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I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


This  book  is  DUF 


'tarr^pr' 


^lA. 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


HEINRICH     HEINE 


XII 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


HEINRICH     HEINE 


VOLUME  XII 


LONDON 

WILLIAM    HEINEMANN 

1905 


R  O  M  A  N  C  E  R  O 

BOOK    III. 

LAST    POEMS 

TRANSLATED   BY 

MARGARET    ARMOUR 

AUTHOR    OF    "the    FALL   OF    THE   NIBELUNGS,"    "  SONCiS   OF    LOVE   AND   DEATH," 
"the   SHADOW   OF   LOVE,"   ETC. 


,       ,    >   i  <•    '       •  ^ 


LONDON 

WILLIAM     HEINEMANN 

1905 


66019 


COPYRIGHT  1905 


f      •  «         •    <  « 


<        C        C      e    , 


f   *   S       €         C      c    I 


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r  I 


CONTENTS 


EOMANCERO— BOOK    III.      HEBRKW   MELODIES- 


PRINCESS   SABBATH     . 
^SfJEHDDA   BEN   HALEVY,    I.-IV. 


DISPUTATION 


PAGE 

3 
ID 

49 


LAST   POEMS — 

TEARNING    FOR   PEACE 

IN    MAY      . 

BABYLONIAN   SORROWS 

THE   SLAVE    SHIP,    I.,    II, 

THE   PHILANTHROPIST 

BERTHA      . 

IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  . 

TO  BE  REMEMBERED  . 

IN  A  lady's  ALBUM 

THE  WILL 

TO   MY    BROTHER   MAX 

THE   VALLEY   OF   WOE 

EDWARD    . 

THE   WHIMS   OP   THE   AMOROUS 

THE   VIRTUOUS   DOG   . 


71 

72 

73 
75 
8i 

85 
85 
86 

87 
87 
89 
90 

91 
92 

95 


vi  CONTENTS 

LAST  POEMS — continued.  page 

HOKSE  AND  ASS 97 

BODY  AND  SOUL 1°^ 

BED   SLIPPERS ^°2 

THE   DBAGON-PLY 1^4 

THE   DBAGON-FLY    (ANOTHER   VERSION)         ....  IO7 

MIMI lOS 

GOOD   ADVICE m 

GOOD   ADVICE "2 

THE   ASS-ELECTION I  '  3 

THE   DAYS   OF   THE   TIE-WIG "6 

THE   BUG,    I.,    II "^ 

KING    LONG-EAR   I '21 

THE   ROVING    RATS '27 

THE   JUNIOR   CAT-CLUB   FOB   POETIC   MUSIC  .  .  -ISO 

A   EEMINISCENCE   OF   HAMMONIA 133 

THE   SONG   OF   SONGS ■            •  135 

THE  sutler's  song '37 

A   PAIR   OF   PICKPOCKETS 13^ 

HANS   LACKLAND '39 

A   RECOLLECTION   OP    KBAHWINKEL'S   DAYS   OF   TERROR        .  1 42 

THE   AUDIENCE '44 

KOBES   I '47 

EFFECTIVE   MEANS '54 

AFFRONTENBURG         '54 

TO  EDWARD   G. '57 

WARNING '58 

DUELS '5° 

OVERHEARD '59 

SIMPLICISSIMUS   I '61 

TELEOLOGICAL '66 


CONTENTS 


Vll 


LAST  POEMS — continued. 

PvEAN 

IT   IS   USUALLY   DONE 

AN    ANSWER 

1649-I793— ???       . 

OITRONIA 

COLD    HEARTS    . 

IN   THE   MORNING    EARLY 

BIMINI,    I.-IV.  . 

APPENDIX   TO    "  LAZARUS, 

HALLELUJAH      . 

THE   ASCENSION 

THE   AFFINITIES 

FOR  THE  MOUCHE   . 

THE  LOTUS-FLOWER  . 

WHERE  ?  . 

EPILOGUE 

THE  DYING  MAN 


1-42 


PAGE 

169 

170 

176 
180 
182 
183 

252 

260 
262 
268 
269 
269 
270 


ROMANCERO. 


VOL.  XII. 


ROMANCER  O. 


THIRD    BOOK. 
HEBKEW   MELODIES. 


Oh,  let  not  life  for  ever  go, 

Its  joy  unyielded  ; 
And  let  them  shoot,  nor  fear  the  foe. 

Be  thou  but  shielded. 

If  winged  Fortune  pass  thee  by. 

Catch  hold  and  follow  ; 
I  warn  thee,  build  thy  hut  not  high, 

Build  in  the  hollow. 


PEINCESS    SABBATH. 

In  Arabia's  book  of  fable 
We  behold  enchanted  princes 
Who  at  times  their  form  recover, 
Fair  as  first  they  were  created. 

The  uncouth  and  shaggy  monster 
Has  again  a  king  for  father : 
Pipes  his  amorous  ditties  sweetly 
On  the  flute  in  jewelled  raiment. 


ROMANCERO. 

Yet  the  respite  from  enchantment 
Is  but  brief,  and,  without  warning, 
Lo !  we  see  his  Eoyal  Highness 
Shuffled  back  into  a  monster. 

Of  a  prince  by  fate  thus  treated 
Is  my  song.     His  name  is  Israel, 
And  a  witch's  spell  has  changed  him 
To  the  likeness  of  a  dog. 

As  a  dog,  with  dog's  ideas. 
All  the  week,  a  cur,  he  noses 
Through  life's  filthy  mire  and  sweepings, 
Butt  of  mocking  city  Arabs  ; 

But  on  every  Friday  evening, 
On  a  sudden,  in  the  twilight, 
The  enchantment  weakens,  ceases, 
And  the  dog  once  more  is  human. 

And  his  father's  halls  he  enters 
As  a  man,  with  man's  emotions, 
Head  and  heart  alike  uplifted, 
Clad  in  pure  and  festal  raiment. 

"  Be  ye  greeted,  halls  beloved, 
Of  my  high  and  royal  father ! 
Lo  !  I  kiss  your  holy  door-posts, 
Tents  of  Jacob,  with  my  mouth !  " 


THIRD   BOOK.    HEBREW   MELODIES. 

Through  the  house  there  passes  strangely 
A  mysterious  stir  and  whisper, 
And  the  hidden  master's  breathing 
Shudders  weirdly  through  the  silence. 

Silence  !  save  for  one,  the  steward 
(  Vulgo,  synagogue  attendant) 
Springing  up  and  down,  and  busy 
With  the  lamps  that  he  is  lighting. 


Golden  lights  of  consolation, 

How  they  sparkle,  how  they  glimmer ! 

Proudly  flame  the  candles  also 

On  the  rails  of  the  Almemor. 

Bv  the  shrine  wherein  the  Thora 
Is  preserved,  and  which  is  curtained 
By  a  costly  silken  hanging, 
Whereon  precious  stones  are  gleaming. 

There,  beside  the  desk  already 
Stands  the  synagogue  precentor. 
Small  and  spruce,  his  mantle  black 
With  an  air  coquettish  shouldering ; 

And,  to  show  how  white  his  hand  is. 
At  his  neck  he  works — forefinger 
Oddly  pressed  against  his  temple. 
And  the  thumb  against  his  throat. 


ROMANCERO. 

To  himself  he  trills  and  murmurs, 
Till  at  last  his  voice  he  raises : 
Till  he  sings  with  joy  resounding, 
"  Lecho  dodi  likrath  kallah  !  " 

"  Lecho  dodi  likrath  kallah — 
Come,  beloved  one,  the  bride 
Waits  already  to  uncover 
To  thine  eyes  her  blushing  face  ! " 

The  composer  of  this  poem. 
Of  this  pretty  marriage  song, 
Is  the  famous  minnesinger, 
Don  Jehuda  ben  Halevy. 

It  was  writ  by  him  in  honour 
Of  the  wedding  of  Prince  Israel 
And  the  gentle  Princess  Sabbath, 
Whom  they  call  the  silent  princess. 

Pearl  and  flower  of  all  beauty 
Is  the  princess — not  more  lovely 
Was  the  famous  Queen  of  Sheba, 
Bosom  friend  of  Solomon, 

Who,  has  bleu  of  Ethiopia, 
Sought  by  wit  to  shine  and  dazzle. 
And  became  at  length  fatiguing 
With  her  very  clever  riddles. 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW   MELODIES. 

Princess  Sabbath,  rest  incarnate, 
Held  in  hearty  detestation 
Every  form  of  witty  warfare 
And  of  intellectual  combat. 

She  abhorred  with  equal  loathing 
Loud  declamatory  passion — 
Pathos  ranting  round  and  storming 
With  dishevelled  hair  and  streaming. 

In  her  cap  the  silent  princess 
Hides  her  modest,  braided  tresses, 
Like  the  meek  gazelle  she  gazes. 
Blooms  as  slender  as  the  myrtle. 

She  denies  her  lover  nothing 
Save  the  smoking  of  tobacco ; 
"  Dearest,  smoking  is  forbidden, 
For  to-day  it  is  the  Sabbath. 

"  But  at  noon,  as  compensation. 
There  shall  steam  for  thee  a  dish 
That  in  very  truth  divine  is — 
Thou  shalt  eat  to-day  of  schalet ! 

"  Schalet,  ray  of  light  immortal ! 
Schalet,  daughter  of  Elysium  ! " 
So  had  Schiller's  song  resounded, 
Had  he  ever  tasted  schalet. 


ROMANCERO. 

For  this  schalet  is  the  very- 
Food  of  heaven,  which,  on  Sinai, 
God  Himself  instructed  Moses 
In  the  secret  of  preparing, 

At  the  time  He  also  taught  him 
And  revealed  in  flames  of  lightnimf 
All  the  doctrines  good  and  pious. 
And  the  holy  Ten  Commandments. 

Yes,  this  schalet 's  pure  ambrosia 
Of  the  true  and  only  God : 
Paradisal  bread  of  rapture ; 
And,  with  such  a  food  compared, 

The  ambrosia  of  the  pagan. 
False  divinities  of  Greece, 
Who  were  devils  'neath  disguises, 
Is  the  merest  devils'  offal. 

When  the  prince  enjoys  the  dainty. 
Glow  his  eyes  as  if  transfigured, 
And  his  waistcoat  he  unbuttons ; 
Smiling  blissfully  he  murmurs, 

"  Are  not  those  the  waves  of  Jordan 
That  I  hear — the  flowing  fountains 
In  the  palmy  vale  of  Beth-el, 
Where  the  camels  lie  at  rest  ? 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW   MELODIES. 

"  Are  not  those  the  sheep-bells  ringing 
Of  the  fat  and  thriving  wethers 
That  the  shepherd  drives  at  evening 
Down  Mount  Gilead  from  the  pastures  ? " 

But  the  lovely  day  flits  onward, 
And  with  long,  swift  legs  of  shadow 
Comes  the  evil  hour  of  magic — 
And  the  prince  begins  to  sigh ; 

Seems  to  feel  the  icy  fingers 
Of  a  witch  upon  his  heart ; 
Shudders,  fearful  of  the  canine 
Metamorphosis  that  waits  him. 

Then  the  princess  hands  her  golden 
Box  of  spikenard  to  her  lover, 
Who  inhales  it,  fain  to  revel 
Once  again  in  pleasant  odours. 

And  the  princess  tastes  and  offers 
Next  the  cup  of  parting  also — 
And  he  drinks  in  haste,  till  only 
Drops  a  few  are  in  the  goblet. 

These  he  sprinkles  on  the  table. 
Then  he  takes  a  little  wax-light, 
And  he  dips  it  in  the  moisture 
Till  it  crackles  and  is  quenched. 


lo  ROMANCERO. 


JEHUDA   BEN   HALEVY. 

(fragment.) 

I. 

"  If,  Jerusalem,  I  ever 

Should  forget  thee,  to  the  roof 

Of  my  mouth  then  cleave  my  tongue, 

May  my  right  hand  lose  its  cunning — " 

In  my  head  the  words  and  music 
Eound  and  round  keep  humming,  ringing, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  men's  voices, 
Men's  deep  voices  singing  psalms — 

And  of  long  and  shadowy  beards 
I  can  also  catch  some  glimpses — 
Say,  which  phantom  dream-begotten 
Is  Jehuda  ben  Halevy  ? 

But  they  swiftly  rustle  past  me, 
For  the  ghosts  avoid,  with  terror, 
Rude  and  clumsy  human  converse ; 
Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  I  knew  him, 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW  MELODIES.  ii 

Yes,  I  knew  him  by  his  forehead 
Pale  and  proud  with  noble  thought, 
By  the  eyes  of  steadfast  sweetness : 
Keen  and  sad  they  gazed  in  mine. 

But  more  specially  I  knew  him 
By  the  enigmatic  smiling 
Of  the  lovely  lips  and  rhythmic 
That  belong  to  poets  only. 

Years  they  come,  and  years  they  vanish ; 
Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty 
It  is  now  since  dawned  the  birthday 
Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy. 

At  Toledo  in  Castile 
First  he  saw  the  light  of  heaven, 
And  the  golden  Tagus  lulled  him 
In  his  cradle  with  its  music. 

The  unfolding  of  his  powers 
Intellectual  was  fostered 
By  his  father  strict,  who  taught  him 
First  the  book  of  God,  the  Thora. 

With  his  son  he  read  the  volume 
In  the  ancient  text,  whose  fair, 
Picturesque  and  hieroglyphic, 
Old-Chaldean,  sq^uare-writ  letters 


12  ROMANCERO. 

From  the  childhood  of  our  world 
Have  been  handed  down,  and  therefore 
Seem  familiarly  to  smile  on 
All  with  naive,  childlike  natures. 

And  this  ancient,  uncorrupted 
Text  the  boy  recited  also 
In  the  Tropp — the  sing-song  measure, 
From  primeval  times  descended. 

And  the  gutturals  so  oily. 

And  so  fat  he  gurgled  sweetly, 

While  he  shook  and  trilled  and  quavered 

The  Schalscheleth  like  a  bird. 

And  the  boy  was  learned  early 
In  the  Targuni  Onkelos, 
Which  is  written  in  low-Hebrew 
In  the  Arama3an  idiom. 

Bearing  somewhat  the  resemblance 
To  the  language  of  the  prophets 
That  the  Swabian  does  to  German — 
In  this  curious  bastard  Hebrew, 

As  we  said,  the  boy  was  versed, 
And  ere  long  he  found  such  knowledge 
Of  most  valuable  service 
In  the  study  of  the  Talmud. 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW    MELODIES.  13 

Yes,  his  father  led  him  early 
To  the  Talmud,  and  threw  open 
For  his  benefit  that  famous 
School  of  fighting,  the  Halacha, 

Where  the  athletes  dialectic, 
Best  in  Babylon,  and  also 
Those  renowned  in  Pumpeditha 
Did  their  intellectual  tilting. 

He  had  here  the  chance  of  learning 
Every  art  and  ruse  polemic ; 
How  he  mastered  them  was  proven 
In  the  book  Cosari,  later. 

But  the  lights  are  twain,  and  differ, 
That  are  shed  on  earth  by  heaven ; 
There's  the  harsh  and  glaring  sunlight. 
And  the  mild  and  gentle  moonlight. 

With  a  double  radiance  also 
Shines  the  Talmud  ;  the  Halacha 
Is  the  one,  and  the  Hagada 
Is  the  other  light.     The  former 

I  have  called  the  school  of  fighting ; 
But  the  latter,  the  Hagada 
I  will  call  a  curious  garden, 
Most  fantastic,  and  resembling 


14  ROMANCERO. 

Much  another  one  that  blossomed 
Too  in  Babylon — the  garden 
Of  Semiramis  ;  'mongst  wonders 
Of  the  world  it  was  the  eighth. 

Queen  Semiramis,  whose  childhood 
With  the  birds  was  spent,  who  reared  her, 
Many  birdlike  ways  and  habits 
In  her  later  life  retained ; 

And,  unwilling  to  go  walking 
On  the  flat  and  common  earth, 
Like  us  other  common  mortals, 
Made  a  garden  in  the  air — 

High  on  pillars  proud,  colossal. 
Shone  the  cypresses  and  palms. 
Marble  statues,  beds  of  flowers, 
Golden  oranges  and  fountains ; 

All  most  cunningly  and  surely 
Bound  by  countless  hanging  bridges, 
That  might  well  have  passed  as  creepers, 
And  on  which  the  birds  kept  swinging — 

Birds  of  many  colours,  solemn. 
Big,  contemplative  and  sougless, 
While  the  tiny,  happy  finches. 
Gaily  warbling,  fluttered  round  them — 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW  MELODIES.  15 

All  were  breathing,  blest  and  happy, 
Breathing  pure  and  balmy  fragrance, 
Unpolluted  by  the  squalid, 
Evil  odours  of  the  earth. 

The  Hagada  is  a  garden, 

Is  just  such  another  whimsy 

Of  a  child  of  air ;  and  often 

Would  the  youthful  Talmud  scholar. 

When  his  heart  was  dazed  and  dusty 
With  the  strifes  of  the  Halacha, 
With  disputes  about  the  fatal 
Egg  the  hen  laid  on  a  feast  day, 

Or  concerning  other  problems 
Of  the  same  profound  importance — 
He  would  turn  to  seek  refreshment 
In  the  blossoming  Hagada, 

Where  the  beautiful  old  sagas, 
Legends  dim,  and  angel-fables, 
Pious  stories  of  the  martyrs, 
Festal  hymns  and  proverbs  wise, 

And  hyperboles  the  drollest. 
But  withal  so  strong  and  burning 
With  belief — where  all,  resplendent. 
Welled  and  sprouted  with  luxuriance  ! 


i6  ROMANCERO. 

And  the  generous  heart  and  noble 
Of  the  boy  was  taken  captive 
By  the  wild  romantic  sweetness, 
By  the  wondrous  aching  rapture, 

By  the  weird  and  fabled  terrors 
Of  that  blissful  secret  world, 
Of  that  mighty  revelation 
For  which  poetry  our  name  is. 

And  the  art  that  goes  to  make  it. 
Gracious  power,  happy  knowledge. 
Which  we  call  the  art  poetic, 
To  his  understanding  opened. 

And  Jehuda  ben  Halevy 
"Was  not  only  scribe  and  scholar. 
But  of  poetry  a  master. 
Was  himself  a  famous  poet ; 

Yes,  a  great  and  famous  poet, 
Star  and  torch  to  guide  his  time, 
Light  and  beacon  of  his  nation ; 
Was  a  wonderful  and  mighty 

Fiery  pillar  of  sweet  song. 
Moving  on  in  front  of  Israel's 
Caravans  of  woe  and  mourning 
In  the  wilderness  of  exile. 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW  MELODIES.  17 

True  and  pure,  and  without  blemish 
Was  his  singing,  like  his  soul — 
The  Creator  having  made  it, 
With  his  handiwork  contented, 

Kissed  the  lovely  soul,  and  echoes 
Of  that  kiss  for  ever  after 
Thrilled  through  all  the  poet's  numbers. 
By  that  gracious  deed  inspired. 

As  in  life,  in  song  the  highest 
Good  of  all  is  simply  grace, 
And  who  hath  it  cannot  sin  in 
Either  poetry  or  prose. 

And  that  man  we  call  a  genius, 
By  the  grace  of  God  a  poet. 
Monarch  absolute,  unquestioned, 
In  the  realm  of  human  thought. 


o 


None  but  God  can  call  the  poet 
To  account,  the  people  never — 
As  in  art,  in  life  the  people 
Can  but  kill,  they  cannot  judge  us. 


VOL.  XII.  B 


i8  ROMANCERO. 


II. 


"  By  the  Babylonish  waters 
"We  sat  down  and  wept  for  Zion, 
Hung  our  harps  upon  the  willows — " 
Dost  remember  the  old  song  ? 

Dost  remember  the  old  tune 
That  begins  so  elegiac, 
Groaning,  humming  like  a  kettle, 
Humming,  singing  on  the  hearth  ? 

Long — a  thousand  years  already — 
It  has  boiled  in  me — dark  sorrow ! 
And  Time  licks  my  wounds  in  passing 
As  the  dog  the  boils  of  Job. 

Dog,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  spittle — 
But  it  merely  cools  and  soothes  me — 
Only  death  can  ever  heal  me, 
And,  alas  !  I  am  immortal ! 

Years,  revolving,  come  and  vanish  ; 
To  and  fro  the  spool  is  humming 
In  the  loom,  and  never  resting ; 
What  it  weaves  no  weaver  knows. 


THIRD  BOOK.     HEBREW  MELODIES.  19 

Years  they  come  and  years  they  vanish, 
And  the  tears  of  men  keep  trickling, 
Eunning  earthward,  and  the  earth 
Sucks  them  in  in  greedy  silence. 

Seething  wild  !     The  lid  is  off  now  ! — 
Hail  to  him  with  ruthless  hand 
Who  shall  seize  thy  helpless  children 
And  shall  dash  them  'gainst  a  rock. 

God  be  praised  !     The  steam's  escapinL% 
And  the  kettle  sinks  to  silence. 
Gone  the  anger  of  the  orient, 
Seething  gloomy  in  the  west — 

And  my  winged  steed,  grown  merry, 
Whinnies  glad  again,  appearing 
To  shake  off  the  horrid  nightmare. 
His  sagacious  eyes  seem  asking : 

"  Shall  we  turn,  and  back  to  Spain  now, 
To  the  little  Talmud  scholar 
Who  became  a  famous  poet, 
To  Jehuda  ben  Halevy  ?  " 

Yes,  he  grew  to  be  a  poet ! 

In  the  realms  of  dream  a  ruler : 

King  of  thought,  whom  none  might  question. 

Crowned,  a  poet  by  God's  favour. 


20  ROMANCERO. 

Who  devoutly  in  sirventes, 
In  sweet  madrigals,  ghaselas, 
Canzonets  and  terzarima 
Poured  out  freely  all  the  ardours 

Of  his  God-kissed  poet's  soul ! 
Yes,  this  troubadour  was  equal 
To  the  best  who  played  aforetime 
On  the  lute  in  old  Provence. 

In  Poitou  and  in  Guienne, 
Eoussillon,  and  all  the  other 
Lands  where  golden  grows  the  orange, 
Gallant  lands  of  Christendom. 

Lauds  of  gallant  Christendom, 
Of  the  orange,  sweet  and  golden, 
How  they  shine  and  ring,  still  fragrant 
In  the  twilight  of  remembrance. 

World  of  nightingales,  how  fair ! 
Where  instead  of  worship  rendered 
To  the  true  God,  Love,  the  false  god, 
And  the  muses  were  adored. 

Clergy,  crowned  with  wreaths  of  roses 
On  their  tonsures,  sung  the  psalms 
In  the  happy  Languedoc, 
And  the  laity,  good  knights. 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW   MELODIES.  21 

Proudly  ambled  on  their  chargers, 
Conning  rhymes  and  amorous  verses 
To  the  glory  of  the  lady 
Whom  their  heart  was  happy  serving. 

