Early Poems
Songs of Love
1. Love’s Salutation
Darling maiden, who can be
Ever found to equal thee?
To thy service joyfully
Shall my life be pledged by me.
Thy sweet eyes gleam tenderly,
Like soft moonbeams o’er the sea;
Lights of rosy harmony
O’er thy red cheeks wander free.
From thy small mouth, full of glee,
Rows of pearls peep charmingly;
But thy bosom’s drapery
Veils thy fairest jewelry.
Pure love only could it be
That so sweetly thrill’d through me,
When I whilome gazed on thee,
Darling maid, so fair to see.
2. Love’s Lament
On night’s secrecy relying,
Silently I breathe my woes;
From the haunts of mortals flying,
Where the cup of pleasure flows.
Down my cheeks run tears all burning,
Silently, unceasingly;
But my bosom’s fiery yearning
Quench’ed by tears can never be.
When a laughing urchin, gaily
Many a merry game I play’d;
In life’s sunshine basking daily,
Knowing nought of grief or shade.
For a garden of enjoyment
Was the world I then lived in,
Tending flowers my sole employment,
Roses, violets, jessamine.
By the brook’s side, on the meadow,
Sweetly mused I in those days;
Now I see a pale thin shadow,
When upon the brook I gaze.
Pale and thin my grief hath made me,
Since mine eyes upon her fell;
Secret sorrows now pervade me,
Wonderful and hard to tell.
Deep within my heart I cherish’d
Angel forms of peace and love,
Which have fled, their short joys perish’d,
To their starry home above.
Ghastly shadows rise unbidden,
Black night round mine eyes is thrown;
In my trembling breast is hidden
A sad whisp’ring voice unknown.
Unknown sorrows, unknown anguish
Toss me wildly to and fro,
And I pine away and languish,
Tortured by an unknown glow.
But the cause why I am lying
Rack’d by fiery torments now,—
Why from very grief I’m dying,—
Love, behold!—The cause art thou!
3. Yearning
With sweetheart on arm, all my comrades with joy
Beneath the linden trees move;
But I, alas, poor desolate boy,
In utter solitude rove
Mine eye grows dim, my heart is oppress’d,
When happy lovers I see;
For a sweetheart by me is also possess’d,
But, alas, far distant is she.
I have borne it for years, with a heart fit to break,
But no longer can bear with the pain;
So pack up my bundle, my pilgrim’s staff take,
And start on my travels again.
And onward I go for hundreds of miles,
Till I come to a city renown’d;
A noble river beneath it smiles,
With three stately towers ’tis crown’d.
And now my late sorrows no longer annoy,
Made happy at last is my love;
For there, with my sweetheart on arm, I with joy
Can beneath the sweet linden trees rove.
4. The White Flower
In father’s garden there silently grows
A flow’ret mournful and pale;
The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes,
Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale.
The poor pale flower looks still
Like a young bride that’s ill.
Pale flow’ret gently saith to me—
“Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!”
I answer pale flow’ret—“That must not be,
I never will take thee away.
I seek with anxious care
A purple flow’ret fair.”
Pale flow’ret saith—“Seek here, seek there,
Seek e’en till the day of thy death,
But still that purple flow’ret fair
Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith.
“But, prythee, pluck me now,
I am as ill as thou.”
Thus whispers pale flow’ret, beseeching me sore;
I tremblingly pluck her, and lo!
I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more,
Mine inward eye brightly doth glow.
Mute angel-rapture blest
Now fills my wounded breast.
5. Presentiment
Yonder, where the stars glow nightly,
We shall find those joys smile brightly
Which on earth seem far away.
Only in Death’s cold embraces
Life grows warm, and light replaces
Night’s dark gloom at dawn of day.
6
When I am with my sweetheart kind,
A happy youth am I;
So great the wealth within my mind,
I the whole world could buy.
But when her swanlike arms I quit,
In that sad hour of pain,
Away my boasted wealth doth flit,
And I am poor again.
