderers Roman. 
 
 20. The World Turned Upside Down. 
 
 The world is topsy-turvy turn'd, 
 
 We walk feet-upwards in it ; 
 The woodcocks shoot the sportsmen down, 
 
 A dozen in a minute. 
 
222 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The calves are seen to roast the cook, 
 
 On men are riding the horses ; 
 On freedom of teaching and laws of light 
 
 The Catholic owl discourses. 
 
 The herring is a sans-culotte, 
 
 The- truth is told by Bettina, 
 And puss-in-boots brings Sophocles 
 
 On the stage, with learned demeanor. 
 
 An ape for German heroes has built 
 A Pantheon, for glory zealous ; * 
 
 And Massmann has lately been using a comb 
 As German papers tell us. 
 
 The German bears, I grieve to say, 
 
 Are atheists unbelieving, 
 And in their place the parrots of France 
 
 The Christian faith are receiving. 
 
 The Moniteur of Uckermark 
 
 With equal frenzy seems smitten ; 
 
 The dead have on the living there 
 The vilest epitaph written. \ 
 
 Then let us not swim against the stream, 
 Good friends ! 'twould serve us but badly ; 
 
 But let us ascend the Templehof hill,:}: 
 
 " Long life to the king ! " shouting gladly. 
 
 * A polite allusion to the late King of Bavaria and his 
 Walhalla. 
 
 tThis refers to a poem of Freiligrath's, entitled " The 
 Dead to the Living,'' for which he was prosecuted, but 
 acquitted, in 1848. 
 
 X A hill close to Berlin. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 223 
 
 21. Wait Awhile ! 
 
 Because my lightnings are so striking, 
 You think that I can't thunder too ! 
 
 You're wrong, for I've -a special liking 
 For thunder, as I'll prove to you. 
 
 This will be seen with awful clearness 
 When the right moment is at hand ; 
 
 You'll hear my voice in startling nearness — 
 The word of thunder and command. 
 
 The raging storm will surely shiver 
 Full many an oak upon that day ; 
 
 Each palace to its base shall quiver, 
 And many a steeple proud give way. 
 
 22. Night Thoughts. 
 
 When, Germany, I think of thee 
 At night, all slumber flies from me ; 
 I cannot close mine eyes for yearning, 
 And down my cheeks run tears all burning. 
 
 How swiftly speeds each rolling year ! 
 Since I have seen my mother dear 
 Twelve years have pass'd away ; the longer 
 I wait, my yearning grows the stronger. 
 
 My yearning's growing evermore ; 
 That woman has bewitch'd me sore ! 
 Dear, dear old woman ! with what fervor 
 I think of her ! may God preserve her ! 
 
 The dear old thing in me delights, 
 And in the letters that she writes 
 I see how much her hand is shaking — 
 Her mother's heart, how nearly breaking ! 
 
224 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 My mother's ever in my mind ; 
 Twelve long long years are left behind, 
 Twelve years have follow'd on each other 
 Since to my heart I clasp'd my mother. 
 
 For ages Germany will stand ; 
 Sound to the core is that dear land ! 
 Its oaks and lindens I shall ever 
 Find just the same, they alter never. 
 
 For Germany I less should care 
 
 If my dear mother were not there ; 
 
 My fatherland will never perish 
 
 But she may die, whom most I cherish. 
 
 Since I my native land saw last, 
 
 Into the tomb have many pass'd 
 
 Whom I so loved. — When of them thinking 
 
 How sadly bleeds my spirit sinking ! 
 
 I needs must count them— as I count 
 
 My sorrows higher, higher mount ; 
 
 I feel as though each corpse were lying 
 
 Upon my breast- Thank God, they're flying ! 
 
 Thank God ! for through the window-pane 
 France's clear daylight breaks again ; 
 My fair wife enters, sweetly smiling, 
 And all my German cares beguiling ! 
 