For  with  love  there  must  be  ladies, 
And  the  lady  was  as  needful 
To  the  tuneful  minnesinger 
As,  to  bread  and  butter,  butter. 

And  the  hero  whom  we  sing  of, 
Our  Jehuda  ben  Halevy, 
Had  his  heart's  beloved  lady. 
But  a  strange  one  he  had  chosen. 

For  the  lady  was  no  Laura, 
She  whose  eyes,  sweet  mortal  stars, 
In  the  minster  on  Good  Friday 
Lit  the  fire  for  ever  famous — 

Was  no  chatelaine  who,  radiant 
In  the  bloom  of  youthful  beauty, 
O'er  the  tourneying  presided. 
And  bestowed  the  wreath  of  laurel — 

Was  no  casuist  who  lectured 
On  the  law  concerning  kisses, 
In  the  college  of  a  court  of 
Love,  a  learned  doctrinaire. 


22  ROMANCERO. 

She,  beloved  of  the  Eabbi, 
Was  most  sorrowful  and  wretched, 
Piteous  spectacle  of  ruin, 
And  was  called  Jerusalem. 

In  the  early  days  of  childhood 
All  his  love  was  hers  already, 
And  his  soul  would  thrill  and  quiver 
At  the  name  Jerusalem. 

With  a  cheek  of  flaming  scarlet, 
Stood  the  boy,  and  hearkened,  eager, 
When  a  pilgrim  to  Toledo 
From  the  distant  orient  journeyed. 

And  described  the  desolation 
And  pollution  of  the  city, 
Where  a  trail  of  light  still  lingered 
From  the  prophets'  holy  feet; 

Where  the  air  with  God's  eternal 
Breath  is  balmy  still  and  fragrant — 
"  Oh,  the  spectacle  how  piteous  !  " 
Cried  a  pilgrim  with  a  beard 

Flowing  down  as  white  as  silver. 
But  which  turned,  towards  the  tip, 
Sable-hued  again,  thus  seeming 
To  renew  its  vanished  youth. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  23 

A  most  strange  and  curious  pilgrim 
Must  the  man  have  been  ;  his  eyes 
Peered  from  centuries  of  sorrow, 
And  he  groaned,  "  Jerusalem  ! 

"  She,  the  thronged  and  holy  city, 
Is  become  a  barren  desert, 
Where  baboons  and  jackals,  werwolves 
Go  their  wicked  way  unhindered. 

"  Serpents,  birds  of  night  are  nesting 
In  the  walls  decayed  and  crumbling, 
Through  the  windows'  airy  arches 
Gaze  the  foxes  unmolested. 

"  And  at  times  some  ragged  bondsman 
Of  the  desert  will  appear, 
And  will  feed  his  hump-backed  camel 
On  the  high  untrodden  grasses. 

"  On  the  noble  heights  of  Zion, 
Where  the  golden  fortress  towered. 
Bearing  witness,  in  its  splendour. 
To  a  mighty  monarch's  glory, 

"  There  is  nothing  left  but  ruins. 
Grey  and  overgrown  with  weeds. 
And  they  gaze  on  one  so  sadly 
That  one  fancies  they  are  weeping. 


24  ROMANCERO. 

"  And  the  story  goes  that  truly 
Once  a  year  they  weep,  and  namely 
On  the  ninth  day  of  the  month  of 
Ab — myself,  with  streaming  eyes, 

"  I  have  seen  the  heavy  tear-drops 
From  the  mighty  stones  that  trickled, 
Heard  the  broken  temple  pillars 
Utter  cries  and  lamentations."  .  .  . 

Such  reports  of  pious  pilgrims 
Wakened  longings  in  the  bosom 
Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy  : 
Towards  Jerusalem  he  yearned. 

Poets'  yearning !     Bodeful,  dreamy, 
And  as  fatal  as  the  longing 
That  once  filled  the  noble  Vidam 
To  his  hurt  in  Castle  Blay — 

Messer  Geoffroy  Eudello, 
When  the  knight,  returning  homeward 
From  the  East,  amid  the  ringing 
Of  the  festal  goblets  swore 

That  the  type  of  every  virtue. 
Pearl  and  flower  of  all  women, 
Was  the  lovely  Melisanda, 
Margravine  of  Tripoli. 


THIRD   BOOK.     HEBREW  MELODIES.  25 

How  the  troubadour  adoring 
Sang  and  raved  about  the  lady, 
All  have  heard  ;  at  length  too  narrow 
Seemed  his  home  at  Castle  Blay. 

By  resistless  longing  driven. 
He  took  ship  at  Cette  to  seek  her, 
But  grew  sick  on  board,  and,  dying, 
Reached  the  town  of  Tripoli. 

Here  his  eyes  beheld  the  lady, 
Gazed  indeed  on  Melisanda, 
But  the  self-same  hour  they  darkened 
With  the  dreary  shades  of  death. 

Here,  his  final  love-song  singing. 
At  her  feet  he  breathed  his  last, 
At  the  feet  of  Melisanda, 
Margravine  of  Tripoli, 

Strange  the  wonderful  resemblance 
In  the  fate  of  both  the  poets ; 
Only,  one  was  old  already 
When  on  pilgrimage  he  started. 

At  the  feet  of  his  beloved 
Died  Jehuda  ben  Halevy ; 
And  his  dying  head  he  rested 
On  Jerusalem's  fair  knees. 


26  ROMANCERO. 


III. 


After  great  King  Alexander 
Won  the  fight  at  Arabella 
All  the  wealth  of  King  Darius, 
Land  and  people,  court  and  harem, 

Women,  elephants,  and  horses, 
Sceptre,  crown,  and  coins,  he  stuck  them- 
Golden  plunder — in  his  roomy, 
Baggy  Macedonian  trousers. 

In  the  tent  of  great  Darius, 
Who  had  fled  lest  he  should  also 
Be  impounded  thus,  the  youthful 
Hero  found  a  precious  casket. 

Found  a  little  gilded  casket 
Decked  with  cameos,  and  gorgeous 
With  encrusted  stones  and  precious. 
And  with  dainty  miniatures. 

Now,  this  box,  itself  a  gem 
Of  inestimable  value. 
Was  the  case  in  which  Darius 
Kept  his  priceless  body-jewels. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  27 

These  were  given  by  Alexander 
To  the  bravest  of  his  soldiers, 
With  a  smile  to  think  that  men  could 
Care  for  coloured  stones  like  children. 

One,  a  gem  most  fair  and  costly, 
He  presented  to  his  mother : 
'Twas  the  signet  ring  of  Cyrus, 
And  was  made  into  a  brooch. 

And  his  champion  debater, 
Aristotle,  got  an  onyx. 
To  be  placed  in  his  museum 
Of  the  curious  things  of  nature. 

In  the  casket  there  was  also 
A  most  wondrous  string  of  pearls, 
Which  the  false  and  self-styled  Smerdis 
Once  had  given  to  Atossa. 

But  the  pearls  were  rare  and  real, 
And  the  merry  victor  gave  them 
To  the  pretty  dancer  Thais, 
Her  whose  birthplace  was  at  Corinth. 

In  her  hair  this  Thais  wore  them — 
Hair  that  streamed  like  a  Bacchante's — 
On  the  night  of  conflagration 
At  Persepolis,  when,  dancing. 


28  ROMANCERO. 

With  an  impious  hand  she  flung  her 
Torch  and  struck  the  royal  fortress, 
Which  flamed  upward,  crackling  loudly 
Like  the  fireworks  at  afSte. 

On  the  death  of  lovely  Thais, 
Who  in  Babylon  fell  victim 
To  a  Babylonish  sickness, 
Straight  disposed  of  were  the  pearls. 

They  were  sold  by  public  auction. 
'Twas  a  priest  of  Memphis  bought  them, 
And  he  carried  them  to  Egypt, 
Where  they  graced  the  toilet-table 

Of  Queen  Cleopatra  later, 
Who  the  fairest  of  the  pearls 
Crushed  and  swallowed  in  her  wine. 
Quizzing  Antony,  her  lover. 

With  the  latest  of  the  Ommiads 
Came  the  string  of  pearls  to  Spain, 
And  at  Cordova  was  twisted 
Round  the  turban  of  the  Caliph. 

Abderam  the  third  then  wore  it 
As  a  breast-knot  at  the  tourney, 
Where  through  thirty  golden  rings 
And  Zuleima's  heart  he  pierced. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  29 

When  the  Moors  were  overthrown, 
Into  Christian  hands  the  pearls 
Passed  with  other  things,  and  figured 
As  crown  jewels  of  Castile. 

And  their  majesties,  the  papish 
Spanish  queens  thereafter  wore  them 
At  their  courtly  routs  and  revels, 
At  the  bull-fights  and  processions  ; 

On  the  high  occasions,  also, 
When  the  heretics  were  burning. 
And  the  smell  of  old  Jews  roasting, 
On  their  balconies  refreshed  them. 

Later  still  that  son  of  Satan, 
Mendizabel,  pawned  the^pearls 
To  procure  a  sum  to  cover 
Gaps  and  deficits  financial. 

And  at  last  the  string  of  pearls 
In  the  Tuileries  appeared, 
Madame  Salomon  adorning : 
On  the  Baroness's  bosom. 

Such  the  story  of  the  pearls. 
Less  adventurous  the  fortunes 
Of  the  casket.     Alexander 
For  his  royal  use  retained  it, 


30  ROMANCERO. 

And  he  locked  therein  the  songs 
Of  divine,  ambrosial  Homer — 
Bard  he  loved  beyond  all  others — 
By  his  couch  at  night  it  stood. 

Slept  the  king,  the  shining  figures 
Of  the  heroes,  from  the  casket 
Slipping  forth,  in  fond  illusion 
Lived  and  wandered  in  his  dreams. 

Other  times,  and  other  birds — 
I,  of  yore  I  loved  them  also, 
Loved  the  songs  and  deeds  heroic 
Of  Pelides,  of  Odysseus. 

Then  I  felt  that  all  was  golden 

As  the  sun,  and  flaming  purple, 

And  my  brow  was  crowned  with  vine  leaves. 

And  I  heard  the  fanfares  blowing. 

But  enough  ! — O'erthrown  and  broken 
Lies  my  proud,  victorious  chariot, 
And  the  panthers  that  once  drew  it 
Now  are  dead,  and  dead  the  women, 

Who  with  drum  and  clash  of  cymbals 
Danced  around  me.     I,  myself. 
On  the  floor  am  turning,  tossing, 
Weak  and  crippled  here — no  more  ! 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  31 

Hush  !     No  more  ! — Our  present  subject 

Is  the  casket  of  Darius, 

And  I  thought  if  I  should  ever 

Gain  possession  of  that  casket, 

And  was  not  compelled  directly 
By  financial  straits  to  sell  it, 
I  should  like  to  lock  within  it 
All  the  poems  of  our  Kabbi, 

Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy  ; — 
Festal  songs  and  lamentations. 
The  ghaselas,  and  description 
Of  the  pilgrimage  he  went  on. 

Written  plainly  it  should  be 
By  a  skilful  scribe,  on  parchment 
Of  the  purest,  and  bestowed 
In  the  little  golden  casket. 

It  should  stand  upon  a  table 
By  my  bed,  and  when  my  friends 
Came  and  marvelled  at  the  splendour 
Of  the  little  chest  beside  me, 

At  the  curious  bas-reliefs 
So  diminutive,  yet  perfect 
In  their  finish,  at  the  inlay 
Of  the  big  and  costly  jewels, 


32  ROMANCERO. 

I  would  smile  and  I  would  tell  them  :- 
That  is  nothing  but  the  shell 
Which  contains  the  nobler  treasure 
In  this  little  casket  lying. 

There  are  diamonds  that  mirror, 
With  their  light,  the  light  of  heaven ; 
There  are  rubies  red  as  heart's  blood, 
There  are  turquoises  unblemished. 

Also  emeralds  of  promise, 
Yes,  and  pearls  of  purer  beauty 
Than  those  given  to  Atossa 
By  the  rank  impostor  Smerdis  ; 

And  which  ornamented  later 
All  the  great,  distinguished  figures 
Of  this  moon-encircled  planet — 
Thais  first,  then  Cleopatra, 

Priests  of  Tsis,  Moorish  princes, 
And  the  queens  of  old  Hispania, 
And  the  worthy  baron's  lady, 
Madame  Salomon,  at  last. 

For  those  pearls  of  world-wide  glory 
Are  but  pale,  secreted  mucus 
Of  a  sick  and  wretched  oyster 
At  the  bottom  of  the  sea ; 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  33 

While  the  pearls  within  this  casket 

Are  the  precious  overllow 

Of  a  lovely  spirit,  deeper 

Than  the  deepest  depths  of  ocean. 

For  these  pearls,  they  are  the  tear-drops 

Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy, 

That  he  wept  for  the  destruction 

Of  the  town  Jerusalem. — 

Pearly  tears  that,  strung  together 
On  the  golden  thread  of  rhyme, 
From  the  poet's  golden  forge 
Issued  perfect,  as  a  song. 

And  this  string  of  pearly  tears 
Is  the  famous  lamentation 
Sung  in  all  the  tents  of  Jacob 
Lying  scattered  through  the  world. 

On  the  ninth  day  of  the  month 
Known  as  Ab,  which  was  the  date 
Of  Jerusalem's  destruction 
By  the  Emperor  Vespasian, 

Yes,  Jehuda  ben  Halevy 

Sang  that  famous  hymn  of  Zion 

As  he  lay  amid  the  ruins 

Of  Jerusalem,  and  died. 
VOL.  XII.  C 


34  ROMANCERO. 

There,  in  penitential  raiment 
He  sat  barefoot  on  a  fragment 
Of  a  crumbled,  fallen  pillar ; 
To  his  breast  his  hair  fell  matted, 

Like  a  white  and  snowy  forest, 
From  whose  strange,  fantastic  shadow 
Gleamed  the  pallid  face  of  sorrow 
With  its  wan  and  ghostly  eyes. 

So  Jehuda  ben  Halevy 
Sat,  and  singing,  seemed  a  prophet 
Of  the  olden  days  :  seemed  ancient 
Jeremiah  grave-arisen. 

And  the  wild  lament  of  sorrow 
Tamed  the  birds  amid  the  ruins, 
And  the  very  vultures  hearkened, 
Neared  and  hearkened,  as  in  pity. 

But  a  Saracen  came  riding 
Bold  and  haughty  down  the  pathway, 
In  his  lofty  saddle  swaying, 
Swung  his  impious,  naked  lance. 

Pierced  the  poor  old  singer's  bosom 
With  the  fatal  spear  of  death, 
Swiftly  galloped  off  and  left  him. 
Like  a  winged  form  of  shadow. 


THIRD  BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  35 

And  the  Kabbi's  blood  Howed  softly, 
And  he  calmly  finished  singing, 
Sang  his  song  out,  and  his  death-sigh 
Was  the  name  Jerusalem  ! — 

But  an  ancient  legend  has  it 
'Twas  no  insolent  and  evil 
Wretched  Saracen  that  slew  him, 
But  an  angel  in  disguise, 

Who  was  sent  express  from  heaven 
To  deliver  God's  beloved 
From  the  earth,  and  speed  him  painless 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  blessed ; 

And  it  tells  us  that,  up  yonder, 
A  reception  was  awaiting 
Full  of  flattery  to  a  poet : 
A  most  heavenly  surprise ; 

For  a  festal  choir  of  angels 
Came  with  music  forth  to  meet  him, 
And  the  hymn  they  sang  in  welcome 
Was  composed  of  his  own  verses : 

Sabbath's  hymeneal  numbers 
Sung  in  synagogues  at  bridals, 
With  the  melodies  familiar — 
Ah,  what  notes  of  jubilation  ! 


36  ROMANCERO. 

Little  angels  blew  the  hautbois, 
Little  angels  played  the  fiddle, 
Others  swept  the  strings  of  viols 
To  the  clash  of  drum  and  cymbal. 

And  it  rang  and  sang  so  sweetly, 
Sweetly  sounded  and  re-echoed 
In  the  vasty  halls  of  heaven : 
"  Lecho  dodi  likrath  kallah." 


IV. 


Most  dissatisfied  my  wife  is 
With  the  chapter  just  concluded, 
And,  above  all,  in  connection 
With  the  casket  of  Darius, 

Almost  bitter  was  her  comment : 
That  a  married  man  who  truly 
Was  religious,  without  waiting 
Would  have  realised  that  casket. 

Would  have  spent  at  once  the  proceeds 
On  his  poor,  his  lawful  wife : 
Would  the  cashmere  shawl  have  purchased 
That  she  stood  so  much  in  need  of. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  37 

For  Jehuda  ben  Halevy 
Quite  sufficient  were  the  honour — 
So  she  thought — of  being  guarded 
In  a  pretty  box  of  pasteboard 

Decked  with  elegant  and  Chinese 
Arabesque,  like  those  delightful 
Bonbon  boxes  of  Marquis's 
In  the  Passage  Panorama. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  she  added, 
"  That  I  never  heard  him  mentioned, 
Never  heard  the  name  so  famous 
Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy." 

"  Dearest  child,"  I  answered  gravely, 
"  This  sweet  ignorance  of  yours 
Only  shows  how  very  faulty 
Is  the  education  given 

"  In  the  boarding-schools  of  Paris 
"Where  the  maidens — future  mothers 
Of  a  great  and  free-born  people — 
Are  supposed  to  be  instructed. 

"  All  the  facts  concerning  mummies, 
The  embalmed  Egyptian  Pharaohs, 
Shadowy  Merovingian  monarchs, 
And  perukes  devoid  of  powder, 

66019 


38  ROMANCERO. 

"  Pig-tailed  potentates  of  China, 
Kings  of  porcelain-built  pagodas — 
All  to  memory  committed, 
Clever  maidens  !     But,  ye  heavens ! 

"  If  one  asks  the  name  most  famous 
In  the  glorious  golden  age, 
Of  the  Jewish  school  of  poets, 
The  Arabian  Old-Spanish — 

"  For  the  starry  trio  asks  them, 
For  Jehuda  ben  Halevy, 
For  great  Solomon  Gabirol, 
Or  for  Moses  Iben  Esra — 

"  For  such  names  if  one  should  ask  them, 
Then  they  know  not  what  to  answer, 
And  the  children  stare  dumbfounded, 
Puzzled,  stare  with  wondering  eyes. 

"  I  advise  you  strongly,  dearest. 
To  retrieve  those  past  omissions, 
And  to  learn  the  Hebrew  languase. 
Leave  your  theatres  and  concerts, 

"  And  devote  some  years  to  study. 
You  will  then  with  ease  be  able 
In  the  ancient  text  to  read  them, 
Iben  Esra  and  Gabirol, 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  39 

"  And,  of  course,  the  great  Halevy, 
The  triumvirate  poetic, 
Who  of  old  the  sweetest  music 
Drew  from  out  the  harp  of  David. 

"  Alcharisi  whom,  I  wager. 
You  know  nothing  of,  though  Gallic 
And  a  wit  he  was,  outjesting 
The  romances  of  Hariri 

"  In  his  skilful  Hebrew  measures. 
And  a  true  Voltaire,  six  hundred 
Years  before  Voltaire  was  heard  of — 
Said  this  witty  Alcharisi, 

" '  In  the  realm  of  thought  Gabirol 
Shines,  and  pleases  best  the  thinker. 
While  in  art  shines  Iben  Esra, 
And  thereby  delights  the  artist ; 

" '  But  Jehuda  ben  Halevy, 
Both  their  attributes  combining, 
Is  a  great  and  glorious  poet 
And  beloved  of  all  alike.'  " 

Iben  Esra  was  a  friend. 
Was,  indeed,  I  think,  a  cousin 
Of  Jehuda  ben  Halevy. 
In  his  book  of  travels,  sadly 


4°  ROMANCERO. 

He  laments  that  iii  Granada 
He  went  journeying,  seeking  vainly 
For  his  friend,  but  none  could  find  there, 
Save  the  brother,  Rabbi  Meyer, 

The  physician  and  the  poet, 
And  the  father  of  that  fair  one, 
Who  with  flames  of  hopeless  passion 
Lit  the  heart  of  I  ben  Esra. 

To  forget  his  little  niece, 
He  took  up  his  pilgrim's  staff. 
Like  so  many  of  his  comrades. 
And  lived  homeless  and  unsettled. 


To  Jerusalem  while  wanderino- 
He  was  set  on  by  some  Tartars. 
To  a  horse  they  bound  him,  bare  him 
As  a  captive  to  their  desert. 

There  the  services  he  rendered 
Were  unworthy  of  a  Eabbi, 
Still  unworthier  of  a  poet — 
He  was  forced  to  milk  the  cows. 

As  he  sat  beneath  the  belly 
Of  a  cow  once,  as  he  squatted 
Nimbly  drawing  at  the  udder, 
Sending  milk  into  the  pail — 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  41 

A  position  most  unworthy 

Of  a  Eabbi  and  a  poet — 

He  was  overcome  with  sorrow, 

And  he  raised  his  voice,  and  sang. 

And  he  sang  so  well  and  sweetly 
That  the  Khan,  the  tribal  leader, 
Who  was  passing  by  was  melted, 
To  the  slave  restored  his  freedom  ; 

Adding  gifts  thereto:  a  fox-skin 
And  a  mandolin — the  long  one 
Of  the  Saracen  musicians — 
And  his  travelling  expenses. 

Fate  of  poets  !     Star  ill-omened 
That  harasses  with  such  deadly 
Grudge  the  offspring  of  Apollo, 
And  that  spared  not  even  the  father, 

Who,  sweet  Daphne  erst  pursuing. 
When  he  clasped  the  nymph's  white  body, 
Found  his  arms  about  the  laurel — 
He  the  heavenly  Schlemihl ! 

Yes,  the  high,  the  Delphic  God  is 
A  Schlemihl ;  the  very  laurel 
That  so  proudly  crowns  his  forehead 
Is  a  sign  of  his  Schlemihldom. 


42  ROMANCERO. 

What  the  word  Schlemihl  betokens, 
Well  we  know  :  Chamisso  gave  it 
Long  ago  its  German,  civic 
Rights — at  least  the  word  received  them. 

Not  yet  ascertained,  however. 

Is  its  origin — as  little 

As  the  sources  of  the  Mle  are — 

Many  a  night  I've  spent  in  puzzling. 

And  though,  years  ago,  I  travelled 
To  Berlin  to  see  Chamisso, 
And  to  gather  information 
From  the  dean  about  Schlemihl, 

I  received  no  satisfaction. 
Was  referred  by  him  to  Hitzig, 
Who  had  first  betrayed  the  surname 
Of  this  Peter  without  shadow. 

Upon  this  I  took  a  droschke 
And  set  off  without  delaying, 
To  the  magistrate,  Herr  Hitzig, 
Who  in  former  days  was  Itzig. 