7
I would the songs I’m singing
Had little flow’rets been;
I’d send them to my sweetheart
For her to smell, I ween.
I would the songs I’m singing
Were kisses all unseen;
I’d send them all in secret
Upon her cheeks to glean.
I would the songs I’m singing
Were little peas so green;
I’d make some capital pea-soup
All in a soup-tureen!
8
Of peace, and happiness, and heart,
Thou, loved one, long time hast bereft me;
And of the gifts that thou hast left me
Not one of these doth form a part.
For peace, heart, happiness, hast thou
To me a life-long sorrow given,
With bitter words commingled even,—
O take these back, my loved one, now.
9
Remember’st thou those fiery glances
In which his trust the novice plac’d?
That long-denied first kiss of passion
The ardent lover stole in haste?
O glances, ye experienced fish-hooks,
On which the fish is captive brought!
O kiss, thou charming rod of honey,
With which the bird is limed and caught!
10
Thou spak’st and gav’st a lock to me
Of thy dear silken hair;
“Wear this, and I for ever thee
“Within my heart will wear.”
Full oft have heart and hair been call’d
To act this loving part.
Now say: is not thy head yet bald?
And full thy little heart?
11
You, loved one, assured me so strongly,
I wellnigh fancied it true;
That you asserted it was so,
Was no sign of folly in you.
But that I almost believed it,
’Tis this that I so rue.
12
I’ve seen full many a tragedy play’d,
Extracting my tears like magic;
But ’mongst them all, that touching scene
Had an end by far the most tragic,
Wherein thou tookedst the principal part,
While I at thy feet was panting,—
How well thou actedst the innocent one,
Thou actress most enchanting!
13
Ask not what I have, my loved one,—
Ask me rather what I am;
For but little wealth I boast of,
But I’m gentle as a lamb.
Do not ask me how I’m living,
But for what, that ask of me;
For I live in want, and lonely,
Yet I live alone for thee.
Do not ask me of my pleasures,
Ask not of my bitter smart;
Pleasure ever flies his presence
Who doth own a broken heart.
Miscellaneous Poems
Germany. 1815
Let me sing Germania’s glory!
Hearken to my noblest strains!
While my spirit tells the story,
Thrilling bliss runs through my veins.
Time’s book is before me lying,
All things that have happened here,
Good with Evil ever vying—
All before my gaze stands clear.
From the Frenchman’s distant nation
Hell approach’d, with impious hand,
Bringing shame and desecration
On our much-loved German land.
All our faith and virtue soiling,
All our heavenly yearnings fled,
All we deemed of worth, despoiling,—
Giving sin and pain instead.
German shame to gild refusing,
Dark the German sun soon grew,
And a mournful voice accusing
Pierced the German oak trees through.
Now the sun once more is glancing,
And the oak trees roar with joy;
The avengers are advancing,
Shame and sorrow to destroy.
And deceit’s proud altars hateful
Totter, fall with hideous sound;
Every German heart is grateful,
Free is German holy ground.
See’st the glare yon mount illuming?
Say, what can that wild flame be?
Yes! that fire proclaims the blooming
Image pure of Germany.
From the night of sin emerging
Germany uninjured stands;
Wildly is the spot still surging,
Where that fair form burst her bands.
On the old oak’s stems in splendour
Glorious blossoms fast unfold;
Foreign blossoms fall, and tender
Breezes greet us as of old.
All that’s virtuous is returning,
All that’s good appears once more
And the German, fondly yearning,
Is exulting as of yore.
Ancient manners, ancient German
Virtues, and heroic deeds!
Valiantly each son of Hermann3
Waves his sword and proudly bleeds.
Heroes never doves engender,
Lionlike is Hermann’s race;
Yet may love’s religion tender
Well near valour take its place.
Germans through their sorrows lonely
Learnt Christ’s gentle word to prize;
Their land ’genders brethren only,
And humanity is wise.
