The Ex-Watchman
From the Neckar he departed,
With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d,
And as play-director started
In fair Munich’s city next.
All that country’s very pretty,
And they in perfection here,
In this fancy-stirring city,
Brew the very best of beer.
But ’tis said the poor Director
Rambles, like a Dante, glum,
Melancholy as a spectre,
Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb.
Comedies no longer heeds he,
Nor the very worst of rhyme;
Wretched tragedies oft reads he,
Not once smiling all the time.
Oft herself some fair one flatters
She will cheer his sorrowing heart;
But his coat of mail soon shatters
Every love-directed dart.
All in vain his friends endeavour
To enliven him and sing:
“In thy life rejoice thee ever,
“While thy lamp’s still glimmering!”
Is there nought can raise thy spirits
In this fair and charming town,
Which, among its many merits,
Boasts such men of great renown?
It is true, that it has lately
Lost full many a man of worth
Whom we miss and valued greatly,
Chorus-leaders and so forth.
Would that Massmann left us never!
He would surely have some day
By his antics strange but clever
Driven all thy cares away.
Schelling’s79 loss is very serious,
And can never be replaced,
A philosopher mysterious,
And a mimic highly graced.
That the founder of Walhalla
Went away, and left behind
All his manuscripts,—by Allah!
That was really too unkind!
With Cornelius80 also perish’d
All his pupils whatsoe’er;
They shaved off their tresses cherish’d,
And their strength was in their hair
For their prudent Master planted
In their hair some magic springs,
And it seem’d, as if enchanted,
To be full of living things.
Apropos! The arch-notorious
Priest, as Dollingerius known,—
That’s, I think, his name inglorious,—
Has he from the Isar flown?
In Good Friday’s sad procession
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.
On Monácho Monachorum
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.81
At his name thy dull eye flashes;
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,—
Strike away as formerly!
Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.
Old Erasmus could not master
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.
Old and young laugh,—all the city
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”
When those dirty monks we’re catching,
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.
“Alea jacta est!” however
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.
Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.
Call thy long legs transcendental
Into full and active play;
Vulgar be the monks or gentle,
If they’re monks, then strike away!
He however sigh’d, and wringing
Both his hands he thus replied:
My long legs, so apt at springing,
Are with Europe stupified.
And my corns are twitching sadly,
Tight the German shoes I’ve on;
Where the shoe is pinching badly
Know I now,—so pray begone!