While  he  still  was  known  as  Itzig, 
In  a  dream  he  saw  his  name 
As  it  stood  inscribed  in  heaven, 
With  the  letter  H  before  it. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  43 

And  he  asked,  "  What  is  the  meaning 
Of  this  H  ?     Perhaps  Herr  Itzig, 
Or  the  holy  Itzig.     Holy 
Is  a  fair  and  goodly  title — 

"  But  unsuited  to  Berlin." 
So  he  took  the  name  of  Hitzig, 
Tired  of  puzzling  ;  as  a  saint 
He  is  known  but  by  the  faithful. 

So  I  said,  when  I  had  found  him, 
"  Holy  Hitzig,  prithee,  tell  me, 
And  explain  the  derivation 
Of  the  curious  word  Schlemihl." 

Then  the  saint  became  evasive. 
Said  he  could  not  quite  remember, 
Tried  to  shuffle,  dodged  the  question, 
In  the  truly  Christian  spirit. 

Till  at  last  I  burst  the  buttons 
Of  the  breeches  of  my  patience, 
And  began  to  swear  so  fiercely. 
Yes,  so  blasphemously  swore 

That  the  godly  man  and  pious. 
Pale  as  death,  with  knees  that  trembled, 
On  the  spot  my  prayer  granted, 
And  the  following  story  told  me. 


44  ROMANCERO. 

In  the  Bible  it  is  written 
How  that,  wandering  in  the  desert, 
Israel  often  sought  diversion 
With  the  daughters  fair  of  Canaan ; 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  Phinehas 
One  day  saw  the  noble  Zirari 
Carrying  on  an  amorous  intrigue 
With  a  Canaanitish  woman. 

On  the  instant,  in  his  anger 
He  had  seized  his  spear  and  hurled  it, 
Madly  hurled  it,  slaying  Zimri — 
So  the  Bible  tells  the  story. 

But  a  legend  'mongst  the  people 
Has  been  orally  transmitted 
Which  denies  that  it  was  Zimri 
Whom  the  spear  of  Phinehas  slew, 

And  maintains  that,  blind  with  passion, 
Phinehas  slew  not  the  transgressor. 
But  another  who  was  guiltless — 
Slew  Schlemihl  ben  Zuri  Schadday. 

This  Schlemihl  I.  was  founder 
Of  the  race  of  the  Schlemihls ; 
We  are  lineally  descended 
From  Schlemihl  ben  Zuri  Schadday, 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  45 

It  is  true  no  deeds  heroic 

Have  been  told  of  him ;  our  knowledge 

Is  confined  to  his  cognomen. 

He  was  named,  we  know,  Schlemihl. 

But  on  trees  that  give  one's  lineage 
It  is  never  fruit  we  ask  for ; 
It  is  age,  and  ours,  we  reckon, 
Has  endured  three  thousand  years. 

Years  they  come  and  years  they  vanish ; 
Full  three  thousand  years  have  tieeted 
Since  the  passing  of  our  founder, 
Herr  Schlemihl  ben  Zuri  Schadday. 

It  is  long  since  Phinehas  also 
Died,  yet  still  his  spear  is  with  us, 
And  above  our  heads  unpausing 
We  can  hear  its  fatal  whizzing. 

And  the  noblest  hearts  it  pierces, 
Like  Jehuda  ben  Halevy's, 
And  like  Moses  Iben  Esra's  ; 
Yea,  Gabirol,  too,  was  stricken. 

Great  Gabirol,  true  and  loyal, 
God-devoted  minnesinger. 
Pious  nightingale  who  sang  not 
To  a  rose,  but  to  his  God — 


46  ROMANCERO. 

Tender  nightingale  who  sweetly 
Sang  his  love-songs  in  the  dimness, 
In  the  darkness  of  the  Gothic, 
Of  the  mediseval  night ! 

Undismayed,  and  fearing  nothing 
From  the  ugly  shapes  and  spirits, 
From  the  waste  of  death  and  madness 
Which  that  night  so  weirdly  haunted, 

He,  the  nightingale,  thought  only 
Of  his  heavenly  beloved, 
'Twas  to  Him  he  sobbed  his  passion. 
It  was  He  his  song  exalted. 

Only  thirty  springs  Gabirol 
On  our  earth  beheld,  but  Fama 
Through  all  lands  proclaimed  the  glory 
Of  his  name  with  sounding  trumpet. 

Now  at  Cordova,  his  city, 
Dwelt  a  Moor,  his  next-door  neighbour, 
Who  wrote  verses  too,  and  envied 
Sore  the  poet  his  renown. 

When  he  heard  the  poet  singing, 
Straight  the  Moor  would  swell  with  rancour ; 
To  his  jealousy  the  sweetness 
Of  the  song  was  bitter  sorrow. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  47 

He  enticed  his  hated  rival 
To  his  house  by  night,  and  slew  him, 
And,  behind  the  house,  the  body 
In  a  garden  plot  he  buried. 

But  behold !     From  out  the  ground 
Where  the  body  had  been  hidden 
Sprang  a  fig  tree  forth,  and  blossomed — 
Tree  of  great  and  wondrous  beauty. 

Of  a  curious  length  its  fruit  was, 
And  of  strange  and  spicy  sweetness, 
And  who  ate  thereof  sank  swooning 
In  a  trance  of  dreamy  rapture. 

And  because  of  this  the  people 
Fell  to  talking  and  to  muttering. 
Till  at  last  the  spreading  rumour 
Reached  the  Caliph's  high-born  ears. 

Then  this  marvel  among  fig  trees 
By  the  Caliph's  self  was  tested. 
Who  appointed  a  commission 
To  investigate  the  matter. 

They  proceeded  straight  to  business. 
Gave  the  owner  of  the  fig  tree 
Sixty  strokes  upon  his  soles 
With  the  bamboo  ;  forced  confession  ; 


48  ROMANCERO. 

To  the  fig  tree  went,  and  tore  it 
By  its  roots  from  out  the  ground, 
And  discovered,  hid  beneath  it, 
Poor  Gabirol's  murdered  body. 

This  with  pomp  and  state  was  buried 
And  lamented  by  tlie  brethren, 
And  that  day  the  Moor  was  taken. 
And  at  Cordova  was  hanged. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  49 


DISPUTATION. 

In  the  Aula  at  Toledo 

Trumpets  peal  their  fanfares  loud  ; 
To  the  intellectual  tourney, 

Gaily  decked,  the  masses  crowd. 

'Tis  no  common  earthly  combat, 
And  no  iron  weapons  glance ; 

Nay,  by  learning  sharply  pointed, 
'Tis  the  word  that  is  the  lance. 

Those  who  tilt  here  serve  not  ladies, 
Are  no  gallant  Paladins  ; 

In  this  combat  all  the  knights  are 
Eabbis  grave  and  Capuchins. 

Not  on  helmets  but  on  skull-caps 
And  on  cowls  they  place  reliance. 

And  their  sacerdotal  vestments 
Form  their  armour  of  defiance. 

Is  the  Hebrew  God  the  true  one — 
He,  the  one,  the  fixed,  the  far. 

For  whose  glory  stands,  as  champion, 
Rabbi  Juda  of  Navarre  ? 

VOL.  XII.  D 


50  ROMANCERO. 

Is  the  Christian  God  the  true  one — 
Triune  God  of  grace  and  love, 

As  the  champion,  Franciscan 
Friar  Jose  hopes  to  prove  ? 

By  the  logic-linked  sorites, 
And  by  arguments  of  weight, 

By  quotations  from  the  authors 
Most  acknowledged  in  debate, 

Fain  each  champion  his  rival 
Would  to  ad  ahsurdum  lure. 

Of  the  true  and  only  Godhead 
Giving  demonstration  sure. 


'O 


The  agreement  is :  whoever 

Is  defeated  in  the  fight. 
The  religion  of  his  rival 

Shall  accept,  and  own  as  right ; 

That  the  sacrament  the  Hebrew 
Shall  partake  of,  be  baptized. 

While  the  Christian  for  his  failure 
Shall  be  duly  circumcised. 

And  eleven  loyal  comrades 

Has  each  champion  by  his  side, 

All  resolved  to  share  his  fortunes, 
Whether  weal  or  woe  betide. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  51 

Full  of  faith  the  monks  who  figure 

As  the  prior's  escort  stand, 
With  the  holy  water  ready, 

With  the  vessel  in  their  hand  ; 

And  they  wave  the  shining  censer, 
Nor  the  sprinkling  brush  forget. 

While  the  knife  of  circumcision 
Their  opponents  grimly  whet. 

In  the  hall,  for  battle  ready, 

By  the  lists  the  factions  wait, 
And  the  throng  expects  the  signal, 

All  impatient  and  elate. 

With  their  courtiers  gathered  round  them, 

'Neath  a  canopy  of  gold. 
Sit  the  king  and  queen — the  queen  is 

Still  a  child ;  her  features  hold — 

In  her  small  French  nose  you  see  it — 

In  their  mirth  a  roguish  guile, 
But  bewitchinc^  are  the  rubies 

Of  her  lips  that  always  smile. 

Lovely,  fragile,  fickle  flower. 

May  God  sliield  her  now  from  harm  ! 

Poor,  unlucky  thing,  transplanted 
From  the  Seine,  so  gay  and  warm, 


52  ROMANCERO. 

To  the  rigid  soil  that  nurtures 

Spanish  grandees,  proud  and  vain. 

Blanche  de  Bourbon,  reared  in  France,  is 
Donna  Blanca,  now  of  Spain. 

And  the  king  is  called  Don  Pedro, 
To  which  men  "  the  Cruel "  add, 

But  to-day  he  seems  too  gentle 
To  deserve  a  name  so  bad. 

He  engages  with  the  nobles 

Of  the  court  in  converse  bright. 

To  the  Moors  and  Jews  addresses 
Many  speeches  most  polite. 

'Mongst  the  knights  the  circumcised  ones 
In  his  favour  highest  stand, 

They  control  the  State  finances, 
And  the  royal  troops  command. 

But  the  blare  of  drum  and  trumpet 
Has  announced  with  sudden  din 

That  the  war  of  tongues  is  starting : 
That  the  athletes  will  begin. 


"O^ 


The  Franciscan  friar  grimly 
Forth  in  pious  fury  breaks ; 

Now  his  voice  is  loud  and  blustering, 
Now  with  growling  menace  shakes 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  53 

In  the  name  of  God  the  Father, 

Of  the  Son  and  Holy  Ghost, 
He  has  exorcised  the  Eabbi, 

Jacob's  seed  accurst  and  lost ; 

For  in  combats  of  this  nature 

Little  devils  often  hide 
In  the  Jews,  whose  wits  they  sharpen, 

And  with  arguments  provide. 

Having  exorcised  the  Devil, 

Back  on  dogma  now  he  falls. 
Seeks  to  bowl  his  rival  over 

With  his  catechismal  balls. 

He  informs  him  that  the  Godhead 

Is  composed  of  persons  three, 
Who,  however,  when  convenient. 

One,  and  only  one,  may  be. 

Great  the  mystery,  and  only 

To  be  understood  of  those 
Whom  the  prison  walls  of  reason 

No  more  darken  and  enclose. 

And  at  Bethlehem,  he  tells  them 

How  a  son  the  Virgin  bore  : 
Bore  the  Saviour  of  the  world, 

Yet  was  virgin  as  before  ; 


54  ROMANCERO. 

How  they  laid  Him  in  a  manger — 
Laid  the  Lord  of  earth,  most  high, 

With  a  calf  and  heifer  meekly 
And  devoutly  standing  by. 

He  related  how  the  Saviour 

From  King  Herod's  minions  lied 

Into  Egypt,  and  how,  later, 
Before  Pontius  Pilate  led, 

He  was  crucified ;  how  Pilate 

Was  unable  to  refuse 
To  pronounce  His  doom,  so  urgent 

Were  the  Pharisees  and  Jews. 

How  the  Lord,  albeit  buried, 
On  the  third  day  rose  again, 

And  ascended  into  heaven, 
He  recounted  to  them  plain ; 

And  how  Christ  to  earth  returning 
On  the  day  of  doom  and  dread. 

To  Jehoshaphat  will  summon 

And  will  judge  the  quick  and  dead. 

"  Tremble,  Jews  !  "  the  prior  thundered, 
"  And  before  the  Lord  bow  down 

Whom  ye  did  to  death  and  tortured 
With  your  whips  and  thorny  crown. 


THIRD  BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  55 

"  Ye,  His  murderers  vindictive 
And  athirst  for  vengeance  blind, 

Still  ye  plot  against  the  Saviour, 
The  Redeemer  of  mankind, 

"  0  ye  Jews,  ye  are  a  carcase 

Where  infernal  demons  dwell. 
And  your  bodies  are  the  barracks 

Of  the  Devil's  hosts  from  hell. 

"  So  says  Thomas  of  Aquinas, 
Whom  they  call  the  Mighty  Ox 

Among  scholars,  light  and  pleasure 
Of  the  truly  orthodox. 

"  0  ye  Jews  !  ye  are  hyenas, 

Wolves  and  jackals  burrowing  foul 

In  the  graves ;  ye  search  for  corpses 
For  whose  blood  with  greed  ye  howl. 

"  Ye  are  hogs,  0  Jews  !  and  monkeys. 
Ye  are  beasts  with  snout  and  horn, 

Yes,  rhinoceroses,  vampires, 
Ye  are  crocodiles,  mud-born. 

"  Ye  are  owls  and  ye  are  ravens, 

Ye  are  bats  that  fear  the  light. 
Ye  are  cockatrices,  screech-owls, 

And  the  gallows-birds  of  night. 


ROMANCERO. 

"  Ye  are  rattlesnakes  and  blindworms, 
Toads  envenomed,  vipers  dread ; 

Ye  are  asps  and  ye  are  adders — 
Christ  will  crush  your  cursed  head. 

"  Or,  ye  damned  ones,  would  ye  rather 
Save  your  souls  and  turn  to  grace  ? 

From  the  synagogues  of  evil 
Fly,  and  seek  the  holy  place : 

"  Seek  the  Church  of  love,  the  bright  one, 
Where  the  fount  that  purges  sin 

Flows  in  mercy's  hallowed  basins  ; 
Bow  your  heads  and  dip  them  in. 

"  Wash  away  the  ancient  Adam, 
Cleanse  the  vile  and  vicious  parts ; 

Wash  the  inveterate  mould  of  hatred, 
Wash  it  clean  from  out  your  hearts ! 

"  Ye  can  surely  hear  the  Saviour 
Calling  each  by  his  new  name ; 

On  His  bosom  drop  the  vermin 
Of  your  sin  and  of  your  shame ! 

"  For  our  God  is  Love  incarnate, 
And  no  lamb  could  milder  be ; 

To  atone  for  our  transgressions 
He  was  nailed  upon  a  tree. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  57 

"  Yes,  our  God  is  Love  incarnate — 
Jesus  Christ  His  name  most  sweet. 

His  humility  we  copy, 
And  His  patience,  as  is  meet. 

"  Hence  we,  too,  are  mild  and  gentle, 

Slow  to  anger  and  humane. 
For  the  Lamb  is  our  ensample 

Who,  to  purge  our  sin,  was  slain. 

"  And  hereafter,  up  in  heaven, 

We  shall  go  as  angels  bright, 
Pious  angels  blest  for  ever, 

In  our  hands  a  lily  white. 

"We  shall  walk  in  spotless  raiment, 
Cast  these  clumsy  cowls  of  grey — 

Wear  brocade,  and  silk,  and  muslin, 
Golden  tassels,  ribbons  gay. 

"  No  more  tonsures  !     Golden  tresses 
Eound  our  heads  will  wave  and  shine. 

Charming  virgins,  deft  of  finger, 
Will  our  hair  in  pigtails  twine. 

"  And,  on  high,  the  festal  goblets 

Shall  be  made  of  ampler  girth 
Than  the  cups  that  down  below,  here, 

Hold  the  foaming  wine  of  earth. 


58  ROMANCERO. 

"  On  the  other  hand  much  smaller 
Than  below  will,  up  above, 

Be  the  mouths  of  the  dear  women 
Given  each  of  us  to  love. 

"  There,  in  drinking,  kissing,  laughter, 
"We  shall  pass  our  deathless  days. 

Singing  happy  hallelujahs, 
Singing  holy  songs  of  praise." 

Here  the  Christian  ceased.     The  friars. 
Thinking  all  must  see  the  light. 

Hastened  forward  with  the  vessels 
For  the  great  baptismal  rite. 

But  the  water-hating  Hebrews, 
Jeering,  rouse  themselves  for  war, 

And  the  champion  commences — 
Eabbi  Juda  of  Navarre. 

"  That  my  spirit's  barren  acres 

For  thy  seed  might  want  not  dung. 

Thou  most  doughtily  thy  insults 
By  the  barrow-load  hast  flung. 

"  Each  man  follows  but  the  method 
To  which  custom  ease  hath  lent. 

For  my  part,  I  do  not  chide  thee, 
Nay,  I  thank  thee,  well  content. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW  MELODIES.  59 

"  Of  this  Trinitarian  doctrine 

Must  a  race  deny  the  truth, 
That  the  Rule  of  Three  has  studied 

i'rom  the  early  days  of  youth. 

"  That  thy  Godhead  should  three  persons, 

And  no  greater  number,  hold, 
Is  most  moderate ;  the  ancients 

Had  six  thousand  gods  of  old. 

"I  am  ignorant  entirely 

Of  the  God  whom  '  Christ '  ye  name  ; 
With  his  pure  and  virgin  mother 

No  acquaintance  can  I  claim. 

"  That  he  suffered  many  years  since — 
Some  twelve  hundred,  I  believe — 

In  Jerusalem  annoyance, 

Is  a  thing  for  which  I  grieve. 

"  As  to  who  it  was  that  killed  him 

Must  remain  a  point  uncleared, 
The  delida  corpus  having 

On  the  third  day  disappeared. 

"  What  you  say  of  his  connection 

With  our  God,  I  beg  to  doubt ; 
If  our  God  had  any  children, 

'Tis  a  fact  has  ne'er  come  out. 


6o  ROMANCERO. 

"  Nor  did  our  God  ever  perish 
Like  a  lamb,  to  save  mankind. 

No  soft,  silly,  philanthropic 

Fool  is  He,  both  weak  and  blind. 

"  He  is  far  from  Love  incarnate ; 

His  caresses  none  have  known  ; 
God  of  thunder  and  of  vengeance 

Is  the  Deity  we  own. 

"  On  each  sinner,  without  mercy, 
Fall  the  lightnings  of  His  hate ; 

The  transgressions  of  the  fathers 
Children's  children  expiate. 

"  Yes,  our  God  is  great  and  living; 

In  His  heavenly  halls  for  aye 
He  has  dwelt,  and  will  endure  there 

Till  the  ages  pass  away. 

"  He  is  living,  He  is  lusty — 

Is  not  mythical  and  pale 
As  a  consecrated  wafer. 

Or  Cocytus'  shadows  frail 

"  He  is  strong.     Sun,  moon,  and  planets. 
In  His  hand  He  holds  them  all ; 

When  He  frowns  the  nations  perish, 
And  the  thrones  in  ruin  fall. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  6i 

"  '  Yea,  His  Rreatuess  none  can  measure,' 
Sings  King  David,  psalmist  sweet, 

'  And  the  earth  which  we  inhabit 
Is  a  footstool  for  His  feet.' 

"  He  is  fond  of  pleasant  music, 

Festal  hymns,  the  harp  divine, 
But  the  sound  of  church  bells  ringing 

He  abhors  like  grunting  swine. 

"  Where  Leviathan  the  mighty 

Lives  in  ocean,  housed  for  aye, 
For  an  hour  the  Lord  disports  Him 

With  the  monster  every  day, 

"  Save,  of  course,  upon  the  ninth  one 

Of  the  month  of  Ab,  when  fell 
Into  ashes  drear  His  temple ; 

Then  the  Lord  feels  far  from  well. 

"  Full  a  hundred  miles  this  fish  is 
Of  his  length — with  fins,  to  sail, 

Quite  as  big  as  Og  of  Bashan  ; 
Like  a  cedar  is  his  tail. 

"  But  his  flesh  is  very  dainty. 

As  the  turtle's  it  is  fine. 
On  the  day  of  Eesurrection 

Will  the  Lord  invite  to  dine 


62  ROMANCERO. 

"  All  the  pious  and  the  chosen, 
All  the  wise  men  and  the  good, 

And  this  fish  they  will  partake  of — 
The  Almighty's  favourite  food  ; 

"  Part  with  garlic  sauce  dressed  whitely, 
Part  in  wine  steeped  :  brown  and  nice, 

And  resembling  somewhat  matelotes 
Cooked  with  raisins  and  with  spice. 

"  In  the  white,  the  garlic  gravy, 
Thin  horse-radish  shavings  float. 

You,  I  wager,  Friar  Jose, 

On  the  fish  thus  cooked  would  dote. 

"  Also  brown,  with  sauce  of  raisins, 

'Tis  a  dainty  cannot  cloy; 
To  your  stomach,  Friar  Jose, 

'Twere  a  sheer  celestial  joy. 

"  What  the  Lord  has  cooked  is  well  cooked  ! 

0  ye  monks,  be  wise  at  length ! 
Make  the  sacrifice  that's  needful ; 

On  this  fish  renew  your  strength." 

Smirking,  smiling  spake  the  Ptabbi, 
With  enticing,  luring  tongue, 

And  the  Jews  the  knife  already, 
Grunting  rapturously,  swung. 

*  *  * 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  63 

But  the  monks  remained  unshaken, 
By  their  fathers'  faith  stood  fast, 

Quite  determined  to  defend  it 
And  its  ritual  to  the  last. 

When  the  Jew  had  done,  the  Friar, 
With  converting  zeal  new-stirred. 

The  attack  renewed  ;  a  vessel 
Full  of  iilth  was  every  word. 

To  which  speech  replied  the  Rabbi, 
With  restrained  and  hidden  heat ; 

Though  his  heart  was  boiling  over 
He  contrived  his  gall  to  eat. 

He  appealed  to  the  great  Mischna, 

To  the  commentaries,  tracts  ; 
From  the  Tausves-Jontof  quoting. 

To  support  and  clinch  his  facts. 

But  what  blasphemies  appalling 
From  the  monk  his  efforts  bring ! 

He  exclaims,  "The  Tausves-Jontof! 
To  the  Devil  with  the  thing !" 


"O 


"  Can  profanity  go  further  ?  " 

Shrieks  the  Jew,  in  wrath  amazed : 

Shrieks,  with  patience  quite  exhausted, 
As  if  suddenly  gone  crazed. 


64  ROMANCERO. 

"  If  the  Tausves-Jontof  s  nothing, 
What  is  left  ?     0  Lord,  give  heed ! 

Lord,  rebuke  the  evil-doer, 
And  avenge  his  dire  misdeed  ! 