Once again returns the glorious
Noble love of minstrel’s song,
Well becoming the victorious
Breasts of German heroes strong,
As they to the war are going
With the Frank to cross the sword,
To take signal vengeance glowing
For their perfidy abhorr’d.
And at home, no labour heeding,
Woman plies her gentle hand,
Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding
In defence of fatherland.
In her black dress robed, entrancing
Looks the beauteous German dame,
Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing,
Diamond-girded, too, her frame.
But a nobler, prouder feeling
Through me at her vision thrills,
When, beside the sick-bed kneeling,
Acts of mercy she fulfils.
Heavenly angels she resembles
When the last draught she supplies
To the wounded man, who trembles,
Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies.
He to whom to die ’tis given
On the battle-field, is blest;
But a foretaste ’tis of heaven,
Dying on a woman’s breast.
Poor, poor sons of France! Fate ever
Unto you unkind has been;
On the Seine’s banks, beauty never
Save in search of gold is seen.
German women! German women!
What a charm the words convey!
German women! German women!
Flourish on for many a day!
All our daughters like Louisa,
All our sons like Frederick be!
Hear me in the grave, Louisa!
Ever flourish Germany!
Dream. 1816
Son of folly, dream thou ever,
When thy thoughts within thee burn;
But in life thy visions never
To reality will turn.
Once in happier days chance bore me
To a high mount on the Rhine;
Smiling lay the land before me,
Gloriously the sun did shine.
Far below, the waves were singing
Wild and magic melodies;
In my inmost heart were ringing
Blissful strains in wondrous wise.
Now, when gazing from that station
On the land—how sad its doom!
I but see a pigmy nation
Crawling on a giant’s tomb.
So-call’d men wear silken raiment,
Deem themselves the nation’s flower;
Honours now are gain’d by payment,
Rogues possess both wealth and power.
Of descent they boast, not merit,
’Tis their dress that makes them men;
Old coats now alone the spirit
Of old times bring back again;
When respect and virtue holy
Modestly went hand in hand;
When the youth with deference lowly
By the aged took his stand;
When a hand-shake was more valid
Than an oath or written sheet;
When men, iron-clad, forth sallied,
And a heart inside them beat.
Our fair garden borders nourish
Many a thousand flow’rets fair;
In the fostering soil they flourish,
While the sun smiles on them there.
But the flower most fair, most golden,
In our gardens ne’er is known,—
That one which, in days now olden,
On each rocky height was grown;
Which, in cold hill-fortress dwelling,
Men endued with iron frame
Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,—
Hospitality its name.
Weary wanderer, never clamber
To the mountain’s fort-crown’d brow;
’Stead of warm and friendly chamber,
Cold, hard walls receive thee now.
From the watch-tower blow no warders
Not a drawbridge is let fall;
For the castle’s lord and warders
In the cold tomb slumber all.
In dark coffins, too, are sleeping
Those dear maids bards sang of old;
Shrines like these within them keeping
Greater wealth than pearls and gold.
Strange soft whispers there are blended
Like sweet minnesinger’s lays;
To those dark vaults has descended
The fair love of olden days.
True, I also prize our ladies,
For they blossom like the May;
And delightful, too, their trade is,—
’Tis to dance, stitch, paint all day.
And they sing, in rhymes delicious,
Of old love and loyalty,
Feeling all the time suspicious
Whether such things e’er could be.
In their simple minds, our mothers
Used to think in days of yore,
That the gem above all others
Fair, man in his bosom bore.
Very different from this is
What their daughters wisdom call;
In the present day our misses
Love the jewels most of all.
Lies, deceit, and superstition
Rule,—life’s charms are thrown aside,
Whilst Rome’s sordid base ambition
Jordan’s pearls has falsified.
To your dark domain return you,
Visions of far happier days;
O’er a time which thus doth spurn you,
Vain laments no longer raise!
The Consecration
Lonely in the forest chapel,
At the image of the Virgin,
Lay a gentle, pallid stripling,
Bent in humble adoration.