 NEW SPRING. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Sometimes when o'er pictures turning, 
 You have seen the man perchance, 
 
 Who is for the battle yearning, 
 
 Well equipp'd with shield and lance. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 225 
 
 Yet young loves are hov'ring round him, 
 Stealing lance and sword away ; 
 
 They with flow'ry chains have bound him 
 Though he struggle in dismay. 
 
 I, too, in such charming fetters, 
 
 Bind myself with sad delight, 
 And I leave it to my betters 
 
 In time's mighty fight to fight. 
 
 'Neath the white tree sitting sadly, 
 Thou dost hear the far winds wailing, 
 
 See'st how the mute clouds o'er thee 
 Are their forms in mist fast veiling ; 
 
 See'st how all beneath seems perish' d, 
 Wood and plain, how shorn and dreary ; 
 
 Round thee winter, in thee winter, 
 Frozen is thy heart and weary. 
 
 Sudden downward fall upon thee 
 Flakes all white, and with vexation 
 
 Thou dost think the tree is show'ring 
 Snow-dust from that elevation. 
 
 Soon with joyful start thou findest 
 'Tis no snow-dust cold and freezing ; 
 
 Fragrant blossoms 'tis of spring-time 
 Cov'ring thee and fondly teasing. 
 
 What a shudd'ring-sweet enchantment ! 
 
 Into May is winter turning, 
 Snow hath changed itself to blossoms, 
 
 And thy heart with love is yearning. 
 
226 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 In the wood, the verdure's shooting, 
 Joy-oppress'd, like some fair maiden ; 
 
 Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward : 
 ' ' Welcome, young spring, rapture laden ! 
 
 Nightingale ! I hear thee also, 
 Piping, blissful-sad and lonely, 
 
 Sobbing tones and long-protracted, 
 And thy song of love is only ! 
 
 The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night 
 With comfort are downward gazing : 
 
 If love hath made thee so small in our sight, 
 Yet love hath the power of raising. 
 
 Sweet Philomel sits on the linden green, 
 Her notes melodiously blending ; 
 
 And as to my soul her song pierceth e'en, 
 My soul once more is distending. 
 
 4- 
 
 Which flower I love, I cannot discover ; 
 
 This grief doth impart. 
 In every calyx I search like a lover, 
 
 And seek a heart. 
 
 The flowers smell sweet in the sun's setting 
 splendor, 
 
 The nightingale sings. 
 I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender, 
 And like it springs. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 227 
 
 The nightingale sings ; his sweet song, void of 
 gladness, 
 
 Comes home to my breast ; 
 We're both so oppress'd and heavy with sadness, 
 
 So sad and oppress'd. 
 
 Sweet May hath come to love us, 
 Flowers, trees, their blossoms don ; 
 
 And through the blue heavens above us 
 The rosy clouds move on. 
 
 The nightingales are singing 
 
 On leafy perch aloft ; 
 The snowy lambs are springing 
 
 In clover green and soft. 
 
 I cannot be singing and springing, 
 
 111 in the grass I lie ; 
 I hear a distant ringing, 
 
 And dream of days gone by. 
 
 6. 
 
 Softly through my spirit ring 
 
 Blissful tones loved dearly ; 
 Sound, thou little song of spring, 
 
 Echoing far and clearly. 
 
 Sound, till thou the home com'st nigh 
 
 Of the violet tender ; 
 And when thou a rose dost spy, 
 
 Say, my love I send her. 
 
 With the rose the butterfly's deep in love, 
 A thousand times hovering round ; 
 
228 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 But round himself, all tender like gold, 
 The sun's sweet ray is hovering found. 
 
 With whom is the rose herself in love ? 
 
 An answer I'd fain receive. 
 Is it the singing nightingale ? 
 
 Is it the silent star of eve ? 
 
 I know not with whom the rose is in love, 
 
 But every one love I : 
 The rose, the nightingale, sun's sweet ray, 
 
 The star of eve and butterfly. 
 