"  For,  0  God !  the  Tausves-Jontof 
Is  Thyself,  and  Thou  must  take 

On  Thy  vile  denier  vengeance, 
For  Thy  holy  honour's  sake ! 

"  Bid  the  ground  to  yawn  and  open, 
Bid  it  swallow  him,  as  erst 

At  Thy  word  it  swallowed  Cora 
And  his  impious  band  accurst. 

"  With  Thy  loudest  thunders  thunder ! 

Smite  the  bold  blasphemer  low — 
For  Gomorrah  and  for  Sodom 

Thou  hadst  sulphur  long  ago  ! 

"  Smite  the  Capuchin  like  Pharaoh, 
Whom  Thine  anger  smote  of  old, 

When  he  followed  us,  who  fled  him, 
Heavy  laden  with  his  gold. 

"With  a  hundred  thousand  warriors 
Marched  this  king,  Mizrayim's  lord. 

All  in  armour  clad,  and  shining. 
In  each  awful  hand  a  sword. 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  65 

"  With  Thine  arm  outstretched,  Jehovah, 
Thou  didst  smite  him  ;  he  was  lost; 

In  the  Ked  Sea,  drowned  like  kittens, 
Sank  King  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

"  Strike  the  Capuchin  and  show  him — 
Let  the  wretch  degraded  learn — 

That  the  lightnings  of  Thine  anger 

Are  not  quenched:  that  still  they  burn. 

"  I  will  sing  Thy  praise  and  glory 
When  Thy  might  has  overcome ; 

I  will  dance  the  dance  of  Miriam, 
I  will  beat,  like  her,  the  drum." 

At  this  point  the  angry  friar 

Forth  in  fury  grimly  burst : 
"  You  yourself  be  damned  forever 

By  the  Lord,  and  die  accurst ! 

"  Before  Ashtaroth  and  Belial, 

Before  Lucifer  the  proud, 
And  Beelzebub,  the  fly-god, 

Before  all  I  stand  unbowed. 

"  I  defy  and  mock  your  spirits, 

Dark  buffooneries  of  hell ; 
For  of  Jesus  Christ  I've  eaten, 

And  within  me  He  doth  dwell, 

vol.  XII.  K 


ROMANCERO. 

"  'Tis  a  food  transcends  all  others : 

It  surpasses  in  delight 
The  Leviathan  whom  Satan 

May  have  cooked  with  garlic  white. 

"  Ah,  instead  of  thus  disputing 

I  would  sooner  on  the  fire 
Bake  and  roast  you  with  your  comrades, 

On  a  flaming  funeral  pyre  ! " 

So  with  insult  and  in  earnest 

Raged  the  fight  for  God  and  creed, 

But  the  champions  quite  vainly 

Storm  and  scold  and  pant  and  plead. 

They  have  fought  twelve  hours  already ; 

Still  remote  the  end  desired  ; 
And  the  audience  has  grown  weary, 

And  the  women  hot  and  tired. 

Even  the  Court  is  now  impatient ; 

Ladies  try  to  yawn  unseen  ; 
And  the  king,  Don  Pedro,  turning, 

Puts  the  question  to  the  queen : 

"  Tell  me  frankly  what  opinion 
You  have  come  to  ;  who  is  right  ? 

Has  the  monk  or  has  the  Rabbi 
Won  the  honours  of  the  fight  ? " 


THIRD   BOOK.      HEBREW   MELODIES.  67 

Donna  Blanca  gazes  puzzled  ; 

Fingers  twined,  as  if  in  thought, 
Presses  hard  against  her  forehead, 

Then  she  answers,  as  besought : 

"  Wliich  is  right,"  slie  says,  "  I  know  not. 
But  there's  one  thing  I  can  tell  : 

I  am  sure  both  monk  and  Eabbi 
Have  a  most  offensive  smell." 


LAST    POEMS. 


(1853-1856.) 


LAST    POEMS. 


YEARNING  FOR  PEACE. 

Oh,  let  thy  wounds  unhindered  bleed, 
And  let  thy  tears  unchidden  flow, 

For  weeping  is  a  balsam  mild, 
And  secret  rapture  dwells  in  woe. 

If  strangers'  hands  have  dealt  no  hurt. 
Then  thou  thyself  must  wield  the  rod. 

When  tears  are  wet  upon  thy  cheek. 
Devoutly  thank  a  pitying  God. 

The  night  descends  with  streaming  veils 
Now  day's  discordant  noises  cease ; 

Upon  her  bosom  thou  shalt  rest, 

No  blusterer  loud  to  mar  thy  peace. 

From  music  thou  shalt  be  secure, 

A  respite  from  pianos  win — 

From  terrible  bravura  shrieks, 

And  the  grand  opera's  splendid  din. 
71 


72  LAST  POEMS. 

Here  none  shall  persecute  thy  calm 
With  great  Giacomo's  vaunted  name  : 

No  virtuosi  crash  and  pound 
In  illustration  of  his  fame. 

0  grave !  thou  art  the  Paradise 

Of  ears  that  shrink  from  vulgar  mirth. 

Ah  !  death  is  good,  but  better  still 
Our  mothers  had  not  given  us  birth. 


IN  MAY. 

The  friends  I  kissed  and  loved  of  yore 
Have  done  their  worst  and  wronged  me  sore. 
My  heart  is  breaking  ;  yet  how  gay 
The  laughing  sun  still  welcomes  May ! 

Sweet  spring's  in  blossom.     Loud  and  long 
The  echoing  greenwood  rings  with  song, 
And  flowers  and  maids  are  smiling  bright — 
0  lovely  world  of  loathed  delight ! 

Grim  Orcus  I  could  almost  praise ; 
No  cruel  contrasts  there  amaze. 
Ah,  happier  is  the  anguished  soul 
Where  Stygian  waters  darkly  roll. 


BABYLONIAN  SORROWS.  73 

The  melancholy  surge  and  fall, 
And  the  Stymphalides'  drear  call, 
The  furies'  sing-song  shrill  and  keen, 
With  Cerberus  baying  loud  between — 

Such  things  as  these  suit  well  with  woe. 
In  the  sad  vale  where  shadows  go, 
In  Proserpine's  accurst  domain 
All  is  attuned  to  tears  and  pain. 

But  here  above  to  me,  forlorn, 
How  wounding  is  the  rose's  thorn  ; 
The  May-sky  mocks  me,  blue  and  bright ; 
0  lovely  world  of  loathed  delight ! 


BABYLONIAN  SORllOWS. 

Death  calls  me — sweet,  'twere  almost  kind 
To  leave  thee  in  some  wood  behind, 
Some  drear  and  lonely  pinewood  filled 
With  howling  wolves,  where  vultures  build, 
And  the  wild  sow  with  horrid  snore 
Grunts  to  her  mate,  the  tawny  boar. 

Death  calls  me — 0  my  wife,  my  child, 
Better  upon  the  ocean  wild 
To  leave  thee,  where  the  great  floods  roll. 
And  maddened  north  winds  from  the  Pole 


74  LAST  POEMS. 

Lash  the  loud  waves,  while,  from  the  deep, 
The  monstrous  things  that  hidden  sleep — 
The  sharks  and  crocodiles — with  grim 
And  gaping  jaws  come  forth  and  swim ! 
Trust  me,  Matilda,  child  and  wife. 
The  daunting  wood  is  not  so  rife 
With  dangers,  nor  the  angry  foam 
Of  churning  seas,  as  this  our  home. 
Dread  though  the  wolf  and  vulture  be. 
And  sharks  and  monsters  of  the  sea, 
YsLT  deadlier  beasts  are  housed  than  they 
In  lovely  Paris,  brilliant,  gay, 
Where  song  and  mirth  and  dancing  dwell, 
The  heaven  of  fiends,  the  angels'  hell. 
To  leave  thee  here  !     It  is  a  thought 
With  fever  and  with  madness  fraught ! 

Black  flies  are  whirling  round  me  now ; 
They  tease  and  buzz — on  nose  and  brow 
I  feel  them  light — detested  race  ! 
They  have  an  almost  human  face, 
With  elephants'  trunks  between  their  eyes, 
Like  India's  god,  Ganesa  wise. — 
There's  someone  packing  up  a  box 
Inside  my  head — how  loud  he  knocks ! 
My  reason  will  be  gone,  alas  ! 
Ere  I  myself,  so  soon  to  pass. 


THE   SLAVE  SHIP.  75 

THE  SLAVE  SHIP. 
I. 

The  supercargo  Mynheer  van  Koek 

Has  gone  to  his  cabin  to  count ; 
He  is  reckoning  up  what  the  cargo  cost. 

And  to  what  the  profits  should  mount. 

"  The  gum  is  good,  and  the  pepper  is  good, 

Three  hundred  sacks  they  fill ; 
There  is  gold  dust  too,  and  ivory  white, 

But  my  black  ware's  better  still. 

"  Six  hundred  niggers  I  bought  dirt  cheap, 

In  fact  for  the  merest  song, 
By  the  Senegal  river :  their  flesh  is  firm 

And  their  sinews  are  taut  and  strong. 

"  Some  brandy  and  steel  and  beads  of  glass 

Was  all  I  was  forced  to  give  ; 
Eight  hundred  per  cent.  I  should  make  on  the  deal, 

If  even  the  half  of  them  live. 

"  If  even  three  hundred  niggers  survive. 

Till  we  put  into  Ilio  Janeiro, 
A  hundred  ducats  per  head  are  mine, 

From  the  house  of  Gonzales  Perreiro." 


76  LAST   POEMS. 

But  Mynheer  van  Koek  was  suddenly  torn 
From  thoughts  of  what  he  should  win ; 

Van  der  Missen,  the  surgeon  on  board  the  boat, 
Appeared  at  this  point  and  came  in. 

He  had  crimson  warts  all  over  his  nose, 
And  the  leanest  and  driest  of  figures. 

"  Well,  Doctor,  how  now  ? "  exclaimed  Van  Koek 
"  What  news  of  my  precious  niggers  ?  " 

The  doctor  politely  responds,  and  says, 

"  Alas  !  my  report  is  bad, 
The  number  of  deaths  has  increased  last  night 

In  a  manner  that's  really  sad. 

"  The  average  number  is  only  two, 

But  seven  are  dead  to-day — 
Four  men,  three  women — I  entered  the  loss 

In  the  log  in  the  usual  way. 

"  I  inspected  the  corpses  minutely,  of  course. 

For  often  the  artful  knaves 
Pretend  to  be  dead,  in  the  hope  that  at  dawn. 

We'll  lower  them  into  the  waves. 

"  I  took  off  their  irons  with  orders  clear 
That  the  bodies,  when  thus  set  free, 

At  an  early  hour  should  be  carried  on  deck. 
And  tumbled  into  the  sea. 


THE   SLAVE   SHIP.  77 

"  The  sharks  shot  out  of  the  water  at  once, 

An  army  hungry  and  large, 
They  simply  dote  upon  niggers'  flesh ; 

I  board  them  and  make  no  charge. 

"  The  beasts  have  scented  the  odour  of  death, 
And  have  followed,  a  ravenous  host. 

In  the  wake  of  the  vessel  by  night  and  day. 
Since  ever  we  left  the  coast. 

"  It  is  really  comic  to  see  them  crowd, 
And  snap  at  the  dead  as  they  fall — 

At  the  head,  at  the  legs,  at  the  bits  that  remain, 
Till  at  last  they  have  gobbled  up  all. 

"And  when  everything's  swallowed,  around  the 
ship 

Contented  they  splash  and  reel. 
And  gratefully  look  their  thanks  at  me 

For  providing  their  morning  meal." 

But  here  Van  Koek  interrupts  with  a  sigh, 

"  This  evil,  say,  how  can  I  stop  ? 
Is  there  nothing  at  all  we  can  possibly  do 

To  make  the  death  rate  drop  ?  " 

The  doctor  answers,  "The  niggers  themselves 
Are  to  blame ;  their  own  foul  breath 

Has  poisoned  the  wholesome  air  of  the  hold. 
With  the  natural  consequence,  death. 


78  LAST  POEMS. 

"  And  many  have  died  of  boredom,  too  : 

Of  sheer  monotonous  sadness. 
The  epidemic  might  yet  be  stemmed 

By  music,  dance,  and  gladness." 

"  An  excellent  notion  !  "  exclaims  Van  Koek, 

"An  inspiration  grander 
Aristotle  himself  can  never  have  had, 

Who  taught  great  Alexander. 

"  In  Delft  the  president  learned  and  wise 
Of  the  tulip-improvement  club 

Is  not  half  so  clever,  I'm  sure,  as  you, 
If  it  really  came  to  the  rub. 

"  Yes,  music  !  music  !  the  niggers  up  here 
On  the  deck  shall  dance  and  skip. 

And  those  who  do  not  enjoy  the  fun, 
Will  be  cured  by  means  of  the  whip." 


II. 


A  myriad  stars  from  the  tent  of  heaven 

Are  gazing,  big  and  wise ; 
They  are  glimmering  soft  and  yearning  bright. 

Like  lovely  women's  eyes. 


THE   SLAVE  SHIP.  79 

They  look  on  the  ocean  spread  below, 

And  the  phosphorescent  gleams 
Of  the  purple  mists.     The  billows  lap 

And  coo  in  voluptuous  dreams. 

The  slave  ship  carries  no  fluttering  sail, 

She  lies  like  an  unrigged  boat ; 
But  lanterns  shine  on  the  deck,  whence  sounds 

Of  dancing  and  music  float. 

On  the  fiddle  the  helmsman,  the  cook  on  the  flute 

They  busily  pipe  and  strum ; 
The  doctor,  he's  blowing  the  trumpet  loud, 

The  cabin-boy  beats  the  drum. 

A  hundred  niggers,  both  women  and  men, 

They  whirl  and  shout  and  hop. 
Their  fetters  of  iron  are  marking  time. 

With  a  rattle  and  ring  and  drop. 

They  stamp  on  the  boards  in  riotous  glee, 

And  many  a  swarthy  belle 
Throws  amorous  arms  round  her  partner  nude, 

As  they  spin  and  dance  and  yell. 

The  purser  conducts  the  revel ;  his  whip 
Flies  out,  and  some  screamer  answers ; 

To  mirth  and  frolic  and  gaiety  wild 
He  stimulates  lazy  dancers. 


So  LAST  POEMS. 

And  dideldumdei  and  schnedderedeng ! 

The  noise  lures  up  from  the  deep 
The  monstrous  things  of  the  watery  world 

That  stupidly  lay  asleep. 

With  drowsiness  drunk,  a  hundred  sharks 

From  their  couches  in  ocean  rise, 
And  stare  at  the  deck  from  the  waves  below 

With  puzzled  and  wondering  eyes. 

They  perceive  that  it  is  not  the  breakfast  hour, 
And  they  yawn  from  the  sea  beneath 

With  open  and  angry  jaws,  set  1hick 
With  horrible  serrate  teeth. 

And  dideldumdei  and  schnedderedeng ! 

The  dance  will  never  be  done, 
And  the  sharks  they  are  biting  each  other's  tails, 

Impatient  till  breakfast's  begun. 

To  music,  I  think,  they've  an  animus  strong ; 

Their  kind  not  infrequently  show  it ; 
The  beast  that's  averse  to  music,  shun, 

Says  Shakespeare,  Albion's  poet. 

And  schnedderedeng  and  dideldumdei — 
Van  Koek  at  the  foremast  stands, 

And  as  dance  succeeds  to  dance  without  end. 
In  prayer  he  folds  his  hands. 


THE    PHILANTHROPIST.  8l 

"Oh,  spare  the  lives  of  these  sinners  black," 

He  pleads  above  the  rattle ; 
"  Eeniember,  if  ever  they  roused  Thy  wrath, 

0  Lord !  they're  as  stupid  as  cattle. 

"  And  unless  three  hundred  head  remain, 

I'll  lose  my  hoped-for  haul ; 
Oh,  spare  their  lives  for  Jesus'  sake, 

Who  died  to  save  iis  all." 


THE   PHILANTHROPIST. 

There  were  two,  a  brother  and  sister ; 

The  brother  was  rich,  the  sister  was  poor. 
The  poor  one  said  to  the  rich  one, 

"  Give  me  a  morsel  of  bread." 

The  rich  one  said  to  the  poor  one, 
"Nay,  trouble  me  not  just  now, 

I  am  giving  my  annual  dinner 
To  the  lords  of  the  Senate  to-day. 

"  To  turtle-soup  one  is  devoted, 
Another  to  pine-apples  sweet. 
The  third  is  partial  to  pheasants 


With  Perigord  trufHes  dressed. 


VOL.  XII. 


82  LAST   POEMS. 

"  The  fourth  will  have  nothing  but  sea-fish, 
The  fifth  takes  salmon  as  well ; 

The  sixth  devours  all  put  before  him, 
And  drinks  even  more  than  he  eats." 

And  so  the  poor,  poor  sister 

Went  hungry  back  to  her  house, 

Sank  down  on  her  hard  straw  mattress, 
And  deeply  sighed,  and  died. 

We  all  must  die  when  our  time  comes. 
And  at  last  the  scythe  of  death 

Mowed  down  the  wealthy  brother, 
As,  already,  the  sister  poor. 

As  soon  as  the  wealthy  brother 
Perceived  that  his  hour  was  come. 

He  sent  in  haste  for  the  lawyer, 
And  straightway  made  his  will. 

Big  legacies  to  the  clergy 

He  left,  and  to  the  schools ; 
Nor  was  the  great  museum 

Of  zoology  forgot. 

The  great  testator  also 

A  noble  gift  bequeathed 
To  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum, 

And  the  Jewish  Conversion  fund. 


THE   PHILANTHROPIST.  83 

He  presented  a  bell,  in  addition, 

To  St.  Stephen's  new-built  spire, 
Which,  made  of  the  linest  metal, 

Weighed  five-and- twenty  tons. 

'Tis  indeed  a  bell  enormous, 

And  rings  both  early  and  late ; 
It  rings  to  the  honour  and  glory 

Of  the  man  of  lasting  fame. 

It  tells  with  its  tongue  of  iron 

The  tale  of  the  good  he  did 
To  his  town  and  fellow-townsmen, 

No  matter  what  their  creed. 

Mankind's  great  benefactor, 

As  in  life,  thy  good  deeds  all 
Shall,  in  death,  be  noised  and  published 

By  the  tongue  of  the  mighty  bell ! 

With  solemn  pomp  and  splendour 

His  body  was  borne  to  the  grave, 
And  the  folk  came  crowding  after, 

Full  of  respect  and  awe. 

On  a  black  coach  lay  the  coffin. 

With  a  canopy  above. 
Adorned  with  nodding  bunches 

Of  thick  black  ostrich  feathers. 


84  LAST   POEMS. 

It  was  covered  with  plates  of  silver, 

And  grand  with  silver  lace ; 
A  fine  effect  had  the  silver 

On  the  ground  of  ebon-black. 

Six  horses  drew  the  carriage, 
In  housings  blackly  swathed, 

Which  fell  like  cloaks  of  mourning, 
And  drooped  to  the  horses'  hoofs. 

In  livery  black  the  servants 
Walked  slowly  after  the  bier, 

Their  snow-white  handkerchiefs  holding 
To  faces  red  with  grief. 

All  the  townsfolk  of  position 

And  of  rank,  a  lengthy  train 
Of  imposing  black  state  coaches, 

Drove  after,  swaying  behind. 

And,  of  course,  in  the  mournful  procession 
The  lords  of  the  Council  took  part ; 

Only  one  of  their  number  was  missing, 
And  the  missing  one  was  he 

Who  had  shown  for  pheasant  and  truffles 
Such  a  weakness.     Of  recent  date 

Was  his  death.     The  dish  had  proved  fatal. 
Indigestion  had  carried  him  off. 


IN    THE    CATHEDRAL.  $$ 


BERTHA. 


Shk  seemed  so  sweet  and  good,  my  heart 

Among  the  angels  set  her  ; 
She  could  not  even  hurt  a  flower, 

And  she  wrote  a  charming  letter. 


'O 


The  wedding  was  near,  her  kinsfolk  heard, 

And  they  all  began  to  scold  her. 
Oh,  Bertha  was  a  stupid  thing : 

Did  as  aunts  and  cousins  told  her. 

She  broke  her  pledge,  she  broke  her  vow. 
Yet  with  right  good-will  I  acquit  her, 

For  had  we  been  married  I'm  sure  she'd  have  made 
My  love  and  life  both  bitter. 

And  now  when  I  think  on  a  woman  false, 

I  think  on  Bertha  faithless ; 
But  I  honestly  hope,  when  her  child  is  born, 

She  herself  may  come  off  scatheless. 


m   THE   CATHEDEAL 

It  was  the  sexton's  daughter  dear 
Who  showed  me  the  holy  hall. 

Her  hair  was  blonde,  her  tigure  slight. 
From  her  neck  had  slipped  her  shawl. 


86  LAST   POEMS. 

For  some  pence  I  saw  the  crosses  old, 
The  candles  and  tombs  of  the  place ; 

And  then  my  heart  grew  suddenly  hot — 
I  looked  in  Elspeth's  face. 

I  gazed  about  me,  up  and  down. 
And  here  and  there  kept  glancing ; 

Hallelujah  !     High  on  the  painted  panes 
There  are  women  in  petticoats  dancing. 

The  sexton's  daughter  beside  me  stood ; 

What  need  of  a  further  goal  ? 
She  had  quite  the  loveliest  pair  of  eyes, 

In  which  I  saw  the  whole. 

It  was  the  sexton's  daughter  dear 
Led  me  out  from  the  holy  hall ; 

Her  mouth  was  little,  her  neck  was  red, 
From  her  bosom  had  slipped  her  shawl. 


TO   BE   KEMEMBEKED. 

You  must  never,  never  poke 
Fun  at  Philistines,  or  joke 
With  a  man  of  narrow  mind. 
But  the  big,  sagacious  heart 
Takes  a  teasing  in  good  part : 
Sees  the  friendship  hid  behind. 


THE    WILL.  87 


IN  A   LADY'S   ALBUM. 

Kissing  hands,  and  bending  knees, 
Becking,  bowing — what  are  these  ? 
Tricks,  illusions,  child,  that  love — 
That  the  heart — thinks  nothing  of. 


THE   WILL. 

Now  that  life  is  nearly  spent 
I  make  my  will  and  testament. 
The  wonder  is  that  long  ago 
I  did  not  die  of  pain  and  woe. 

Louisa  !     Best  of  womankind, 
I  leave  you  twelve  old  shirts  behind, 
A  hundred  Heas,  and,  what  still  worse  is, 
Three  hundred  times  a  thousand  curses. 

The  loyal  friend  who  gave  so  pat 
His  good  advice,  and  only  that, 
May  now  have  this  advice  of  mine ; — 
Marry  a  pig  and  bring  up  swine. 