O Madonna! Let me ever
On the threshold here be kneeling;
Thou wilt never drive me from thee,
To the world so cold and sinful.
O Madonna! Sunny radiance
Round thy head’s bright locks is gleaming,
And a mild sweet smile is playing
Round thy fair mouth’s holy roses.
O Madonna! Thine eyes’ lustre
Lightens me like stars in heaven;
While life’s bark doth drift at random,
Stars lead on for ever surely.
O Madonna! Without wavering
I have borne thy test of sorrow,
On kind love relying blindly,
In thy glow alone e’er glowing.
O Madonna! This day hear me,
Full of mercy, rich in wonders!
Grant me then a sign of favour,
Just one little sign of favour.
Then presently happen’d a marvellous wonder.
The forest and chapel were parted insunder;
The boy understood not the miracle strange,
For all around him did suddenly change.
In a brilliant hall there sat the Madonna,
Her rays were gone, as he gazed upon her;
She bore the form of a lovely maid,
Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.
And see! from her fair and flowing tresses
She steals a lock, as she thus addresses
In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy:
The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!
What attests this consecration?
Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding
Its sublime illumination,
O’er the wide horizon spreading?
Angels up and down are moving,
Loudly do their pinions flutter;
Breathing music strange and loving,
Sweet the melodies they utter.
Well the stripling knows the yearning
Through his frame that now doth quiver;
To that land his footsteps turning,
Where the myrtle blooms for ever.
The Moor’s Serenade
To my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Bosom run, ye tears all burning!
Then will her sweet heart for Abdul
’Gin to beat with tender yearning.
Round my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Ear disport, ye tears of anguish!
Then will her fair head in vision
Sweet for Abdul’s love straight languish.
O’er my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing!
Then will her sweet hand bear on it
Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.
Sorrow is, alas, born voiceless,
In its mouth no tongue is growing,
It hath only tears and sighing,
And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.
Dream and Life
The day was glowing, my heart, too, glow’d,
In silence I bore my sorrow’s load;
When night arrived, I hastened then
To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.
I softly approach’d, and mute as the grave,
While tears my cheeks did secretly lave,
I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair,
And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.
By the rose I joyfully fell asleep,
When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep;
The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d;
A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.
She gave me soon a rich golden store,
To a golden cottage the prize I bore;
Strange goings-on in the cottage I found,—
Small elves are dancing in graceful round.
Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
And closely their hands together are press’d;
And soon as a dance has come to a close,
Another begins, and each merrily goes.
And the music they dance to thus sounds in my ear:
“The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear,
“The whole of thy life was only a dream,
“And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”
The dream is over, the sun is up,
I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup.
Alas! in the place of the glimmering light,
A nasty insect meets my sight.
The Lesson
Mother tells little bee,
Yonder wax taper flee;
But for his mother’s prayers
Little bee little cares.
Round the light hovers he,
Humming all merrily;
Mother’s cry hears not he,
Little bee! Little bee!
Youthful one! Foolish one!
Poor little simpleton!
In the flame rusheth he,
Little bee! Little bee!
Now the flame flickers high,
In the flame he must die:
’Ware of the maidens, then,
Sons of men! Sons of men!
To Francis V. Z ——
I’m drawn to the North by a golden star;
Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far;
To poetry ever faithful abide,
And never desert that charming bride.
As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast
The German language so fair and blest;
And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand
O listen awhile at that Northern strand;
And list till thou hearest a ringing remote
That over the silent waters doth float.
When this thou hearest, expect ere long
The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song.
Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord,
And give me news that may pleasure afford;
How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go,
And with the others whom I loved so;
And how it fares with the lovely girl
Who set so many young hearts in a whirl,
And filled so many with yearnings divine—
The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine.
And give me news of my fatherland too,
If still ’tis the land of affection true;
If still the old God in Germany lives,
And none to the Evil One homage now gives.
And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings,
And joyous stories with it thus brings
Far over the waves to the distant strand,
The bard will rejoice in the far North land.