 8. 
 
 All the trees with joy are shouting, 
 All the birds are singing o'er us — 
 
 Tell me, who can be the leader 
 In this green and forest chorus? 
 
 Can it be the gray old plover, 
 Wise nods evermore renewing ? 
 
 Or yon pedant, who is ever 
 
 In such measured time coo-coo-ing? 
 
 Can it be yon stork, the grave one, 
 
 His director's airs betraying, 
 And his long leg rattling loudly, 
 
 Whilst the music's round him playing ? 
 
 No, the forest concert's leader 
 In my own heart hath his station, 
 
 All the while he's beating time there, — 
 Amor is his appellation, 
 
 9- 
 " The nightingale appear'd the first, 
 And as her melody she sang, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 229 
 
 The apple into blossom burst, 
 
 To life the grass and violets sprang. 
 
 " She her own bosom then did bite, 
 Her red blood flow'd, and from the blood 
 
 A beauteous rose-tree came to light, 
 To whom she sings in loving mood. 
 
 1 ' That blood atones for, to this day, 
 
 Us birds within the forest here ; 
 Yet when the rose-song dies away, 
 
 Will all the wood too disappear. " 
 
 Thus to his youthful brood doth speak 
 
 The sparrow in his oaken nest ; 
 His mate pips, while she trims her beak, 
 
 And proudly sits and looks her best. 
 
 She is a homely wife and kind, 
 
 Broods well, and ne'er is seen to pout ; 
 
 The father makes his children find 
 Pastime in studying things devout. 
 
 The warm and balmy spring-night's air 
 
 Hath waken'd every flower, 
 And take I not the greatest care, 
 
 My heart must succumb to love's power. 
 
 But which of all the flowery throng 
 
 Is likely most to snare me ? 
 The nightingales say, in their blissful song, 
 
 Of the lily I ought to beware me. 
 
 I'm sore perplex'd, the bells are ringing, 
 And by my senses I feel forsaken ; 
 
230 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 The spring and two fair eyes together 
 Against my heart an oath have taken. 
 
 The spring and two fair eyes together 
 Lure on my heart to a new illusion ; 
 
 Methinks the nightingales and roses 
 Have much to do with all my confusion. 
 
 Ah ! I yearn for tears all-burning, 
 Tears of love and gentle woe, 
 
 And I tremble lest this yearning 
 At the last should overflow. 
 
 Ah ! love's pangs, that sweetly languish, 
 And love's bitter joy, so blest, 
 
 Creep again, with heavenly anguish, 
 Into my scarce healed breast. 
 
 13- 
 
 The eyes of spring, so azure, 
 Are peeping from the ground ; 
 
 They are the darling violets, 
 That I in nosegays bound. 
 
 I pluck them, thinking deeply, 
 And all the thoughts so dear, 
 
 That in my heart are sighing, 
 The nightingale sings clear. 
 
 Yes, all my thoughts she singeth 
 And warbleth, echoing far ; 
 
 So that my tender secrets 
 
 Known to the whole wood are. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 23 1 
 
 14. 
 
 When thy dress doth gently touch me, 
 As thou pass' st before my face, 
 
 How my heart exults, how wildly 
 Follows it thy lovely trace ! 
 
 Then thou turnest round and gazest 
 With thy large bright eyes on me, 
 
 And my heart doth feel so startled, 
 That it scarce can follow thee. 
 
 15. 
 The slender water-lily 
 
 Peeps dreamingly out of the lake ; 
 The moon, oppress'd with love's sorrow, 
 
 Looks tenderly down for her sake. 
 
 With blushes she bends to the water 
 Once more her head so sweet — 
 
 Then sees she the poor pale fellow 
 Lying before her feet. 
 
 16. 
 If thou hast good eyes, and look'st 
 
 In my songs, when thou hast tried them, 
 Thou wilt see a fair young maiden 
 
 Wandering up and down inside them. 
 