Who  would  enjoy  my  faith  the  most 
In  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  ? 
The  Rabbi  of  Posen  may  draw  lots  for 
My  creed  with  the  Chinese  emperor. 


88  LAST   POEMS. 

And  German  freedom,  dream  divine — 

I  leave  that  bubble  superfine 

To  the  censor  of  Kriihwinkel  town. 

More  nutritious  by  far  is  rye-bread  brown. 

The  deeds  I  never  did,  but  planned. 

To  save  my  precious  Fatherland, 

I  will  leave  to  the  heroes  of  Baden,  I  think, 

With  a  cure  for  the  after  effects  of  drink. 

I  bequeath  a  night-cap  white  as  chalk 

To  that  cousin  who  boldly  used  to  talk 

Of  the  Heidschnucker  rights,  ere  wise  he  grew, 

And  held  his  tongue  like  a  Eoman  true. 

I  bequeath  to  the  guardian  of  morals  and  faith 
At  Stuttgart,  two  pistols ;  he'll  take  no  scathe : 
He  runs  (they're  unloaded)  no  risk  of  his  life, 
But  he'll  always  be  able  to  frighten  his  wife. 

I  leave  a  likeness  exact  and  full 
Of  my  trunk  to  the  talented  Swabian  school ; 
You  refused  my  face,  so  it's  only  right 
Some  lower  thing  should  refresh  your  sight. 

Twelve  bottles  of  Seidlitz  water  's  my  dole 

To  the  great  and  noble  poet's  soul. 

Who  for  years  has  suffered  from  song-constipation  ; 

Love,  hope,  and  faith  were  his  consolation. 


TO   MY  BROTHER   MAX. 

And  the  codicil  runs  :  Should  all  refuse 
The  legacies  mentioned,  then  I  choose 
The  Koman  Catholic  Churcli  as  heir, 
And  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair. 


TO   MY   BKOTHEK  MAX. 

Max,  although  you  go  from  here 
To  the  Steppes  of  Russia  drear, 
Every  inn  provides  you  pleasure, 
All  your  life's  a  dancing  measure. 

At  the  ball  the  Gretchen  nearest 
Always  seems  the  Gretchen  dearest ; 
Drums  are  beaten,  trumpets  blow, 
Arm  round  waist,  and  off  you  go ! 

Foaming  bumpers  red  and  brown — 
You're  the  man  to  toss  them  down ; 
Give  you  Bacchus  but  to  swallow, 
And  you  sing  like  god  Apollo. 

Luther's  motto  is  your  guide : 
He  who,  soured  by  pious  pride, 
Loves  not  women,  wine,  and  song 
Lives  a  fool  his  whole  life  long. 


go  LAST   POEMS. 

Max,  your  head  may  Fortune  crown, 
Pour  you  bumpers  red  and  brown, 
Keep  you  plied  with  wine  and  mirth 
In  the  dance-saloon  of  earth  ! 


THE  VALLEY   OF  WOE. 

In  the  dark  the  dormer  window  shakes 

To  the  piping  of  the  gale ; 
Two  poor  souls  lie  on  the  garret  bed ; 

They  look  so  thin  and  pale ! 

The  one  poor  soul  to  the  other  says, 

"  Oh,  take  me  in  your  arm, 
And  closely  press  your  mouth  on  mine  : 

Perhaps  I  shall  grow  warm." 

The  other  poor  soul  answers  her, 

"  Dear,  when  I  see  your  eyes, 
Both  cold  and  hunger  are  forgot. 

And  earthly  sorrow  flies." 

They  moaned,  and  pressed  each  other's  hands, 

They  kissed  and  wept  full  sore, 
And  often  they  laughed  and  even  sang ; 

And  then  they  spoke  no  more. 


EDWARD.  91 

When  morning  dawned  the  Commissioner  came 
With  the  doctor,  who  shook  his  head, 

And  certified  in  proper  form 
That  the  bodies  both  were  dead. 

"An  empty  stomach,"  he  explained, 
"  Combined  with  the  bitter  weather, 

Has  caused,  or  at  least  has  hastened,  death — 
Hunger  and  cold  together. 

"  When  frost,"  he  continued,  "  sets  in  severe, 

'Tis  the  height  of  hardihood 
To  sleep  without  woollen  coverlets 

And  go  without  wholesome  food." 


EDWARD. 

On  the  horses  weeds  of  woe. 
On  the  hearse  the  sable  plume ; 

Failure  dogged  his  steps  below  ; 
Now  they  bear  him  to  the  tomb. 

He  was  young,  and,  like  his  brothers, 
At  the  festal  board  of  earth 

Fain  had  feasted ;  but  for  others, 
Not  for  him,  the  wine  and  mirth. 


92  LAST   POEMS. 

The  champagne  was  poured,  and  winking 
In  the  glass  with  pearly  gleam ; 

But  he  sat,  too  grave  for  drinking, 
In  a  melancholy  dream. 

For  a  silent  sorrow  bound  him ; 

In  his  cup  would  fall  the  tear, 
While  the  boon  companions  round  him 

Shouted  gaily,  glad  of  cheer. 

Go  to  sleep !  you'll  wake  to  laughter 
In  the  heavenly  halls  of  light, 

Where  no  headache  follows  after 
The  carousals  of  the  night. 


THE  WHIMS   OF  THE  AMOROUS. 

{A  True  Story,  retold  from  Ancient  Documents,  and  freshly 
rendered  in  beautiful  German  rhyme.) 

On  the  fence  the  beetle  gives  many  a  sigh ; 
He  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  a  fly. 

"  0  fly,  dearest  fly,  you're  my  soul,  my  life ; 
It  is  you,  and  no  other,  I've  chosen  for  wife. 

"  So  marry  me,  fly,  and  no  longer  be  cold. 
My  belly  is  made  of  the  purest  gold ; 


THE    WHIMS   OF    THE   AMOROUS.  93 

"  And  a  splendid  thing  is  this  back  of  mine, 
Where  the  rubies  flame  and  the  emeralds  shine." 

"  Nay  now,  I  am  not  such  a  fool !  "  she  said, 
"  With  a  beetle  I  certainly  never  will  wed. 

"  Gold,  rubies,  and  emeralds  tempt  me  not; 
'Tis  not  wealth  that  ensures  the  happiest  lot. 

"  The  ideals  I  yearn  for  are  noble  and  high ; 
I  am  proud,  let  me  tell  you — no  everyday  fly." 

The  beetle  flew  off  in  the  deepest  distress  ; 
The  fly  went  away  to  bathe  and  to  dress. 

"Now  where,"  said  the  fly,  "is  my  handmaid,  the 

bee  ? 
I  want  her  to  wash  and  to  wait  upon  me. 

"And  to  stroke  down  my  delicate  skin,  beside, 
For  I'm  soon  to  be  made  a  beetle's  bride. 

"  And  truly  this  beetle  is  quite  a  catch ; 
I  doubt  if  the  world  contains  his  match. 

"  Yes,  his  coat's  of  a  really  splendid  design  : 
Its  rubies  flame  and  its  emeralds  shine. 

"  His  belly  is  gold,  and  distinguished  his  mien. 
Oh,  many  blue-bottles  will  die  of  spleen. 


94  LAST  POEMS. 

"  So  curl  my  hair,  little  bee,  and  make  haste ; 
And  perfume  me  nicely  and  draw  in  my  waist. 

"  Come,  rub  me  with  attar  of  roses  sweet, 
And  lavender  oil  pour  over  my  feet, 

"  That  no  odour  unpleasant  may  spoil  my  charms 
When  I  lovingly  rest  in  my  bridegroom's  arms. 

"  Already  come  dragon-tlies  blue  and  gay, 
As  maids  of  honour  their  homage  to  pay. 

"  In  the  bridal  wreath  that's  soon  to  be  mine 
The  white  orange  blossom  they'll  deftly  twine. 

"  Musicians  I've  asked,  and  cicadas  proud 

Will  provide  us  with  songs  both  merry  and  loud. 

"  Drone,  hornet,  and  gadfly  and  bittern  come 
To  blow  with  the  trumpet,  and  beat  on  the  drum. 

"  At  the  wedding-feast  each  will  perform  his  best ; 
Already  comes  many  a  bright-winged  guest. 

"  They're  arriving  in  families  merry  and  gay — 
The  commoner  insects  are  crowding  the  way — 

"  The  grasshoppers,  wasps,  with    their  aunts  and 

cousins. 
To  the  blowing  of  buglet^,  they're  coming  in  dozens. 


THE    VIRTUOUS  DOG. 


95 


"And  the  parson,  the  mole,  in  his  black  robe  of 

state, 
Has  appeared  on  the  scene ;  'tis  already  late. 

"Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  the  bells  ring  clear — 
Oh,  what  can  be  keeping  my  bridegroom  dear  ? " 

Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  the  bells  ring  gay, 
But  the  beetle  in  sorrow  has  flown  away. 

Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  the  bells  ring  clear ; 

"  Oh,  what  can  be  keeping  my  bridegroom  dear  ? " 

But  the  bridegroom  has  gone  to  grieve  alone ; 
On  a  distant  dunghill  he  makes  his  moan. 

There  he  sat  seven  years,  the  world  forgotten, 
Till  the  poor  little  bride  was  dead  and  rotten. 


THE   VIRTUOUS   DOG. 

A  POODLE  after  Brutus  named — 

Appropriately  too — was  famed 

Throughout  the  land  from  end  to  end 

For  his  wisdom,  and  virtue  that  none  could  bend. 

He  was  patient,  and  modest,  and  never  rude : 

A  model,  indeed,  of  behaviour  good. 


96  LAST   POEMS. 

One  heard  him  everywhere  praised  to  the  skies 
As  a  sort  of  four-footed  Nathan  the  wise. 
A  gem  of  a  dog  one  was  forced  to  extol, 
So  honest  and  true  !  a  beautiful  soul ! 

His  master  trusted  him  out  and  out : 

To  the  butcher  sent  him  with  never  a  doubt. 

The  noble  dog  refused  to  roam  : 

Came  conscientiously  trotting  home, 

In  his  mouth  the  basket  neatly  packed 

With  mutton  and  beef,  and  pork  well  hacked. 

Though  the  greasy  odours  might  tempt  and  lure, 

Not  a  bone  but  with  Brutus  was  quite  secure. 

With  stoical  calm,  towards  his  abode 

He  steadily  pressed  with  his  costly  load. 

But,  of  course,  among  dogs  there  will  always  be 
A  sprinkling  of  curs  of  low  degree — 
'Tis  the  same  with  ourselves — decoys  afoot, 
Eogues,  idlers,  and  many  an  envious  brute 
Who  cannot  appreciate  moral  pleasure. 
And  squander  their  life  in  sensual  leisure. 
Such  rascals  had  sworn  to  attempt  to  undo 
Poor  Brutus,  the  valiant  and  wise  and  true, 
Who,  basket  in  mouth,  his  master  served. 
And  from  duty's  pathway  had  never  swerved. 

And  so  it  happened  that,  one  fine  day, 

As  he  steadily  trudged  on  his  homeward  way. 


HORSE   AND   ASS.  97 

The  wretched,  vile,  conspiring  horde 

Made  an  onslaught  grim  with  one  accord. 

They  seized  on  the  basket  that  held  the  meat, 

And  scattered  the  tit-bits  on  the  street ; 

And  the  plunder  thus  gained,  without  more  ado, 

Was  fallen  upon  by  the  ravenous  crew. 

With  his  dog-philosopher's  soul  serene 

Stood  Urutus  at  first  regarding  the  scene; 

But  when  he  perceived  every  gluttonous  beast 

Devouring  so  gaily  the  stolen  feast. 

He  thought  he  had  better  have  some  for  his  own, 

And  dined  himself  on  a  mutton  bone. 

MORAL. 

"  Thou  too  !     Thou  eatest,  my  Brutus  upright ! " 

The  moralist  sighs  at  the  sorrowful  sight. 

Yes,  a  bad  example  can  ruin  us  all ; 

Like  the  other  mammals  who  sin  and  fall, 

The  virtuous  dog  is  not  exempted 

From  imperfection — he  eats  when  tempted ! 


HORSE  AND  ASS. 

On  its  iron  road,  with  lightning  speed 
The  train  goes  thundering  past ; 

The  murky  smoke  from  the  chimney  streams, 
Like  a  pennant  from  a  mast. 
VOL.  XIL  G 


98  LAST   POEMS. 

A  farmyard  lay  beside  the  line  ; 

The  white  horse  heard  the  whistle, 
And  craned  his  neck  above  the  fence  ; 

The  donkey  ate  a  thistle. 

The  white  horse  followed  the  vanishing  train 

With  a  glassy  eye  and  drear ; 
Then  he  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  said, 

"  Alas  !  I'm  convulsed  with  fear. 

"  Indeed,  had  I  not  by  nature's  choice 

Already  been  coloured  white, 
My  coat  had  been  certainly  bleached  to-day 

By  that  hateful  and  terrible  sight. 

"  The  whole  of  the  equine  race  is  doomed 

By  relentless  Fate's  decree  ; 
Although  I  am  white,  a  future  black 

Awaits  both  mine  and  me. 

"  This  rivalry  soon  will  kill  us  all. 
From  the  greatest  horse  to  the  least ; 

When  man  is  forced  to  drive  or  ride, 
He'll  use  the  iron  beast. 

"And  when  he  finds  that  without  a  horse 

He  still  can  ride  and  drive, 
Farewell  to  hay,  farewell  to  oats  ! 

Then  how  shall  we  keep  alive  ? 


HORSE   AND   ASS.  99 

"  The  heart  of  man  is  as  hard  as  a  stone ; 

He  gives  but  to  get  as  good ; 
He  will  chase  us  away  from  our  stables  warm ; 

We  shall  die  for  want  of  food. 

"  We  cannot  borrow,  we  cannot  steal, 
Like  mortals  whose  morals  are  blacker ; 

Nor  cringe  and  fawn  like  men  and  dogs. 
Ah  me !  we  shall  end  with  the  knacker." 

So  the  horse,  lamenting,  deeply  sighed, 

While  long-ear,  quite  untroubled, 
Possessed  his  soul  in  peace  serene. 

And  his  diet  of  thistles  doubled. 

He  licked  his  nose  with  his  tongue,  and  said 

In  an  easy  and  tranquil  way, 
"  Because  of  the  future,  I  see  no  need 

To  rack  my  brains  to-day. 

"  You  horses  proud  are  threatened,  indeed, 

With  a  truly  terrible  morrow ; 
For  us  humble  asses  there's  nothing  in  store 

To  call  for  foreboding  or  sorrow. 

"  Yes,  men  can  dispense  with  the  piebald  horse, 
With  the  white  and  the  black  and  the  roan. 

But  against  Jack  Steam  and  his  chimneys  too 
The  asses  can  hold  their  own. 


100  LAST  POEMS. 

"  No  matter  how  cleverly  forged  and  strong 
The  machines  that  men  contrive, 

The  asses  can  always  be  perfectly  sure 
Of  enough  to  keep  them  alive, 

"  Yes,  Heaven  those  asses  will  always  protect, 

Whom  dutiful  sentiments  fill, 
And  who  do  as  their  decent  fathers  did, 

And  daily  trudge  to  the  mill. 

"  The  mill-wheel  rattles,  the  miller  grinds, 
And  pours  into  sacks  the  flour  ; 

I  bear  these  sacks  to  the  baker,  who  bakes 
The  bread  that  men  devour. 

"  Whatever  betide,  the  world  will  turn 

In  the  old  primeval  way. 
And  unchanging  and  fixed,  like  Nature  herself, 

The  ass  will  endure  for  aye." 

MORAL. 

The  days  of  chivalry  are  dead  ; 
The  noble  horse  must  go  unfed ; 
But  the  lowly  ass  will  escape  disaster, 
And  never  want  for  meal  or  master. 


BODY  AND   SOUL.  loi 


BODY  AND  SOUL. 

Thk  poor  soul  to  the  body  saith, 
"I  will  not  leave  thee;  down  to  death 
And  dismal  night  I  too  will  sink, 
And  of  annihilation  drink. 
A  second  self  I  found  in  thee  ; 
With  love  thou  hast  encircled  me, 
Warm  as  a  satin  gala  gown, 
Lined  through  with  ermine  soft  as  down. 
Naked  and  abstract  now,  alas  ! 
Without  a  body  I  must  pass, 
And  as  a  blessed  nothing  stray 
About  the  realm  of  light  for  aye : 
Tread  the  cold  halls  of  heaven  high, 
While,  yawning  in  my  face,  file  by 
The  dumb  eternities.     How  slow 
Their  leaden  slippers  clattering  go. 
Oh,  horrible  and  hateful  lot ! 
Beloved  body,  leave  me  not ! " 

To  the  poor  soul  the  body  saith, 

"  Nay,  grieve  not  so  because  of  death. 

We  must  endure  and  calmly  wait 

Whatever  is  decreed  by  Fate. 

I  was  the  wick,  and  must  consume ; 

But  thou,  the  spirit,  shalt  illume 


I02  LAST  POEMS. 

With  purest  radiance  heaven  afar, 

A  lovely  and  a  chosen  star. 

I  am  but  worthless  trash  :  mere  humble 

And  senseless  matter.     I  shall  crumble 

Like  rotten  tinder,  and  decay 

To  what  I  sprang  from — lifeless  clay. 

Be  comforted,  and  fare  thee  well ! 

Perhaps  in  heaven — who  can  tell  ? — 

'Tis  not  so  dismal  after  all. 

The  Great  Bear  in  yon  starry  hall 

(Not  Meyer- Beer)  if  thou  shouldst  see, 

Greet  him  a  thousand  times  from  me  !  " 


RED  SLIPPERS. 

The  wicked  cat  was  old  and  grey. 

And  a  shoemaker  too,  or  so  she  would  say ; 

And  before  the  window,  in  proof  of  the  fact 

Stood  a  case  with  maidens'  slippers  packed. 

There  were  slippers  of  fine  morocco  leather 

And  slippers  of  satin  ranged  together. 

And  velvet  slippers  she  also  sold. 

With  gay-flowered  ribbons  and  borders  of  gold. 

But  the  prettiest  slippers  of  any  there 

Was  an  exquisite  little  scarlet  pair. 

The  gorgeous  colour  had  played  its  part. 

And  laughed  its  way  into  many  a  heart. 


RED   SLIPPERS. 


103 


A  young  and  wliite  little  high-born  mouse, 
Who  was  going  along  by  the  shoemaker's  house, 
Turned  back  when  she  saw  them,  and  stood  stock- 
still, 
And  then  she  peeped  over  the  window-sill. 
At  length  she  spoke  out,  "  Good  day,  Mistress  Cat, 
You  have  pretty  red  slippers — no  doubt  about  that. 
If  they're  not  too  dear,  they  are  really  so  nice, 
I  think  I  will  buy  them,  so  tell  me  the  price." 

The  cat  was  delighted,  and  cried,  at  this, 

"  I  respectfully  beg  you  to  enter,  miss. 

With  your  presence  pray  honour  this  house  of 

mine : 
I  deal  with  society  ladies  fine, 
The  loveliest  damsels  shop  with  me, 
And  duchesses,  too,  of  high  degree. 
For  the  merest  song  the  slippers  I'll  sell — 
But  come,  let  us  see  if  they  fit  you  well — 
Be  so  good  as  to  enter  and  take  a  seat." 

The  cunning  old  cat  had  a  voice  so  sweet ! 
And  the  little  white  ignorant  mouse,  unaware, 
Walked  into  the  murderer's  den  and  snare ; 
Sat  down  on  a  settle  with  never  a  doubt. 
And  her  neat  little  leg  stretched  gaily  out, 
In  order  to  see  how  the  red  shoes  fitted — 
An  example  of  innocent  trust  to  be  pitied. 


I04  LAST  POEMS. 

Then  the  cruel  cat  suddenly  seized  her  tight 

And  mangled  and  tore  her  and  killed  her  outright, 

And  bit  off  her  poor  little  harmless  head. 

"  My  dear  little,  white  little  thing,  you  are  dead, 

Yes,  dead  as  a  mouse  ! "  the  old  cat  cried ; 

"  But  the  scarlet  slippers  I'll  lay  outside 

The  spot  where  you're  buried ;  and  when  from  the 

tomb 
You  are  called,  by  the  awful  trump  of  doom, 
To  the  last  great  dance,  you'll  wake,  white  mouse. 
And  rise  from  the  grave,  your  deep,  dark  house : 
Like  everyone  else  you'll  leave  your  bed, 
And  then  you  will  draw  on  your  slippers  red." 

MORAL. 

Ye  little  white  mice,  beware  !  beware ! 
The  splendour  of  earth  is  a  lure  and  a  snare. 
Oh,  better — far  better — be  barefoot  trippers 
Than  go  to  the  cat  to  buy  your  slippers. 


THE  DEAGON-FLY. 

On  the  waves  of  the  brook  she  dances  by, 

The  light,  the  lovely  dragon-fly  ; 

She  dances  here,  she  dances  there. 

The  shimmering,  glimmering  flutterer  fair. 


THE   DRAGON-FLY.  10$ 

And  many  a  foolish  young  beetle's  impressed 
By  the  blue  gauze  gown  in  which  she  is  dressed ; 
They  admire  the  enamel  that  decks  her  bright, 
And  her  elegant  waist  so  slim  and  slight. 

And  many's  the  beetle  that  after  her  flits 
Till  he  loses  his  poor  little  beetle- wits, 
Hums  of  love  and  of  truth,  and  undaunted  avers 
That  Brabant  and  Holland  shall  both  be  hers. 

The  beautiful  dragon-fly  laughs ;  says  she, 
"  Brabant  and  Holland  are  nothing  to  me. 
But  hasten,  ye  wooers — for  this  I  desire — 
And  fetch  me  a  tiny  spark  of  fire. 

"  The  cook's  had  a  baby,  she's  lying  in  bed, 
So,  of  course,  I  must  cook  the  supper  instead, 
The  coals  on  the  hearth  have  gone  out,  so  away  ! 
And  fetch  me  a  spark  of  fire,  I  pray." 

The  words  of  the  false  one  are  scarcely  uttered, 
When  ofi'  at  top  speed  the  beetles  have  fluttered. 
They  search  for  the  fire  till  their  home-woods  kind 
Are  many  and  many  a  league  behind. 

They  go  till  they  come  where  a  candle  gleams, 
From  a  garden  bower  the  radiance  streams, 
And  the  lovers  impetuous,  blind  and  rash, 
Eight  into  the  flame  of  the  candle  dash. 


io6  LAST   POEMS. 

The  candle  crackles,  as  candles  do, 
The  beetles  are  burnt,  and  their  loving  hearts  too. 
And  some  of  them  perish  entirely,  poor  things ! 
And  others  get  off  with  the  loss  of  their  wings. 

Oh,  woe  to  the  beetle  whose  wings  are  burnt ! 
He  is  forced  to  do  what  he  never  has  learnt ; 
In  a  foreign  land  he  must  crawl  like  a  worm, 
Where  clammy  and  noisome  insects  squirm. 