A Prologue to the Hartz-Journey
All I saw and heard when travelling,
All that soul and heart found pleasing,
All that gave me food for cavilling,
All that tedious was or teasing;
Solemn jostlings, wild excitement,
Both of simpletons and sages,—
All shall swell the long indictment
Of my travels in these pages.
Give not travels life twice over?
When at home one lives once only;
Wouldst thou nobler ends discover,
Thou must leave thy closet lonely.
On the world’s wide stage, each player
Is a mimic or a puppet,
Rides his hobby his own way, or
Bids the others clamber up it.
If we’re laughed at by our neighbour,
Riding in this curious fashion,
Let us him in turn belabour,
Jeering him without compassion.
Read these travels in the manner
And the sense in which I’m writing;
Each one has his fav’rite banner
Under which he fancies fighting.
Defend Not
Defend it not, defend it not,
This wretched world below;
Defend its gaping people not,
Who care for nought but pomp and show.
The tedious ones, defend them not,
Who cause us such ennui;
The learned ones, defend them not,
In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.
The women, too, defend them not,
Though good ones may be there;
The best amongst them scorneth not
The man she loves not, to ensnare.
And then my friends—defend them not:
Count not thyself one now;
For thou those friends resemblest not,—
No! firm, and good, and true art thou.
A Parody
Indeed they have wearied me greatly,
And made me exceedingly sad,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
Their terrible discord has scatter’d
What little senses I had,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers,
They most have stirr’d up my bile,
Who write in neither prosaic
Nor true poetical style.
Walking Flowers at Berlin
Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend,
Thy yearnings may satisfied be;
The fairest of womankind here, friend,
All walking together, thou’lt see.
How charming they look, how delicious,
In gay silken garments all dress’d!
A certain poet judicious
“Walking flowers” has named them in jest.
How very charming each bonnet!
Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams!
Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it!
Each neck, how swanlike it seems!
Evening Songs
1
Without any aim, forth I sallied,
And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea;
The charming flowers look’d pallid,
And spectre-like gazed upon me.
Upon me they gazed, and to chatter
And tell my dull tale I began;
They ask’d me, what was the matter
With me, poor sad-looking man.
The truth, I valiantly said it,
No love in the world can I find;
And as I have lost all my credit,
With want of cash ’tis combin’d.
2
And over the pond are sailing
Two swans all white as snow;
Sweet voices mysteriously wailing
Pierce through me as onward they go.
They sail along, and a ringing
Sweet melody rises on high,
And when the swans begin singing,
They presently must die.
3
When in sorrow, they dare not show it,
However mournful their mood,
For the swan, like the soul of the poet,
By the dull world is ill understood.
And in their death-hour they waken
The air, and break into song;
And, unless my ears are mistaken,
They sing now, while sailing along.
4
The cloudlets are lazily sailing
O’er the blue Atlantic sea;
And mid the twilight there hovers
A shadowy figure o’er me.
Full deep in my soul it gazes,
With old-time-recalling eye,
Like a glimpse of joys long buried,
And happiness long gone by.
Familiar the vision appeareth,
Methinks I know it full well;
’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary,
Who on earth no longer doth dwell.
She beckons in friendly silence,
And clasps me with gentle despair;
But I seize hold of my glasses,
To have a better stare!
Sonnets
1. To Augustus William von Schlegel
The worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt—
The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power—
These struggled my life’s marrow to devour;
I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out.
Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour,
And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about;
To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout,
Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower.
O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace,
That as a tree the garden it may grace
Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert.
My nurse used of that garden to assert
That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells,
Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.
2. To the Same
Contented not with thine own property,
The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal,
The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,—
The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee,
Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal,
The Seine paid tribute to thine industry,
Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary,
Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal.
Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content
With that which seldom unto man is lent;
Instead of adding more, to spend prepare!
And with the treasures which thou with such ease
From North and South accustom’d wert to seize,
Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.