 If thou hast good ears as well, 
 
 Thou canst hear her voice quite clearly, 
 And her sighing, laughing, singing 
 
 Thy poor heart will madden nearly. 
 
 For she will, with look and word, 
 
 Thee, like me, make well-nigh crazy : 
 
 An enamor'd springtime-dreamer 
 Thou wilt tread the forest mazy. 
 
232 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 17- 
 What drives thee on, in the spring's clear night? 
 Thou hast driven the flowers all mad with fright, 
 
 The violets tremble and shiver ; 
 The roses are all with shame so red, 
 The Hies are death-pale, and hang their head, 
 
 They mourn, and falter, and quiver. 
 
 O darling moon, what an innocent race 
 Those sweet flowers are ! They are right in this 
 case, 
 
 I really have acted badly ; 
 Yet how could I tell that in wait she would lie, 
 When I was addressing the stars on high, 
 
 With fierce love raving so madly ? 
 
 18. 
 
 Thou sweetly lookest on me 
 With eyes so blue and meek ; 
 
 My senses feel all-dreamy, 
 And not a word can I speak. 
 
 I everywhere am thinking 
 
 Of thy blue eyes' sweet smile ; 
 
 A sea of blue thoughts is spreading 
 Over my heart the while. 
 
 19. 
 
 Once again my heart is vanquish'd, 
 
 And my rancor is subsiding ; 
 Once again hath May breath'd on me 
 
 Feelings tender and confiding. 
 
 Once more late and early haste I 
 
 Through the walks the most frequented, 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 233 
 
 Under every bonnet seek I 
 For my fair one's face lamented. 
 
 Once more at the verdant river 
 On the bridge I take my station ; 
 
 Peradventure she will come there, 
 And will see my desolation. 
 
 In the waterfall's loud music 
 Hear I once again soft sighing, 
 
 And my gentle heart well knoweth 
 What the white waves are replying. 
 
 Once again in mazy pathways 
 
 I am lost in dreamy vision, 
 And the birds in every thicket 
 
 Hold the fond fool in derision. 
 
 The rose is fragrant — yet if she divineth 
 Her own sweet fragrance, if the nightingale 
 
 Herself feels what round man's soul softly 
 twineth, 
 When echoes her sweet song across the vale — 
 
 I cannot tell. Yet man is with vexation 
 Oft fill'd by truth. If nightingale and rose 
 
 The feeling only feign'd, the fabrication 
 Would still be useful, we may well suppose. 
 
 Because I love thee, be not scornful, 
 If, flying, I avoid thy face ; 
 
 How ill accords my visage mournful 
 With thine, so fair and full of grace ! 
 
2 34 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Because I love thee, every feature 
 Grows pale and thinner day by day ; 
 
 Thou 'It find me but a hideous creature — 
 I'll shun thee — be not scornful, pray. 
 
 I wander 'mid the flowers, 
 And blossom with them too ; 
 
 I wander as in vision, 
 
 And at each step totter anew. 
 
 O hold me fast, my loved one, 
 
 Or at thy feet I'll fall, 
 With love intoxicated, 
 
 In the garden, in presence of all ! 
 
 23- 
 As the moon's fair image quaketh 
 
 In the raging waves of ocean, 
 Whilst she, in the vault of heaven, 
 
 Moves with silent peaceful motion. 
 
 Thus, beloved one, thou art moving, 
 Still and peaceful, and nought quaketh 
 
 In my heart save thy dear image, 
 
 While my own heart 'tis that shaketh. 
 
 24. 
 
 The hearts of us two, my loved one, 
 A Holy Alliance have made ; 
 
 They well understood each other, 
 When close together laid. 
 
 Alas ! the rose so youthful 
 That decks thy gentle breast. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 235 
 
 Our poor ally and associate, 
 To death was well-nigh press'd. 
 
 25- 
 
 Tell me who first taught clocks to chime, 
 
 Made minutes, hours, divisions of time ? 
 