"  Bad  company  " — so  you  can  hear  him  complain — 
"  Is  exile's  hardest  and  bitterest  bane ; 
We're  obliged  to  consort  with  companions  mean, 
With  vermin,  and  even  with  bugs  unclean. 

"  They  treat  us  as  comrades,  ignoring  our  pride, 
Because  we  must  wade  in  the  mire  by  their  side. 
From  the  pupil  of  Virgil  the  same  complaint  fell : 
The  poet  who  wrote  about  exile  and  hell. 

"  I  think  with  regret  of  the  time  so  fair, 
When  I  fluttered  about  in  the  happy  home  air, 
And  in  all  the  splendour  of  wings  undocked, 
On  the  golden  sunflowers  merrily  rocked. 

"  From  the  heart  of  the  rose  I  sucked  my  food, 
I  was  haughty  and  grand,  and  mixed  when  I  would 
With  the  noble-souled  butterflies ;  also  could  claim 
Asmy  friend  the  cicada  of  artist  fame. 


THE   DRAGON-FLY.  107 

"But  my  winf^s  are  gone ;  I  can  never  return 
To  the  Fatherland  dear  for  which  I  yearn. 
I  am  only  jx  worm  ;  I  cannot  fly  : 
On  this  foreign  dung  I  must  rot  and  die. 

"  If  only,  alas !  I  had  never  met 

The  dragon-fly  bright,  the  blue  coquette, 

With  her  waist  so  slim  and  neat — - 

The  fair,  the  faithless  cheat ! " 


THE    DRAGON-FLY. 

(anotheu  version.) 

'Tis  the  dragon-fly,  the  blue  one ; 
She's  the  prettiest  person  in  beetle-land, 
The  butterflies  court  her  on  every  hand. 

And  every  lover's  a  true  one. 

Her  hips  are  rounded  so  neatly ; 
She  wears  a  gauzy  gown  with  wings, 
And  with  regular,  rhythmic  grace  she  swings 

In  the  air  so  saucily,  sweetly. 

Her  gaily-hued  worshippers  hover 
Wherever  she  goes,  and  many  a  youth 
Swears,  "  Holland,  Brabant  shall  be  thine  in  good 
sooth, 

If  only  tbou'lt  take  me  for  lover." 


io8  LAST  POEMS. 

The  dragon-fly  fibs — she  is  weary — 
"  For  Brabant  and  Holland  I've  no  desire, 
What  I  really  want  is  a  spark  of  fire. 

To  make  my  parlour  cheery." 

The  lovers,  as  bound  in  duty, 
Before  she  has  ended  are  off  on  the  chase. 
And  busily  seeking,  from  place  to  place, 

A  spark  of  fire  for  the  beauty. 

Comes  one  where  a  candle  is  burning. 
As  if  blind  and  mad  his  body  he'll  fling 
Eight  into  the  flame,  till  he's  burnt,  poor  thing! 

Both  he  and  his  heart  so  yearning. 

The  fable  is  Japanese,  dear  ; 
But  trust  me,  my  child,  for  I  tell  you  true, 
In  Germany  here  there  are  dragon-flies  too. 

And  false  as  the  Devil  are  these,  dear. 


MIMI. 

"  There  are  common  cats  and  quiet, 
In  their  parlours  who  sit  spinning  ; 

I  was  never  one ;  I  wander 

On  the  house-tops,  free  and  sinning. 


MIML 

"  And  on  summer  nights,  when  yearning 
In  the  air  so  cool  and  healing, 

Music  growls  in  me  and  rumbles, 
And  I  sing  with  genuine  feeling." 

So  says  Mimi.     From  her  bosom 
Come  the  bridal  raptures  swelling, 

And  the  bachelors  about  her 

Seem  to  find  them  most  compelling. 

For  they  crowd  around  her,  purring 
In  the  same  peculiar  fashion. 

And  they  join  in  Mimi's  music 
All  aglow  with  love  and  passion. 

Tliey're  no  virtuosi  venal ; 

And  no  lust  of  money  jostles 
With  their  reverence  for  music — 

They're  the  holy  art's  apostles. 

They  themselves  are  flute  and  fiddle : 
Need  no  instruments,  no  poses ; 

For  the  drums  they  have  their  bellies, 
And  for  trumpets  have  their  noses. 

They  are  singing  now  in  chorus, 

And  the  fugues,  when  one  has  listened, 

Are  of  Guido  of  Arezzo, 

Or  of  Bach  quite  reminiscent. 


109 


no  LAST   POEMS. 

Frantic  symphonies,  caprices 

Like  Beethoven's  ones,  or  harder, 

Or  like  Berlioz'  productions, 
Only  fiercer  in  their  ardour. 

Oh,  the  wondrous  might  of  music  ! 

Oh,  unequalled  notes  of  magic  ! 
Even  heaven  shakes  and  trembles. 

And  the  stars  look  pale  and  tragic. 

And  her  cloudy  veil  Selina 

Draws,  and  hides  her  fair  face  under. 
When  she  hears  the  sounds  enchanting, 

When  she  hears  the  notes  of  wonder. 

Prima  Donna  Philomela — 
Only  she,  so  fond  of  blaming, 

Turns  her  nose  up — heartless  creature — 
And  at  Mimi  sniffs,  defaming. 

But  they  all  continue,  careless 
Of  the  spleen  of  the  Signora, 

Till  at  last  on  the  horizon 
Smiles  the  rosy  fay,  Aurora. 


GOOD   ADVICE.  m 


GOOD  ADVICE. 


Banish  sorrow,  courage  borrow, 
Loudly  ask  and  boldly  woo ; 

They'll  respect  you  more  to-morrow. 
And  the  bride  will  be  for  you. 

'Tis  the  fiddle  makes  the  revel ; 

Pay  the  fiddlers ;  do  not  miss, 
Though  you  wish  them  with  the  Devil, 

Every  aunt-in-law  to  kiss. 

For  all  princes  twine  the  laurel. 

Of  a  woman  speak  no  ill ; 
With  your  puddings  do  not  quarrel, 

When  a  pig  you  come  to  kill. 

Hate  the  church,  but  do  not  grumble  ; 

Go  the  oftener  for  that ; 
Send  the  pastor  wine ;  be  humble  ; 

And  in  passing  lift  your  hat. 

Bear  a  flea-bite  without  flinching : 
Scratch  contented  till  it's  gone, 

If  your  shoes  are  tight,  and  pinching — 
Well,  just  draw  your  slippers  on. 


112  LAST   POEMS. 

If  your  soup  is  spoilt  completely 

By  an  overdose  of  salt, 
Say,  "My  darling,"  smiling  sweetly, 

"What  you  cook's  without  a  fault." 

For  a  shawl  your  wife  is  pining  ? 

Buy  her  two  instead  of  one ; 
Buy  her  lace,  and  spangles  shining, 

Jewels  also,  and  be  done. 

The  advice  which  I  have  given, 
You  have  only  got  to  try  it ;  - 

You  will  one  day  go  to  heaven. 
And  on  earth  you'll  live  in  quiet. 


GOOD  ADVICE. 

When  writing  fables,  it  is  best 

To  give  your  hero's  real  name. 
You  suffer  more  when  it's  supprest ; 

A  dozen  hoary  fools  will  claim 
To  be  the  donkey  of  the  poem, 
And  cry,  "  Those  ears  are  mine ;  I  know  'em 
Also  the  horrid,  hideous  braying — 
That  is  my  voice,  there's  no  gainsaying ! 
I  am  the  ass !     Though  names  disguise  me, 
My  Fatherland  will  recognise  me, 


THE   ASS-ELECTION.  113 

My  Fatherland,  Germania ! 
I  am  the  ass !     Hee-ha !     Hee-ha  ! " 
In  the  attempt  one  fool  to  screen, 
You've  made  a  dozen  mad  with  spleen. 


THE  ASS-ELECTION. 

Freedom  can  pall  like  other  things ; 

The  brute  republic  found  it, 
And  resolved  henceforth  to  be  ruled  by  kings, 

By  autocrats  unbounded. 

To  the  poll  every  species  of  animal  came ; 

The  voting  papers  were  written, 
And  party  spirit  began  to  flame : 

Not  a  beast  but  was  intrigue- bitten. 

On  the  asses'  committee  the  old  ones  sat, 

And  every  long-eared  dullard 
Went  sporting  a  favour  of  black-red-gold — 

They  wore  them  ^:)a?'^?/-coloured. 

The  horse  had  a  following  faithful  and  true, 

But  so  small  that  it  never  voted ; 

They  stood  in  such  fear  of  the  terrible  din 

Of  the  long-ears  brazen-throated. 
VOL.  XII.  H 


114  ^^^'^   POEMS. 

When  at  last  some  one  ventured  to  name  the  horse 

For  the  post  of  future  dictator, 
An  angry  old  long-ear  cut  short  his  discourse 

With  cries  of  "  Shame ! "  and  "  Traitor ! " 

"  0  traitor ! "  he  shouted,  "  I'm  certain  no  drop 
Of  ass's  blood  makes  you  my  brother ; 

I  believe  you're  an  alien,  neck  and  crop, 
And  were  foaled  by  a  foreign  mother. 

"  Perhaps  you  inherit  a  zebra  strain ; 

Your  skin  is  striped  and  shows  it ; 
Or  you  bear  the  Egypto- Jewish  stain  : 

From  your  nasal  twang  one  knows  it. 

"  But,  foreign  or  not,  you're  an  ass  alone      • 

In  intellect  shallow  ;  our  serious 
And  profounder  side  you  never  have  known, 

Nor  our  psaltery's  charm  mysterious. 

"  Now,  my  soul's  in  that  music— in  every  wail 
And  hee-ha  !  re-echoing  sweetly  ; 

I'm  an  ass  in  each  separate  hair  of  my  tail ; 
Oh  yes,  I'm  an  ass  completely. 

"  No  papist  am  I,  no  wretched  slave — 
The  very  thought  makes  me  bristle. 

I'm  a  German  ass ;  like  my  fathers  I'm  brave 
And  thoughtful,  and  fond  of  a  thistle. 


THE   ASS-ELECTION.  115 

"Loose  gallantries  never  were  much  in  their  line, 

Nor  frivolous  vices  ;  ungrudging, 
With  the  sack  to  the  mill,  come  shade,  come  shine, 

Every  day  they  went  patiently  trudging. 

"  Our  fathers,  they  are  not  dead  !    To  the  dust 

Their  carcasses  only  were  given — 
Their  mortal  bodies — with  pleasure  and  trust 

They  gaze  on  us  down  from  heaven. 

"  0  asses  celestial,  in  aureoles  bright ! 

Like  you  we  will  never  linger, 
Nor  stray  from  the  pathway  of  duty  and  right 

By  so  much  as  the  breadth  of  a  finger. 

"  To  be  born  an  ass !     Oh,  the  rapture  high 
From  such  long-eared  sires  to  inherit ! 

I  was  born  an  ass !     I  should  like  to  cry 
And  bray  from  each  roof  my  merit ! 

"  The  noble  ass  whom  I  thank  for  my  birth 

Was  of  German  stock  and  no  other ; 
With  pure  ass's  milk  upon  German  earth 

I  was  fed  by  a  German  mother. 

"I'm  a  donkey  indeed,  and  will  faithfully  hold, 

As  long  as  the  grass  the  grass  is. 
To  the  ancient  ways  of  my  fathers  old. 

To  the  customs  and  cult  of  the  asses. 


Il6  LAST   POEMS. 

"And  because  I'm  an  ass  I  counsel  you  thus: 
Choose  an  ass  for  your  monarch  glorious. 

A  great  ass-realm  will  be  founded  by  us, 
Where  the  ass  shall  rule  victorious. 

"  We  are  all  of  us  asses !     Hee-ha !     Hee-ha ! 

And  no  horses  of  lowly  station, 
Down,  down  with  the  horses  !    Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 

For  the  king  of  the  great  ass-nation ! " 

Thus  the  patriot  spoke.     Every  ass  in  the  hall 

Acclaimed  the  speaker  proudly ; 
The  asses  had  national  leanings  all, 

And  stamped  with  their  ass-hoofs  loudly. 

With  oak  they  have  crowned  the  orator's  brow — 

A  highly  popular  measure  ; 
He  is  dumb  with  emotion :  can  only  bow. 

And  wag  his  ass- tail  for  pleasure. 


THE   DAYS    OF   THE   TIE-WIG. 

(fable.) 

At  Cassel  two  rats  fared  badly, 
They  had  nothing  to  eat,  and  sadly 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  hungry-eyed ; 

Then  one  of  the  rats,  she  whispered  and  sighed. 


THE   DAYS  OF   THE    TIE-WIG.  117 

"  I  know  of  some  millet  pap  in  a  pan, 
But  a  sentinel  guards  it,  wretched  man ! 

"  He  wears  the  Electoral  uniform,  too, 
And  his  hair  is  tied  in  a  monstrous  queue. 

"  His  musket  is  loaded  with  shot,  'tis  said, 
And  whoever  approaches,  he  shoots  him  dead." 

The  other  rat  whispered,  and  ground 
Her  teeth  with  a  gnawing  sound. 

"  His  Electoral  Highness  wisdom  displays, 
In  as  much  as  he  loves  the  good  old  days, 

"  The  times  when  the  Katten  of  yore 
Their  queer  long  tie-wigs  wore. 

"  They  rivalled  our  tails,  they  grew 
Such  a  curiously  lengthy  queue. 

"  The  tie-wig  is  only  the  image  in  art 

Of  the  tail  which  Nature  made  ours  from  the  start. 

"  The  rat,  the  privileged  creature, 
Has  the  tail  as  a  natural  feature. 

"  You,  0  Prince,  who  disdained  not  to  fuss 
Over  Katten,  must  surely  love  us. 


Ii8  LAST   POEMS. 

"  Your  heart  for  us  rats  should  warmly  beat 
Since  with  tails  at  our  birth  we  were  fashioned 
complete. 

"  0  noble  Philosopher !     Sensible  man  ! 
Come,  give  us  the  run  of  your  millet  pan. 

"  Yes,  give  us,  for  nothing,  the  pap  in  your  pot, 
And  dismiss  the  sentry  who  guards  the  spot ! 

"  In  return  for  the  pap  and  your  favour  royal, 
We  will  serve  you  for  evermore,  loving  and  loyal ; 

"And  when  you  are  dead,  to  your  grave  we'll  go, 
And  cut  off  our  tails  with  genuine  woe. 

"To   a   garland  we'll   twine   them,   to   swell   your 

renown ; 
Of  the  tail  of  a  rat  be  your  laurel  crown ! " 


THE   BUG. 


There  sat  on  a  penny  a  common  brown  bug ; 

Like  a  bloated  capitalist  pompous  and  smug 

He  lolled  and  he  sprawled,  and  he  said,  "  If  you've 

gold 
You   are   honoured   on    earth,   and    your    name   is 

extolled. 


THE   BUG.  1,9 

The  man  who  has  money  is  handsome  and  pleasing, 
No  woman  withstands  him,  no  matter  how  freezing. 
Why,  women,  they  tremble  :  grow  paler  than  death  : 
If  they  feel  but  so  much  as  the  smell  of  my  breath. 
Oh,  many  a  night  has  been  spent,  I  can  vouch. 
In  comfort  by  me  on  the  queen's  own  couch. 
On  her  mattress  she  tossed,  and  could  not  refrain 
From   scratching   and    scratching    and    scratching 
again ! " 

A  finch  came  along — a  bit  of  a  wag — 

Who  was  greatly  incensed  when  he  heard  him  brag. 

He  sharpened  his  bill  and  began  to  whistle 

A  song  on  the  insect,  with  satire  for  missile. 

But  the  bug  took  a  vengeance  dirty  and  low, 
In  the  manner  of  bugs,  for  bugs  are  so. 
He  said  that  the  finch  at  his  cost  was  funny 
Because  he  refused  to  lend  him  money. 


"  And    the   moral  ? "   you  ask.     I  have  noticed,  of 
late. 
That  the  moral  the  fabulist  prudently  shelves. 
For  vermin,  when  rich,  though  small  in  themselves, 

Have  powerful  allies  among  the  great. 

Each  sits  on  his  money-bag,  pompous  and  smug, 

The  Dessau  march  drumming,  a  glorious  bug. 


120  LAST   POEMS. 


II. 


The  insects  unclean  made  a  Holy  Alliance 
All  over  the  earth,  for  defence  and  defiance ; 
More  especially  bugs  who  had  musical  fancies, 
And  foolish  composers  of  wretched  romances, 
(Like  the  Schlesinger  clock  they  none  of  them  go,) 
Made  a  league  universal  for  weal  or  for  woe. 
In  Vienna  the  itch  has  its  famous  Mozart — 
The  pearl  of  pawnbrokers  given  to  art — 
Who  with  Meyerbeer — him  of  the  laurel  crown, 
The  mighty  Maestro  of  Berlin  town — 
Intrigues,  and  some  articles  shortly  appear, 
Which  a  leaf-louse,  one  of  the  allies  dear, 
Through  the   press    (ready  money  paid)  hastily 

smuggles — 
He  crawls  and  he  cringes,  he  lies  and  he  juggles, 
And  suffers  from  deep  melancholia,  too. 
The  public  will  often  give  ready  belief 
To  a  lie,  out  of  pity :  the  hypocrite's  grief 
On  his  features  is  written  for  all  to  view. 
Now   how   should   you   act   when    thus   wronged? 

Hold  your  tongue, 
And  endure  all  the  calumnies.     Try  to  be  meek. 
You  dare  not  complain  of  them :  dare  not  speak ; 
For,    of   course,  if  you    tramp   on    the   verminous 

dung, 


KING   LONG-EAR   I.  121 


You  will  poison  with  stench  the  sweet,  clean  air, 
And  be  forced  on  your  shoes  the  filth  to  bear. 
Yes,  silence  is  best — Some  more  opportune  time 
I  will  tell  you  the  moral  to  draw  from  my  rhyme. 


KING   LONG-EAR   I. 

Whkn  an  animal  king  M'as  elected,  of  course 
The  asses  appeared  in  the  greatest  force. 
So  an  ass  was  chosen,  the  Chronicle  states ; 
But  now  you  must  hear  what  it  further  relates. 

As  soon  as  the  ass  was  crowned,  we  are  told. 

He  imagined  he  looked  like  a  lion  bold. 

He  wrapped  himself  round  with  a  lion's  skin. 

And  bellowed  with  loud  and  leonine  din. 

He  hobnobbed  with  horses — his  pride  was  such — 

Which  the  slighted  old  asses  resented  much. 

Of  wolves  and  of  bull-dogs  his  army  was  formed ; 

And  the  asses  at  this  yet  more  fiercely  stormed. 

Then  an  ox  was  made  chancellor — conduct  so  bad 

That  they  snorted  with  rage  and  went  almost  mad. 

They  threatened  a  rising :  so  far  matters  went ; 

But  the  king,  when  he  heard  of  their  discontent, 

Stuck  the  crown  on  his  head,  and  wriggled  inside 

A  brave  and  imposing  lion's  hide. 


122  LAST   POEMS. 

Then  he  ordered  that  all  the  seditious  band 
Should  be  summoned  before  his  throne  to  stand ; 
And   he   spoke    to   them    thus    with   his   royal 

tongue : 
"  0  puissant  asses,  both  old  and  young ! 
Ye  imagine  that  I  am  an  ass  like  you. 
But  you  grievously  err :  I'm  a  lion  true. 
By  none  at  my  court  is  this  fact  gainsaid, 
From  the  high-born  dame,  to  the  serving-maid. 
My  laureate  also  has  written  a  song, 
With  me  for  its  theme,  which  proves  you  wrong : 
'  As  the  camel  inherits  its  hump,  your  soul 
Has  inherited  clearly,  for  all  to  extol. 
The  lion's  magnanimous  nature  ;  no  part 
Have  the  asinine  ears  in  your  Majesty's  heart ! ' 
'Tis  thus  he  sings  in  his  lines  inspired ; 
At  my  court  the  verses  are  much  admired, 
For  they  love  me.     The  peacocks  most  haughtily 

bred 
Dispute  for  the  honour  of  scratching  my  head. 
I  foster  the  arts  :  deny  it  can  none ; 
I'm  Maecenas  and  Caesar  Augustus  in  one. 
I've  a  fine  Court  Theatre,  too,  where  all 
The  heroic  parts  to  the  tom-cat  fall ; 
While  Mistress  Tabby,  the  poppet  sweet. 
And  a  score  of  pugs  the  troupe  complete. 
A  Painting  Academy,  also,  I've  founded, 
For  asses  of  genius,  whose  number's  unbounded. 


KING   LONG-EAR   I.  123 

I  have  as  its  worthy  director  ^?^  2^(^iio 

The  Eaphael  famed  of  the  Hamburg  ghetto ; 

Yes  the  Dreckwall  Lehmann  shall  fill  that  position ; 

I  will  get  him  to  paint  me — a  noble  commission. 

An  opera,  too,  and  a  ballet  are  mine. 

Where,  almost  half-naked,  coquettish  and  fine, 

The  loveliest  birds  twitter  gaily  and  sing, 

And  fleas  of  remarkable  talent  spring. 

My  orchestra-leader  is  Herr  Meyerbeer, 

The  wonderful  musical  millionaire. 

The  mighty  maestro's  composing  a  play 

To  be  duly  performed  on  my  wedding  day. 

I'm  a  musical  amateur,  too,  I  may  state. 

Like  the  monarch  of  Prussia,  Frederick  the  Great. 

The  instrument  honoured  by  him  was  the  flute, 

While  I  have  a  preference  strong  for  the  lute. 

And  many  sweet  eyes  with  a  yearning  light 

Are  filled  when  the  passionate  strings  I  smite. 

With  what  rapture  one  day  will  the  queen  discover 

That  she's  blest  with  a  musical  spouse  and  lover. 

She  herself  is  a  thoroughbred  mare  from  a  stud 

Of  the  highest  descent  and  the  bluest  blood. 

She's  related  by  kinship  quite  close,  indeed. 

To  the  proud  llosinante,  Don  Quixote's  steed ; 

While  her  genealogical  tree  proves  plain 

She  inherits  no  less  of  the  Bayard  strain. 

And  many  a  stallion  from  whom  she's  descended 

Rode  whinnying  under  the  banner  splendid 


124  LAST   POEMS. 

Of  Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  the  knight  of  renown 
Who  by  force  of  arms  conquered  the  holy  town. 
'Tis  by  beauty,  however,  she  shines  above  all. 
When  she  tosses  her  mane,  and  I  hear  her  call 
And  snort  with  her  rosy  nostrils,  a  burning 
And  rapturous  joy  fills  my  heart  with  yearning. 
She's  the  flower  of  mares,  no  better  is  known, 
And  she'll  give  me  an  heir  to  sit  on  my  throne. 
Indispensable  quite  this  alliance,  you  see, 
To  the  dynasty  high  that  shall  date  from  me. 
My  name  and  my  fame  will  never  decline : 
In  the  annals  of  Clio  will  always  shine ; 
That  powerful  goddess  will  ever  attest 
That  the  heart  of  a  lion  I  bore  in  my  breast, 
That  wisely  I  governed — which  none  will  refute — 
And  will  bear  witness,  too,  to  my  skill  on  the  lute." 