3. To Councillor George S — — , Of Gottingen
Though the demeanour be imperious, proud,
Yet round the lips may gentleness play still;
Though the eye gleam and every muscle thrill,
Yet may the voice with calmness be endow’d.
Thus art thou in the rostrum, when aloud
Thou speak’st of governments and of the skill
Of cabinets, and of the people’s will,
Of Germany’s long strifes and ends avow’d.
Ne’er be thine image blotted from my mind!
In times of barbarous self-love like these,
How doth an image of such greatness please!
What thou, in fashion fatherly and kind,
Spak’st to my heart, while hours flew swiftly by,
Deep in my heart I still bear faithfully.
4. To J. B. Rousseau
Thy friendly greetings open wide my breast,
And the dark chambers of my heart unbar;
Home visions greet me like some radiant star,
And magic pinions fan me into rest.
Once more the Rhine flows by me, on its crest
Of waters mount and castle mirror’d are;
On vine-clad hills gold clusters gleam afar,
Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest.
Could I but see thee, truest friend of all,
Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings
The ivy green around a crumbling wall!
Could I but be with thee, and to thy song
In silence listen, while the redbreast sings,
And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!
5
A torture-chamber was the world to me,
Where I suspended by the feet did hang;
Hot pincers gave my body many a pang,
A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully.
I wildly cried in nameless agony,
From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang,—
A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang,
And presently the coup-de-grace gave she.
My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye,
My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh,
From out my bleeding mouth,—a ghastly sight,
My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight;
My last death-rattle music is the while
To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.
6. The Night Watch on the Drachenfels. To Fritz von B ——
’Twas midnight as we scaled the mountain height,
The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d,
And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d,
They sang of Germany’s renown in fight.
Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright,
The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d,
Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d,
And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight.
And from the ruins there arose low moans,
Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans;
A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully.
Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass
On the high Drachenfels,—but I, alas,
A wretched cold and cough took home with me!
7. In Fritz Steinmann’s Album
The bad victorious are, the good lie low;
The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry,
Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh,
Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.—
In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow,
Image on image, flower on flower pile high,
In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die,
Unless, before the egg is laid, you know
How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on,
Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con,
And your own trumpet blow with decent pride.
Write for the mob, not for posterity,
Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be,—
You’ll then be by the public deified.
8. To Her
The flow’rets red and white that I hold here,
Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound,
Into a lovely nosegay I have bound,
And offer unto thee, my mistress dear.
By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d!
I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear,
Till I have left a sign of love sincere.
Remember me when I my death have found.
Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me;
My life of grief was enviable e’en,—
For in my heart I bore thee lovingly.
And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I
Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen,
Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.
9. Goethe’s Monument at Frankfort-on-the Main. 1821
Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear,
Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,
The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed
To build a monument to Goethe here.
“At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear
“To foreign traders that we’re of his breed,
“That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed,
“And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.”
O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never,
And keep your money in your pockets too;
’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise.
He dwelt amongst you in his infant days,
But half a world now severs him from you,
Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen4 sever!
10. Dresden Poetry
At Dresden on the Elbe, that handsome city,
Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made,
They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid)
A music-club and music warehouse pretty.
There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty,
Herr Kuhn,5 Miss Nostitz 5a—adepts at the trade,—
Spout verses, calling action to their aid.
How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!—more’s the pity!
Next day the paper tells us all the facts,
Bright’s6 brightness flies, Child’s 6a childishness is childlike,
The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike.
Arnoldi 5b takes the cash, as salesman acts;
Then Böttiger 5c appears, with noise infernal—
’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal!
11. Breadless Art
How soon my poverty would ended be,
Could I the pencil use, and paint away,
The walls of castles proud and churches gay
Adorning with my pictures merrily!
How soon would wealth replace my penury,
Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play.
And with such elegance perform each day,
That lords and ladies all applauded me!
But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part,
For I have follow’d thee alone, alas!
Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art!
When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!)
Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass,
I needs must go without, or drink on credit!