 It was a cold and sorrowful elf ; 
 
 He satin the winter-night, wrapp'd in himself, 
 
 And counted the mouse's squeakings mysterious, 
 
 And the wood-worm's regular tick so serious. 
 
 Tell me who first did kisses suggest ? 
 It was a mouth all glowing and blest ; 
 It kiss'd and it thought of nothing beside. 
 The fair month of May was then in its pride, 
 The flowers were all from the earth fast spring- 
 ing, 
 The sun was laughing, the birds were singing. 
 
 26. 
 
 How the pinks are breathing fragrance ! 
 
 How the thronging stars so tender, 
 Golden bee like, sadly glimmer 
 
 'Mid the heaven's blue-violet splendor ! 
 
 Through the gloom of yonder chestnuts 
 Gleams the manse, so white and stately, 
 
 And I hear the glass door rattling 
 
 While the dear voice thrills me greatly. 
 
 Sweet alarm and blissful tremor, 
 Soft embraces, terror-bringing — 
 
 And the youthful rose is list'ning, 
 And the nightingales are singing. 
 
236 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 27. 
 
 Have I not the self-same vision 
 Dreamt before of all these blisses ? 
 
 Were there not these same elysian 
 
 Looks of love, and flowers, and kissesl 
 
 By the stream the moon was peeping 
 Through the foliage of our bower ; 
 
 Marble gods still watch were keeping 
 At the entrance in that hour. 
 
 Ah ! I know how soon is over 
 Every sweet and blissful vision, 
 
 How the snow's cold dress doth cover 
 Heart and tree in sad derision. 
 
 How e'en we are fast congealing, 
 Careless, and no love possessing, 
 
 We, who're now so softly feeling, 
 Heart to heart so softly pressing ! 
 
 28. 
 
 Kisses that one steals in darkness, 
 And in darkness then returns — 
 
 How such kisses fire the spirit, 
 If with honest love it burns ! 
 
 Pensive, and with fond remembrance, 
 Then the spirit loves to dwell 
 
 Much on days that long have vanish'd, 
 Much on future days as well. 
 
 Yet methinks that too much thinking 
 Dang'rous is, if kiss we will ; — 
 
 Weep, then, rather, darling spirit, 
 For to weep is easier still. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2 $7 
 
 2 9 . 
 
 There was an aged monarch, 
 
 His heart was sad, his head was gray ; 
 
 This poor and aged monarch 
 A young wife married one day. 
 
 There was a handsome page, too, 
 Fair was his hair, and light his mien J 
 
 The silken train he carried 
 Of the aforesaid young Queen. 
 
 Dost know the ancient ballad ? 
 
 It sounds so sweet, it sounds so sad ! 
 They both of them must perish, 
 
 For too much affection they had, 
 
 30- 
 In my remembrance blossom 
 
 The images long forsaken — 
 Within thy voice what is there 
 
 By which so deeply I'm shaken? 
 
 Say not that thou dost love me ! 
 
 I know that earth's fairest treasure, 
 Sweet love and happy spring-time, 
 
 'Twould shame beyond all measure. 
 
 Say not that thou dost love me ! 
 
 A silent kiss I'll bestow thee ; 
 Then smile, when I to-morrow 
 
 The withered roses show thee. 
 
 31. 
 
 ' Linden blossoms drunk with moonlight 
 Fly about in fragrant showers, 
 
238 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 And the nightingale's sweet music 
 Fills the air and leafy bowers. 
 
 " Ah ! how sweet it is, my loved one, 
 'Neath these lindens to be sitting, 
 
 When the glimm'ring golden moonbeams 
 Through the fragrant leaves are flitting. 
 
 "If thou lookest on the lime-leaf, 
 Thou a heart's form wilt discover ; 
 
 Therefore are the' lindens ever 
 Chosen seats of each fond lover. 
 