Here  the  king  stopped  to  belch :  for  a  moment  was 

dumb. 
Then   continued   his   speech :    there   was   more   to 

come. 

"  Ye  puissant  asses,  both  young  and  old ! 

My  favour  and  grace  I  will  not  withhold 

So  long  as  ye  prove  yourselves  worthy,  and  pay 

The  taxes  ye  owe  me  without  delay, 

And  in  virtue's  path  without  a  stumble, 

Like  your  fathers,  walk,  contented  and  humble. 


KING   LONG-EAR   I.  125 

The  honest  old  asses !     Through  frost  and  heat 
They  trudged  to  the  mill  with  the  corn  and  wheat, 
As  taught  by  religion,  nor  needed  compelling — 
They  never  so  much  as  dreamed  of  rebelling. 
From  their   thick   lips   no  murmurs  escaped :   the 

danger 
They   understood   well,   and   from   custom's   safe 


manger 


They  tranquilly  munched  at  their  innocent  hay, 
But  alas !  the  old  times  are  vanished  for  aye. 
Ye  latter-day  asses  are  asses,  indeed, 
But  humility  seems  to  be  lost  to  the  breed. 
Your  tails  ye  still  abjectly  wag  to  and  fro, 
But  arrogance  haughty  is  lurking  below. 
Though  people  conclude  from  your  imbecile  mien 
You're  the  honest  old  asses  they  always  have  seen, 
You  are  false,  you  are  wicked — true  gospel  I  speak — 
In  spite  of  your  assdom  so  servile  and  meek. 
Were  one  to  put  pepper  now  under  your  tail, 
Your  ass-lute  would  strike  up  its  hideous  wail, 
You  would  want  to  make  mince-meat  of  all  within 

reach, 
And  would  only  be  able  to  bray  and  to  screech. 
Mad   passion    that    counts    not    the    cost,    when 

stirred — 
Mere  impotent  anger — is  only  absurd. 
Your  bray  idiotic  proves  nothing  to  me, 
Save  how  tricky  and  artful  your  malice  can  be, 


126  LAST  POEMS. 

And  that  wickedness  vile  of  the  loathsomest  kind, 
And  imbecile  abjectness  foolish  and  blind, 
And  cunning  and  gall  and  poison  and  sin 
Can  be  hidden  away  'neath  an  ass's  skin." 

Here  the  king  stopped  to  belch :  for  a  moment  was 

dumb: 
Then   continued   his   speech :    there   was   more    to 

come. 

"  0  puissant  asses  of  every  age, 

Ye  perceive  how  truly  your  minds  I  gauge. 

I  am  greatly  annoyed — my  disgust's  immense — 

That  your  really  disgraceful  lack  of  sense 

Should  have  brought  discredit  upon  my  rule. 

From  the  ass  point  of  view — which  is  that  of  a  fool — 

'Twas  impossible  quite  you  could  understand 

My  lion-ideas  and  policy  grand. 

But  I  warn  you,  beware !     Do  not  fancy  I  joke  ! 

In  my  kingdom  grows  many  a  beech  and  oak, 

Which  my  carpenters  fashion  to  gallows  fine, 

And  excellent  sticks.     I  advise  you,  confine 

Your  thoughts  to  yourselves ;  I  counsel  it  strongly  : 

Discuss  not  my  government,  rightly  or  wrongly. 

The  impious  praters  who  argue  and  reason 

Shall  be  publicly  flogged  by  the  hangman  for  treason, 

Or  to  card  wool  in  jail  they'll  be  sent,  on  detection ; 

And  if  any's  so  bold  as  to  talk  insurrection. 


THE   ROVING    RATS.  127 

And  barricades  (tearing  np  streets  in  the  city !) 
He'll  be  hanged  out  of  hand  without  favour  or  pity. 
I  desired  to  impress  you  with  this,  and  explain, 
And  now  you  may  trundle  off  homewards  again." 

When  the  king  his  sentiments  thus  had  voiced, 
The  asses,  both  old  and  young,  rejoiced, 
And  shouted  together,  "  Hee-ha  !     Hee-ha ! 
Long  live  the  king !     Hurrah  !     Hurrah  !  " 


THE   EOVING   EATS. 

Among  rats  you  only  find 

The  full  and  the  famished  kind. 
The  full  ones  stay  in  peace  at  home, 
And  the  hungry  ones  go  forth  and  roam. 

Many  thousand  miles  they  wander ; 

They  pause  not  to  rest  or  ponder ; 
They  speed  in  a  grim  unswerving  track ; 
Neither  wind  nor  rain  can  hold  them  back. 

Over  the  hills  they  go, 

And  they  swim  the  lakes  below. 
Some  break  their  necks  and  some  are  drowned, 
And  the  sick  are  left  behind  by  the  sound. 


128  LAST  POEMS. 

Each  queer  old  fellow  sticks  out 

An  ugly,  horrible  snout, 
And  their  heads  are  shaven,  like  radicals',  flat ; 
Indeed  they  are  all  as  bald  as  a  rat. 

These  radicals  ugly  and  odd, 

Know  nothing  whatever  of  God, 
Their  children  are  never  baptized.   That  their  mating 
Is  a  matter  promiscuous  hardly  needs  stating. 

The  material  rat  only  thinks 

Of  what  he  eats  and  drinks. 
He  quite  forgets,  while  drinking  and  eating, 
That  the  soul  is  immortal,  and  time  is  fleeting. 

So  also  the  wild  she-rat, 

She  fears  neither  hell  nor  cat. 
No  goods  and  no  gold  she  possesses — her  view 
Is  that  earth  should  be  parcelled  out  anew. 

The  wandering  rats,  alack  ! 

Are  already  close.     The  pack 
Is  swarming  and  squeaking  here,  in  our  region  ; 
They  come,  they  come,  and  their  number's  legion. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !  we  are  lost ! 

At  the  very  gate  stands  the  host. 
The  mayor,  the  senators — helpless  crew — 
They  shake  their  heads :  it  is  all  they  can  do 


THE    ROVING    RATS.  129 

The  citizens  fly  to  arms, 

The  priests  peal  out  alarms, 
For  property's  threatened  and  toppling  down — 
Palladium  dear  to  the  orderly  town. 

But  the  ringing  of  bells,  and  the  prayer  of  the  priest. 
And  a  senate's  wise  laws  will  not  help  in  the  least ; 
Your  hundred-pounders,  your  cannons  may  volley — 
You  will  find  them,  my  children,  the  merest  folly. 

And  likewise  vain,  now  your  fortunes  ebb, 
Is  the  lifeless  art  of  the  word-spun  web. 
For  rats  are  not  caught  by  snares  syllogistic : 
All  your  quibbles  they'll  jump — the  most  subtly 
sophistic. 

Yes,  hungry  bellies  will  only  seize  on 
The  logic  of  soup,  and  a  dumpling-reason. 
And  the  arguments  offered  by  roast-beef  orations, 
When  strewn,  say,  with  Gottingen-sausage-quota- 
tions. 

To  these  radicals,  finer  than  all  you  could  utter 
Is  a  good  dried  cod  that's  been  boiled  in  butter. 
No  orator  born  since  great  Cicero's  time, 
Not  Mirabeau  even,  is  half  so  sublime. 

VOL.  XII.  I 


I30  LAST    POEMS. 


THE   JUNIOR   CAT-CLUB   FOE 
POETIC   MUSIC. 

The  philharmonic  cat-club  met 

Upon  the  roof  to-night ; 
But  not  for  rowdy,  romping  love, 

And  amorous  delight. 

The  wedding  dreams  of  summer  warm, 
The  songs  by  lovers  chosen, 

Suit  not  with  winter,  frost  and  snow, 
When  every  runnel's  frozen. 

Besides,  the  cats  were  'neath  the  spell 
Of  strivings  strange  and  new ; 

The  young  tom-cat  is  all  aglow 
Eor  earnestness  more  true. 

A  generation  frivolous 

Is  passing ;  and  an  urging : 

A  cat  springtide  of  poetry  : 
In  art  and  life  is  surging. 

The  philharmonic  club  reverts 

To  the  primitive  again  : 
To  the  youthful,  downy-lipped,  naive 

Unstudied,  artless  strain. 


THE   JUNIOR    CAT-CLUB   FOR    POETIC   MUSIC.     131 

They  want  poetic  music  now, 

Kouludes  without  a  trill ; 
Instrumental  and  vocal  poetry, 

Where  music  shall  be  nil. 

They  hold  that  genius  is  supreme, 
Which,  though  it  trips  at  times, 

To  the  ladder's  very  highest  rung 
Unconscious  often  climbs. 

They  honour  genius  that,  unspoilt, 

Prom  Nature  has  not  turned : 
On  knowledge  does  not  plume  itself — 

Which,  in  fact,  has  nothing  learned. 

Such  is  the  programme  of  the  club ; 

Of  this  aspiration  full, 
On  the  roof  to-night  it  gave  the  first 

Of  its  winter  concerts  cool. 

But  the  execution  of  the  plan 

Was  a  truly  sad  affair — 
Go,  hang  yourself,  friend  Berlioz, 

Because  you  were  not  there. 

'Twas  a  charivari — it  might  have  been 

Some  frantic  gallopade 
Three  dozen  pipers,  roaring  drunk, 

Upon  the  bagpipes  played. 


132 


LAST    POEMS. 


'Twas  as  formless  as  if  all  the  beasts 

On  Noah's  ark  afloat, 
Had  started  chorussiug  the  Flood 

With  a  sinRle  heart  and  throat. 


*o 


What  a  yowling,  howling  hullabaloo  ! 

What  a  bawling,  squalling  din  ! 
The  chimneys  take  up  the  sacred  song : 

With  a  snort  and  a  puff  join  in  ! 

One  voice  you  can  hear  above  the  rest — 

A  shrill,  a  tired  and  a  bad  one ; 
It  reminds  one  somehow  of  Sontag's  voice, 

Before  she  no  longer  had  one. 

What  a  concert  wild !    The  Te  Deum  was  sung, 

And  considered  quite  in  season 
As  a  psean  of  praise  for  the  victory  gained 

By  impious  folly  o'er  reason. 

Or  the  club  perhaps,  for  aught  I  know 

Was  rehearsing  the  opera  grand 
By  Hungary's  greatest  pianist 

For  Charenton  Madhouse  planned. 


* 


A   REMINISCENCE   OF  HAM  MUNI  A.  133 


A  KEMINISCENCE   OF   HAMMONIA. 

Lo !  they  pass  by  two,  by  three, 
Orphans  happy  as  can  be  ; 
In  their  dresses  blue  they  go, 
All  their  little  cheeks  aslow — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

That  the  sight  is  one  to  move, 
Jingling  money-boxes  prove. 
Many  a  secret  father's  hand 
Opens  wide  at  the  demand — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

"Women  too,  so  full  of  feeling, 
Find  the  hapless  things  appealing ; 
Mouth  and  dirty  nose  they  kiss, 
Showering  bags  of  sugar-bliss — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

In  the  box  the  usurer  shy 
Drops  a  dollar,  passing  by, 
For  he  has  a  heart,  and  brighter 
Jogs  along  for  pocket  lighter. 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 


134  LAST  POEMS. 

Now  a  louis-d'or  is  given 
By  a  pious  man.     At  heaven 
First  a  glance  you  see  him  snatching, 
Just  to  know  if  God  is  watching — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

Coopers,  porters,  baggage-humpers, 
Work-folk  all,  they  drain  their  bumpers- 
Mark  the  day  by  emptying  glasses 
To  the  little  lads  and  lasses — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

And  Hammonia  walks  behind, 
Tutelary  goddess  kind ; 
Her  proportions  vast  appear 
Proudly  bringing  up  the  rear — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children  ! 

On  a  field  without  the  gate. 
High  in  spangled,  pennoned  state, 
Stands  a  tent,  where  music  sweet 
Charms  the  senses;  here  they  eat — 
Oh,  the  pietty  orphan  children ! 

Here  they  sit  in  endless  rows, 
Sup  their  soup,  and  then  dispose 
Of  the  tarts  and  cakes,  like  mice 
Nibbling  at  the  tit-bits  nice — 
Oh,  the  pretty  orphan  children ! 


THE  SONG    OF  SONGS.  135 

But,  alas !  I  think  with  sadness 
On  an  orphanage  where  gladness 
To  the  guests  is  little  known  ; 
Yonder  miserably  moan 
Many  million  orphan  children  : 

Where  no  uniform  is  worn, 
And  where  dinnerless,  forlorn, 
Desolation  in  each  heart. 
Wander,  weary  and  apart, 
Many  million  orphan  children. 


THE   SONG   OF   SONGS. 

Fair  woman's  body  is  a  song. 
The  Lord,  He  did  indite  it : 

In  Nature's  album  wrote  it  down 
As  He  was  moved  to  write  it. 

'Twas  made  in  a  propitious  hour : 
Inspired  the  Lord  was  truly ; 

With  what  a  master-hand  He  shaped 
The  stubborn  stuff  unruly  ! 

The  song  of  songs,  beyond  compare, 

Is  woman's  body  tender  ; 
Her  limbs  are  strophes  exquisite, 

So  warm  and  white  and  tender. 


136  LAST  POEMS. 

And  what  a  heavenly  motion,  too, 
This  dainty  neck  and  shining 

On  which  the  curly  head  is  poised- 
A  triumph  of  designing ! 


* 


The  song  has  flesh  and  blood  and  bones, 

No  abstract  poem  this  is — 
Has  hands  and  feet ;  with  rhythmic  mouth 

It  even  laughs  and  kisses. 

It  breathes  the  truest  poetry, 
Its  grace  needs  no  correction  ; 

Yea,  on  its  brow  it  bears  the  seal 
Of  absolute  perfection. 

Lord,  in  the  dust  I  will  adore, 

And  praise  with  awe  and  wonder ! 

Compared  with  Thee,  the  heavenly  bard, 
How  foolishly  we  blunder ! 

Before  the  splendour  of  Thy  song 

I'll  sink  in  adoration, 
And  to  its  study  will  devote 

The  closest  application. 


THE   SUTLER'S   SONG.  137 

I  will  not  lose  a  single  hour, 

Nor  ever  dream  of  shirking : 
And,  if  I'm  not  the  man  I  was — 

'Twill  come  of  overworkinEf. 


THE  SUTLER'S  SONG. 
(feom  "the  thirty  yeaks'  war.") 

I  FONDLY  love  the  gay  hussars : 

I  love  them  very  dearly ; 
I  love  the  yellow,  love  the  brown, 

I  love  them  all  sincerely. 

I  fondly  love  the  musketeers. 
With  all  my  heart  I  love  them  ; 

The  young,  the  old,  the  rank  and  file, 
The  officers  above  them. 

I  love  them  all,  the  horse,  the  foot, 

For  surely  none  are  braver  ; 
And  also  the  artillery 

Have  often  known  my  favour. 

I  love  the  Germans,  love  the  French, 

Italians,  too,  and  Dutchmen  ; 
Bohemians,  Spaniards,  Swedes — for  charm. 

There's  nothing  that  can  touch  men. 


138  LAST   POEMS. 

I  care  not  what  their  country  is, 
A  fig  for  creed  and  party ! 

A  man  is  always  dear  to  me, 
If  only  hale  and  hearty. 


Eeligion  and  the  Fatherland — 
They're  merely  clothes  that  cover. 

Strip  off  the  husk  !  the  man  beneath 
Is  what  I  want  for  lover. 

I'm  human  :  to  humanity 

Devote  myself  with  pleasure  ; 

And  those  who  cannot  pay  at  once 
Can  pay  me  at  their  leisure. 

How  merry  in  the  sunlight  laughs 
The  wreath  my  tent  adorning ! 

To-day  the  drink  is  Malmsey  wine — 
I  tapped  a  butt  this  morning. 


A  PAIR   OF   PICKPOCKETS. 

While  on  the  couch  I  sat  enraptured 
In  Laura's  arms,  the  wily  fox. 
Her  husband,  busy  at  my  box, 

My  bank-notes  with  adroitness  captured. 


HANS  LACKLAND. 


139 


Now  here  I  stand,  my  pockets  rifled  ! 

Was  Laura's  kiss  but  falsehood  masked  ? 

Ah,  what  is  truth  ?     So  Pilate  asked, 
And  washed  his  hands  while  truth  was  stifled. 

This  wicked  world  that  is  so  rotten 
And  so  depraved  I  soon  must  leave. 
The  man  who's  poor  is,  I  perceive, 

Half  dead  already  and  forgotten. 

To  you,  ye  spirits  pure  and  leal. 

My  heart  yearns  upward  with  desire. 
You,  in  your  realms  of  light,  require 

So  little,  that  ye  need  not  steal. 


HANS   LACKLAND. 

"  Farewell,  my  wife,"  said  Lackland  Hans, 
"  High  aims  allure  and  beckon  ; 

I  go  to  shoot  at  other  bucks, 
On  nobler  sport  I  reckon. 

"I  leave  to  you  my  hunting-horn. 

And  you  can  tootle  suavely, 
To  pass  the  time ;  you  learned  at  home 

To  blow  the  post-horn  bravely. 


I40  LAST   POEMS. 

"  I  also  leave  my  clog  behind 
To  keep  my  house  securely, 

The  Germans,  with  a  poodle's  faith. 
Will  guard  me  well  and  surely. 

"  They  offer  me  the  Kaiser's  throne — 
They  are  not  merely  joking — 

They  wear  my  portrait  on  their  breasts, 
And  on  their  pipes  when  smoking. 

"  You  Germans  are  a  mighty  folk, 

So  simple  yet  superior ; 
That  you  invented  powder,  none 

Would  guess  from  your  exterior. 

"  I'll  make  you  happy — not  as  king, 

But  father,  elder  brother. 
Oh,  glorious  thought !     I  feel  as  proud 

As  was  the  Gracchi's  mother. 

■  "  Yes,  by  the  heart  and  not  the  head 
I'll  rule  a  realm  adoring. 
Diplomacy  is  not  my  forte, 
And  policy  is  boring. 

"  As  child  of  Nature,  hunter  free, 
I've  trod  the  forest  mazes ; 

With  snipe  and  chamois,  buck  and  sow, 
I  spin  no  subtle  phrases. 


HANS    LACKLAND. 


141 


"  Your  proclamations  I  disdain, 
And  scorn  your  printed  gammon ! 

I'll  say,  '  My  people,  dine  on  cod ; 
To-day  there  is  no  salmon. 

" '  And  if  1  do  not  please  you,  choose 

The  likeliest  fool  to  lead  you. 
In  the  Tyrol  I  did  not  starve ; 

I  neither  want  nor  need  you.' 

"  'Tis  thus  I'll  speak.     But  now,  my  wife. 
Farewell — no  time  for  prating. 

Your  father's  steeds  are  at  the  door, 
And  the  postillion's  waiting. 

"  Quick  !  reach  me  down  my  travelling-cap ; 

Its  band  is  black-red-golden. 
You'll  see  me  soon  a  kaiser  crowned. 

In  royal  robes  and  olden. 

"  You'll  see  me  in  the  Pluvial, 

The  purple  mantle  glorious 
Which  the  Sultan  of  the  Saracens 

Gave  Otto  the  victorious ; 

"With  the  Dalmatic  underneath, 
Where  beasts  of  fabled  seeming 

With  lions  and  with  camels  march. 
All  bright  with  jewels  gleaming. 


142  LAST   POEMS. 

"  I'll  wear  the  stole  upon  my  breast : 
The  stole  embroidered  duly 

On  a  yellow  ground  with  eagles  black- 
A  handsome  costume  truly. 

"  Farewell !     As  king,  posterity 
Will  laud  me  and  acclaim  me — 

Who  knows  ?     Perhaps  posterity 
Will  not  so  much  as  name  me." 


A   EECOLLECTION   OF   KRAHWINKEL'S 
DAYS   OF   TEEROE. 

By  us,  the  Mayor  and  Senate  framed, 
The  following  mandate  is  proclaimed, 
In  love  paternal  to  all  classes 
Who  represent  the  civic  masses : 

"  'Tis  mostly  foreigners,  we  own, 
By  whom  rebellion's  seed  is  sown ; 
Such  sinners  seldom,  praised  be  God, 
Are  children  of  our  German  sod. 

"  And  atheists  also  share  the  crime ; 
He  who  denies  his  Lord,  in  time 
A  faithless  renegade  will  prove  him 
To  those  on  earth  who  rank  above  him. 


A    RECOLLECTION   OF   DAYS    OF    TERROR.        143 

"  Obey  your  rulers  :  this  be  ever 
The  Jew's,  the  Christian's  first  endeavour, 
And  Christians,  Jews,  shall,  every  one, 
Shut  up  their  shops  at  set  of  sun. 

"  Should  three  of  you  together  meet, 
Disperse  at  once ;  and  in  the  street 
Let  none  of  you  be  seen  at  night, 
Abroad  on  foot,  without  a  light, 

"  Straight  to  the  guildhall  of  the  town 
Eepair  and  lay  your  weapons  down ; 
And  subject  to  the  same  condition 
Is  every  sort  of  ammunition. 

"  Whoever  in  a  public  spot 
Attempts  to  argue  shall  be  shot; 
To  reason  by  gesticulation 
Will  bring  the  self-same  castigation. 

"  Your  mayor  ye  must  trust  in  blindly; 
He  guards  the  town  and  watches  kindly, 
With  anxious  care,  o'er  old  and  young. 
Your  business  is  to  hold  your  tongue." 


144  f-'^Sr   POEMS. 

THE   AUDIENCE. 

(an  old  fable.) 

"  I  DROWN  not  children  in  the  Nile 

As  Pharaoh  used  to  do. 
I  am  not  Herod,  who,  of  old, 

The  little  children  slew. 

"  On  children,  like  the  Lord,  I'll  look 
In  love,  and  not  in  scorn. 

The  little  ones  shall  come  to  me, 
And  the  big  ones  Swabian  born." 


^o 


Thus  spake  the  King,  and  the  Chamberlain 

Went  forth  with  hurrying  feet, 
And  returned  with  the  great  big  Swabian  child, 

Who  made  a  reverence  meet. 

"  You  are  from  Swabia  ? "  quoth  the  King ; 

"  Well,  well,  'tis  no  disgrace." 
"  Correctly  guessed !     I'm  Swaluan  born ; 

You've  named  my  native  place." 