 " Yet thou smilest, as though buried 
 In far distant visions yearning — 
 
 Speak, beloved, all the wishes 
 
 That in thy dear heart are burning. " 
 
 Ah, my darling ! I will tell thee 
 
 Whence my thoughts proceed, and whither; 
 Fain I'd see the chilly north -wind 
 
 Sudden bring white snowstorms hither, 
 
 So that we, with furs well cover'd, 
 
 And in gaudy sledges riding, 
 Cracking whips, with bells loud ringing, 
 
 Might o'er stream and plain be gliding. 
 
 32- 
 
 Through the forest, in the moonlight, 
 I the elves saw riding proudly ; 
 
 And I heard their trumpets sounding, 
 And I hear their bells ring loudly. 
 
 Their white horses had upon them 
 Golden staghorns, whilst proceeding 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 2 39 
 
 Swiftly on — like flights of wild swans 
 Through the air the train was speeding. 
 
 Smilingly the queen bent tow'rds me, 
 Smiling, as the band rode by me ; 
 
 Is't a sign that new love's coming, 
 Or a sign that death is nigh me ? 
 
 33- 
 In the morning send I violets, 
 
 Early in the wood discover'd, 
 And at evening bring I roses 
 
 Pluck'd while twilight's hour still hover'd. 
 
 Knowest thou the hidden language 
 By these lovely flowerets spoken ? 
 
 Truth by day-time, love at night-time — 
 'Tis of this that they're the token ! 
 
 34- 
 Thy letter, sent to prove me, 
 
 Inflicts no sense of wrong ; 
 No longer wilt thou love me — 
 
 Thy letter, though, is long. 
 
 Twelve sides, to tell thy views all ! 
 
 A manuscript, in fact ! 
 In giving a refusal 
 
 Far otherwise we act. 
 
 35- 
 Care not, if my love I'm telling 
 
 Unto all the world around, 
 When my mouth, thy beauty praising, 
 
 Full of metaphor is found. 
 
24° THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Underneath a wood of flowers 
 
 Lies, in shelter safe below, 
 All that deep and glowing secret, 
 
 All that deep and secret glow. 
 
 If suspicious sparks should issue 
 From the roses — fearless be ! 
 
 This dull world in flames believes not, 
 But believes them poetry. 
 
 36. 
 
 Day and night alike the spring-time 
 Makes with sounding life all-teeming ; 
 
 Like a verdant echo can it 
 Enter even in my dreaming. 
 
 Then the birds sing yet more sweetly 
 Than before, and softer breezes 
 
 Fill the air, the violet's fragrance 
 With still wilder yearning pleases. 
 
 E'en the roses blossom redder, 
 And a child-like golden glory 
 
 Bear they, like the heads of angels 
 In the pictures of old story. 
 
 And myself I almost fancy 
 
 Some sweet nightingale, when singing 
 Of my love to those fair roses, 
 
 Wondrous songs my vision bringing — 
 
 Till I'm waken'd by the sunlight, 
 
 Or by that delicious bustle 
 Of the nightingales of spring-time 
 
 That before my window rustle. 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 24 1 
 
 37. 
 Stars with golden feet are wand 'ring 
 
 Yonder, and they gently weep 
 That they cannot earth awaken, 
 
 Who in night's arms is asleep. 
 
 List'ning stand the silent forests, 
 Every leaf an ear doth seem ! 
 
 How its shadowy arm the mountain 
 Stretcheth out, as though in dream. 
 
 What call'd yonder ? In my bosom 
 Rings the echo of the tone. 
 
 Was it my beloved one speaking, 
 Or the nightingale alone ? 
 
 38. 
 
 The spring is solemn, mournful only 
 Are all its dreams, each flower appears 
 
 Weigh'd down by grief, the song all-lonely 
 Of Philomel wakes secret tears. 
 
 O smile thou not, my darling beauty, 
 O smile not, full of charming grace ! 
 
 But weep, that it may be my duty 
 To kiss a tear from off thy face. 
 
 39- 
 Once more from that fond heart I'm driven 
 
 Which I so dearly love, so madly ; 
 Once more from that fond heart I'm driven— 
 
 Beside it would I linger gladly. 
 
 The chariot rolls, the bridge is quaking, 
 The stream beneath it flows so sadly ; 
 
2\2 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Once more the joys am I forsaking 
 Of that fond heart I love so madly. 
 
 In heav'n rush on the starry legions, 
 As though before my sorrow flying — ■ 
 
 Sweet one, farewell ! in distant regions 
 My heart for thee will still be sighing 1 . 
 
 40. 
 
 My cherish'd wishes blossom, 
 And wither again at a breath, 
 
 And blossom again and wither, 
 And so on until death. 
 
 This know I, and it saddens 
 All love and joy, once so blest ; 
 
 My heart is so wise and witty, 
 And bleeds away in my breast. 
 
 41. 
 
 Like an old man's face confounded 
 
 Is the sky so broad and airy, 
 Red, one-eyed, and close surrounded 
 
 By the gray clouds' locks all hairy. 
 
 When upon the earth it gazes, 
 
 Flower and bud grow pale and sickly ; 
 
 Love and song in all their phases 
 
 Fade away from men's minds quickly. 
 
 42. 
 
 With sullen thoughts in chilly bosom cherish'd 
 I travel sullen through the world so cold ; 
 
THE BOOK OF SONGS. 243 
 
 The autumn's end hath come, a humid mist 
 doth hold 
 Deep veil'd from sight the country drear and 
 perish 'd. 
 
 The winds are piping, hither, thither bending 
 The red-tinged leaves, that from the trees fall 
 
 fast, 
 The bare plain steams, the wood sighs 'neath 
 the blast, 
 The worst of all comes next — the rain's descend- 
 ing ! 
 
 43- 
 
 Late autumnal mists all-dripping 
 Spread o'er hill and valley fair ; 
 
 Storms the trees of leaves are stripping, 
 And they ghostly look, and bare. 
 
 But one single sad tree only 
 
 Silent and unstripp'd is seen ; 
 Moist with tears of woe, and lonely, 
 
 Shaketh he his head still green. 
 
 Ah ! this waste my heart displayeth, 
 
 And the tree, still full of life, 
 Summer-green, thy form portray eth, 
 
 Much beloved and beauteous wife X 
 
 44- 
 
 Gray's the sky and every-day like, 
 And the town still looks afflicted ; 
 
 Ever weak and castaway like, 
 In the Elbe its form's depicted. 
 
244 THE BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 Long each nose is, and its blowing 
 Tedious an affair as ever ; 
 
 All with pride are overflowing, 
 Both at pomp and cringing clever. 
 
 Beauteous South ! O, how adore I 
 All thy gods, thy sky's sweet blisses 
 
 Since these human dregs once more I 
 See, and weather foul as this is ! 
 
Uniform in style and price, in Frederick A. 
 Stokes & Brother's series of daintily bound 
 Poetical Works, are : 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE'S POEMS. 
 
 THOMAS GRAY'S POEMS. 
 
 W. M. THACKERAY'S POEMS. 
 
 GOETHE'S FAUST. 
 
 HEINE'S BOOK OF SONGS. 
 
 LONDON RHYMES, by Frederick Locker. 
 
 LONDON LYRICS, by Frederick Locker. 
 
 THE GOLDEN TREASURY, by F. T, Palgrave. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS'S POEMS. 
 
 LUCILE, by Owen Meredith. 
 
 TENNYSON'S LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 SONGS FROM BERANGER. 
 
 SONGS OF TOIL, by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Rumania 
 
 Each one volume, i6mo, on fine laid paper, wide mar- 
 gins. (Others in preparation.) 
 
 Illuminated parchment-paper, - - - $1.00 
 
 New half cloth, ------ i.oo 
 
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 Limp calf, in box, ----- 3,00 
 
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