"  And  from  the  seven  Swabians  wise 

Do  you  reckon  your  descent  ? " 
"  I  had  not  all  the  seven  for  sires; 

With  one  I  was  content," 


THE   AUDIENCE.  145 

The  King  went  on,  "  Are  the  dumplings  good 

In  Swabian  homes  this  year  ?  " 
"  I  judge  them  to  be  most  excellent, 

From  what  I  taste  and  hear." 

"  And  are  your  men  still  giants  all  ? " 

The  King  inquired.     "  Of  late 
They've  run  to  fat  instead  of  height ; 

Not  one  is  truly  great." 

"  Have  Menzel's  ears  been  often  boxed 

Since  his  notorious  drubbing  ? " 
"  No,  I  rather  fancy  that  in  the  past 

He  had  sufficient  snubbing." 

"  You're  not  so  dull  as  you  appear, 
My  friend — which  would  be  tragic." 

"Ah,  that  is  because  I  was  changed  at  birth, 
By  the  cunning  kobolds'  magic." 

"  The  Swabians  used  to  love  their  laud : 

Of  their  home  no  race  was  fonder ; 
Say,  what  has  caused  you  thus  to  leave 

Your  native  haunts,  and  wander  ? " 

"  Sire,  turnips  and  sauer-kraut,  alas ! 

Are  the  only  dishes  made  there. 
Had  my  mother  cooked  me  meat  as  well, 

I  should  certainly  have  stayed  there." 
VOL.  XII.  K 


146  LAST   POEMS. 

"  Now,  ask  a  favour,"  said  the  King. 

The  Swabian  knelt  and  cried, 
"  Oh,  give  us  our  precious  freedom  back, 

Which  has  been  so  long  denied  ! 

"  For  man  is  free  ;  he  was  never  born 

A  slave  by  Nature's  plan. 
0  sire,  restore  to  the  German  folk 

The  common  rights  of  man ! " 

The  King  was  moved  ;  it  was  a  scene 

Too  touching  to  forget. 
The  Swabian  on  his  coat-sleeve  wiped 

His  eyes  with  tear-drops  wet. 

Said  the  King  at  length,  "  'Tis  a  lovely  dream ! 

Farewell ;  may  time  instruct  you ; 
As  at  present  you  seem  to  walk  in  your  sleep, 

Two  gendarmes  will  conduct  you  : 

"  By  gendarmes  stout,  to  the  boundary  line 
You  will  forthwith  be  conveyed. 

Farewell,  I  hear  the  beat  of  drums ; 
I'm  due  at  the  parade." 

And  so  the  touching  audience  came 

To  an  equally  touching  end. 
But  to  children  the  King  has,  ever  since. 

Been  rather  less  of  a  friend. 


KOBF.S  I.  147 


KOBES   I. 


At  the  time  when  passions  were  running  high, 

In  eighteen  forty-eight, 
The  German  parliament  was  convened 

At  Frankfort  for  debate. 

And  the  woman  clad  in  white  appeared 

In  the  Senate  House  ;  'tis  said 
When  this  ghost,  whom  they  call   the  house- 
keeper, walks, 

Disaster  looms  ahead. 

In  the  Senate  House  she's  always  seen — 

'Tis  asserted  as  a  fact — 
When  the  honest  Germans  meditate 

Some  stupendously  foolish  act. 

I  saw  her  myself  about  that  time 
In  the  darkened  hours  of  slumber ; 

She  walked  through  the  empty  rooms,  where, 
heaped, 
Lies  the  medieval  lumber. 

She  held  a  lamp ;  in  her  bloodless  hands 

Was  clasped  a  bunch  of  keys ; 
She  opened  the  cupboards  against  the  walls. 

And  the  spacious  chests  with  case. 


148  LAST  POEMS. 

There  lies  the  kaiser-insignia, 

There  lies  the  seal  of  gold, 
The  apple  of  empire — the  sceptre,  the  crown. 

And  the  rest  of  the  whimsies  old. 

There  lies  the  purple  faded  trash. 

The  vestments  worn  by  kings, 
The  wardrobe  of  the  German  realm. 

The  rusted,  mouldy  things. 

The  housekeeper  sadly  shook  her  head 
When  her  eyes  on  the  rubbish  fell, 

And  suddenly  cried  in  a  tone  of  disgust, 
"  What  a  horribly  loathsome  smell ! 

"  It's  reeking  of  mice  !     How  rotten  and  foul 
Is  the  trumpery  stuff ;  the  ermine. 

And  all  the  pretentious,  tawdry  rags 
Are  crawling  with  noisome  vermin. 


^a 


"  From  the  look  of  the  coronation  robe 

And  its  fur,  I  almost  fear 
That  the  Senate  House  cats  have  made  a  point 

Of  having  their  kittens  here. 


"o 


"  God  pity  the  luckless  king  to  be  ! 

jN"o  hope  of  cleansing  these  ! 
This  robe  will  keep  him,  his  whole  life  long. 

Supplied  with  a  plague  of  fleas. 


KOBES   I.  149 

"  And  when  kaisers  itch,  as  every  one  knows, 
The  people  must  scratch  ;  to  many, 

0  Germans !  I  fear  these  royal  fleas 
Will  cost  a  pretty  penny. 

"  But  why  have  the  king  and  the  fleas  at  all  ? 

This  robe,  see,  through  and  through. 
Is  rotten  and  rusty  and  old ;  new  times 

Demand  a  costume  new. 

"  The  German  bard  at  Kyffhaliser  said 

To  Barbarossa  truly, 
'  I  find  we  need  no  kaiser  at  all, 

When  I  weigh  the  matter  duly.' 

"  But  if  nothing  will  please  you  short  of  a  king : 

If  you're  set  on  a  monarchy  hoary  : 
Dear  Germans,  be  warned,  and  avoid  the  snare 

Of  genius  and  wit  and  glory. 

"  Away  with  the  man  of  patrician  birth ! 

A  plebeian  be  sure  you  elect. 
And  see  that  he's  also  the  dullest  of  sheep ; 

The  fox  and  the  lion  reject. 

"Choose  stupid  Kobes  who  lives  in  Cologne, 

Elect  him  at  once,  I  beseech  you. 
His  stupidity  almost  to  genius  amounts; 

He  never  will  overreach  you. 


I50  LAST   POEMS. 

"  As  /Esop  has  shown  in  his  fables  wise, 

The  safest  of  kings  are  the  Logs. 
They're  better  than  Storks  with  their  pointed  bills  ; 

They  never  eat  up  the  frogs. 

"  No  Holofernes,  no  hero  harsh 
Will  your  Kobes  be ;  you  will  find 

That  no  cruel  antique  heart  is  his, 
But  a  latter-day  one,  and  a  kind. 

"  Low  huckstering  pride  despised  this  heart, 
And,  insulted,  he  fell  on  the  breast 

Of  the  Helots  of  work,  and  became  the  flower 
Of  labour's  sons  opprest. 

"  The  association  of  journeymen  once 

Chose  Kobes  to  represent  them; 
He  shared  their  last  crust,  and  was  volubly 
praised : 

Indeed,  seemed  quite  to  content  them. 

"  They  vaunted  the  fact  that  he  had  not  received 

A  university  training : 
His  books  from  his  inner  consciousness  wrote. 

Idle  scholarship  thus  disdaining ; 

"  That  the  whole  of  his  bottomless  ignorance 
He  had  won  by  his  own  endeavour ; 

That  no  foreign  culture  or  learning  vain 
Had  made  him  falsely  clever. 


KOBES   I.  151 

"  From  abstract  philosophy's  influence  dire 

His  mind,  his  thought  was  free. 
'  Our  Kobes,'  they  say,  '  has  remained  himself ; 

A  character  quite  is  he ! ' 

"  A  stereotyped,  unchanging  tear 

Shines  always  in  his  eyes ; 
And  a  heavy  thick-lipped  dulness,  too, 

On  his  utterance  always  lies. 

"  He  prates  and  whines,  and  whines  and  prates. 

Each  word  long-eared  and  crass, 
An  unhappy  woman,  who  heard  him  talk, 

Gave  birth,  they  say,  to  an  ass. 

"  With  the  knitting  of  stockings  and  writing  of 
books 

He  beguiles  his  hours  of  leisure, 
'Tis  said  that  the  stockings  he  knits,  indeed. 

Are  lauded  beyond  all  measure. 

"  Apollo  and  the  Muses  nine. 

When  he  knits  with  praises  cheer  him; 
If  a  goose-quill,  however,  they  see  in  his  hand, 

They  tremble  at  once,  and  fear  him. 

"  This  knitting  recalls  the  good  old  days 
Of  the  Funken,  those  heroes  trusty 

Who  stood  at  their  posts  and  knitted  the  while — 
Their  steel  was  never  rusty  ! 


152  LAST  POEMS, 

"When  Kobes  is  king,  he  is  sure  to  revive 

Those  Fu liken  brave,  and  reward 
Tlieir  valour  by  calling  them  round  his  throne 

As  imperial  bodyguard. 

"  And  then,  at  the  head  of  the  glorious  band, 

How  eager  he'll  be  to  advance 
On  Alsace  and  Lorraine  and  on  Burgundy,  too, 

To  win  them  again  from  France. 

"  But,  friends,  never  fear,  he  will  tarry  at  home. 

Detained  by  a  peaceful  mission. 
He  must  finish  Cologne's  cathedral  first, 

A  great  and  worthy  ambition. 

"  But  at  last,  when  the  minster  is  built  complete, 

The  anger  of  Kobes  will  mount, 
And  forth  he  will  hurry,  his  sword  in  his  hand, 

To  call  the  French  to  account. 

"  Alsace  and  Lorraine  he  will  win  again, 

Purloined  from  the  Fatherland ; 
On  Burgundy,  too,  will,  a  victor,  march, 

When  the  minster's  finished  as  planned. 

"  If  a  kaiser,  0  Germans  !  ye  really  want : 
If  ye  cling  to  the  notion  you've  nursed, 

Elect  the  carnival  king  of  Cologne, 
And  call  him  Kobes  I. 


KOBES   I.  153 

"  The  mummers  and  fools  of  the  carnival  club 
With  their  fools'  caps  ringing  and  mocking 

Will  be  suitable  ministers  ready-made, 
Their  escutcheon  a  knitted  stocking. 

"  And  Drickes  quaint  will  be  Chancellor  styled — 

Count  Drickes  of  Drickes  Hall — 
While  Marizzebill,  as  the  Mistress  of  State, 

The  Kaiser  will  drub  and  maul. 

"  His  good  and  his  holy  town  of  Cologne 

The  King  for  his  home  will  choose ; 
An  illumination  will  testify,  bright, 

To  the  burgesses'  joy  at  the  news. 

"  The  bells,  the  iron  dogs  of  the  air, 

Will  bark  in  jubilant  riot, 
And  the  Holy  Three  Kings  of  the  morning  land 

Will  wake  from  their  slumber  quiet. 

"  And  forth  they  will  step  with  a  clatter  of  bones ; 

They  will  merrily  dance  and  spring. 
Hallelujahs  loud  I  can  hear  them  shout, 

And  the  Kyrie  Eleison  sing." 

The  spirit  that  walks  in  white  spake  thus, 
And  stopped  with  a  peal  of  laughter ; 

How  horribly  weird  through  the  empty  halls 
The  echoes  sounded  after. 


154  LAST   POEMS. 


EFFECTIVE  MEANS. 

Enthusiasm,  hardihood, 

You  have  them — good  ! 

But  ardour  cannot  take  the  place 

Of  circumspection's  soberer  grace. 

The  foe,  I  know  it,  does  not  fight 

For  justice,  light. 

But  he  has  guns  (what's  almost  sounder), 

And  cannons,  many  a  hundred-pounder. 

Stand  with  your  weapons,  calm  and  steady, 
Gun  cocked  and  ready  ; 
Aim  well,  when  thinned  the  foeman's  ranks, 
Your  hearts  may  also  thunder  thanks. 


AFFEONTENBUKG. 

I  SEE  the  ancient  castle  still — 
The  turret,  and  the  battled  wall. 

The  stupid  folk  about  the  place ; 
Though  years  have  fled,  I  see  it  all. 

I  still  can  see  the  weather-cock 

That  on  the  roof  went  clanking  round, 

And  drew  from  each  a  timid  glance 
Before  he  dared  to  make  a  sound. 


AFFRONTENBURG.  155 

None  spoke  till  he  had  first  inquired 
In  what  direction  blew  the  wind, 

In  case  old  growling  Boreas  rude 

Might  buCfet  him  with  breath  unkind. 

The  wise  ones  simply  held  their  peace, 
For  in  that  castle,  well  they  knew. 

There  was  an  echo  which  gave  back, 
With  venomed  malice,  false  for  true. 

A  marble  fountain,  sphinx-adorned, 
Down,  midway,  in  the  garden  stood. 

'Twas  always  dry,  though  many  a  tear 
Had  fallen  by  its  sealed  llood. 

Accursed  garden  !     Every  spot 

Some  memory  of  woe  has  kept. 
At  every  turn  my  heart  was  torn. 

And  everywhere  mine  eyes  have  wept. 

In  truth  there  grew  no  single  tree 

Beneath  whose  boughs  had  not  been  lluug 

Some  insult  or  abusive  speech, 

By  voice  refined,  or  vulgar  tongue. 

The  toad  that  listened  in  the  grass 
Informed  the  rat,  who,  word  for  word, 

Confided  to  her  aunt  the  snake 
The  tale  the  toad  had  overheard. 


156  LAST  POEMS. 

The  snake  rehearsed  it  to  the  frog, 
And  so  at  once  the  gossip  spread, 

And  all  the  filthy  fry  enjoyed 

The  insults  heaped  upon  my  head. 

The  garden's  roses  blossomed  fair. 

And  sweetly  lured  with  odorous  breath, 

But,  victims  of  some  poison  strange, 

Before  their  time  they  drooped  to  death. 

The  nightingale,  the  noble  bird, 
Who  sang  the  roses  in  their  bloom, 

Has  perished  since,  and  I  believe 

The  self -same  poison  wrought  her  doom. 

Accursed  garden  !     Yes,  a  curse, 

An  evil  spell  upon  it  lay, 
And  often  with  a  ghostly  fear 

I  shuddered  in  the  light  of  day. 

I  seemed  to  see  a  spectre  green 

That  grinned  and  mocked  me,  and  I  heard 
A  horrid  sound  of  sighs  and  groans 

Prom  out  the  yew  copse,  weirdly  stirred. 

Down  at  the  garden's  further  end 
A  terrace  high  was  built,  and,  under, 

When  tides  were  full,  upon  the  rocks 
The  North  Sea  billows  broke  in  thunder. 


TO   EDWARD   G. 

There,  gazing  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
I  dreamed  mad  dreams  of  wild  unrest, 

A  fury  like  the  Ocean's  own 

Was  foaming,  seething  in  my  breast : 

A  foaming,  seething,  surging  rage, 
Vain  as  the  billows',  shattered  wan 

Against  the  hard  and  ruthless  cliff, 
However  proudly  they  came  on. 

The  passing  ships  I  envied  sore : 
They  sailed  away  to  happier  lands ; 

While  to  that  castle  I  was  bound, 
A  prisoner  in  accursed  bands. 


'57 


TO  EDWARD  G. 

With  titles,  honours,  posts  you  have  been  piled, 
A  coat  of  arms  and  helmet  plumed  you  claim ; 

Perhaps  you're  even  "  Excellency  "  styled, 
To  me  you're  a  poor  fellow  all  the  same. 

The  noble  nature  does  not  move  me  much. 
Which  you  so  aptly  found  that  you  possessed, 

Although  its  diamond  lustre  may  be  such 
As  Philistines  display  upon  their  breast. 


158  LAST   POEMS. 

My  God  !  Beneath  your  uniform,  I  know, 
For  all  its  gold  lace,  hidden  from  our  seeing, 

There  is  a  naked  man  oppressed  with  woe ; 
A  sighing  thing — a  miserable  being. 

In  no  way  different  from  the  rest  of  us. 
Your  body  must  have  nourishment  or  die ; 

So  spare  me,  I  beseech  you,  all  this  fuss 
About  enthusiasms  grand  and  high  ! 


WARNING. 

Wound  not  with  voice  unkind  and  cold 
The  youth  who,  needy  and  forlorn. 

Turns  in  his  want  to  thee  for  aid  ; 
Perhaps  he  is  divinely  born. 

A  second  meeting  may  disclose 

The  aureole  around  his  head  ; 
Before  his  grave,  condemning  eye. 

Thine  own  would  then  be  turned  in  dread. 


DUELS. 

One  day  two  oxen  in  a  yard 
Were  bickering  and  wrangling  hard. 
Their  blood  was  boiling,  and  one  brute 
Lost,  in  the  heat  of  the  dispute. 


OVERHEARD.  159 

His  self-control  and,  wrath-inllanied, 
An  ass  his  adversary  named ; 
Which  is  an  insult  to  an  ox, 
So  both  John  Bulls  began  to  box. 

At  the  self-same  time  in  the  self-same  place 

Two  asses  were  in  the  self-same  case. 

It  was  a  fierce  and  a  furious  spar, 

And  one  of  the  lonir-ears  went  so  far 

As  to  give  a  wild  Hee-ha !  and  roar, 

That  the  other  was  only  an  ox,  no  more. 

Now,  of   course  you're  aware,   though  it  seems 

rather  crass, 
If  you  call  him  an  ox,  you  insult  an  ass. 
So  a  duel  arose  from  the  donkey's  dispute, 
And  they  pummelled  each  other,  head  and  foot. 

And  the  moral  ?     I  think  that  cases  occur 
When  a  duel  declined  would  leave  a  slur ; 
If  any  one  calls  him  a  foolish  youth, 
A  student  must  fight  to  disprove  the  truth. 


OVEEHEARD. 

"  Oh,  what  did  you  pay  for  the  Christian  tall, 

Tlie  husband  of  your  daughter  ? 
Say,  wily  Jekef,  what  did  he  cost  ? 

Some  damage  time  had  wrought  her. 


i6o  LAST  POEMS. 

"  You  paid  sixty  thousand  marks,  perhaps  ? 

Or  seventy  thousand  were  fitter : 
Yes,  a  likelier  price  for  Christian  flesh ; 

Your  daughter's  tongue  was  bitter. 

"  I'm  a  sad  Schlemihl !     They  got  from  me 

Just  rather  more  than  double ; 
And  all  that  I  had  for  my  precious  gold 

Was  wretched  trash,  and  trouble." 

Like  Nathan  the  Wise,  with  a  knowing  smile, 

Sly  Jekef  answers  shrewdly, 
"  You  give  too  much  and  too  quickly,  friend  ; 

You  raise  the  prices  crudely. 

"  You  only  think  of  your  business  affairs. 

Of  railways,  but  more  widely 
I  range  in  thought  while,  hatching  schemes, 

I  wander  about  idly. 

"  We  rate  the  Christians  absurdly  high  ; 

Their  value  has  much  diminished. 
I  believe  we'll  be  able  to  get  a  Pope 

For  a  hundred  marks  ere  we've  finished. 

"  For  my  second  daughter  dear,  just  now 

A  bridegroom  I  have  in  petto, 
He's  a  senator,  standing  six  foot  high, 

Without  kith  or  kin  in  the  Ghetto. 


SIMPLICISSIMUS   I.  i6l 

"  Forty  thousand  marks  at  the  current  rate 
He'll  cost  me :  I  speak  quite  truly ; 

Half  down,  and  the  rest  with  interest  fair, 
To  .be  paid  by  instalments  duly. 

"  My  son,  in  spite  of  his  poor  round  back, 

Will  be  burgomaster,  I  vow,  yet. 
I'll  achieve  my  aim  ;  the  filthy  scum 

To  my  seed,  I  swear,  shall  bow  yet. 

"  The  famous  swindler,  my  brother-in-law, 

Assured  me  yesterday  gravely, 
That  a  Talleyrand  had  been  lost  in  me : 

'Twas  a  role  I  had  acted  bravely." 

I  heard  these  words !  they  reached  my  ear 

From  two  that  passed  me,  talking  ; 
I  heard  them  on  the  Jungfernstieg 

One  day,  in  Hamburg  walking. 


SIMrLiClSSIMUS  I. 

Ill  fortune  disagrees  with  some, 

Some  cannot  stand  good  fortune's  savour. 

The  hate  of  men  will  ruin  one, 

Another's  spoilt  by  women's  favour. 
VOL.  xii,  L 


i62  LAST   POEMS. 

When  first  we  met  you  were  unversed 
In  good  society's  airs  and  graces, 

And  bare  was  your  plebeian  hand 
Which  now  a  doe-skin  glove  encases. 

Your  coat  had  counted  many  springs : 
So  many  that  'twas  green  and  glistened ; 

The  arms  too  short,  the  skirt  too  long — 
Of  a  water- wagtail  reminiscent. 

Your  neckcloth  as  a  serviette, 

Had  with  mamma  before  done  duty. 

Your  head  less  proudly  turned  in  that, 
Than  in  this  broidered,  satin  beauty. 

And  plain  and  honest  were  your  boots, 
As  if  Hans  Sachs  had  been  the  shaper ; 

With  German  train-oil  they  were  smeared — 
No  French,  preposterous,  varnished  caper. 

No  eyeglass  from  your  neck  hung  down. 
No  smell  of  musk  your  garments  haunted ; 

You  had  no  wife,  no  golden  chain ; 

No  velvet  waistcoat  grand  you  flaunted. 

You  dressed  in  Swabia's  style  approved, 
Whose  newest  mode's  already  hoary  ; 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  your  life 
Was  in  the  heyday  of  its  glory. 


SIMPLICISSIMUS   I.  ,63 

You  still  had  hair  upon  your  head, 

And,  underneath  it,  still  there  hovered 

And  soared  great  thoughts.     Alas  !  to-day 
Your  skull's  both  empty  and  uncovered. 

And  vanished  is  the  laurel  crown 

Which  as  a  wig  had  come  in  pat  now. 

Who  has  been  pulling  out  your  hair  ? 
You  look  just  like  a  shaven  cat  now. 

Gone  are  the  golden  ducats  given 

By  the  silk-mercer  when  you  won 
And  wed  his  daughter.     "  Little  silk," 

He  sighs,  "  has  German  poetry  spun." 

Is  that  the  strenuous  man  who  seemed 

So  eager  to  devour  the  world — 
Its  dumplings,  puddings,  all — and  kings 

To  Hades  had  so  gladly  hurled  ? 

That,  the  knight  errant  who  of  old 
Like  Quixote,  model  of  such  heroes, 

Wrote  in  true  third-form,  schoolboy  style. 
Defiance  to  existing  Neros  ? 

Is  that  the  general  who  led 

Our  Cerman  freedom,  greatly  daring; 
And  proudly  trotted  in  advance, 

Emancipation's  banner  bearing ? 


i64  LAST    POEMS. 

His  Steed  was  white  like  all  the  steeds 
The  gods  and  heroes  rode  before  him, 

Who  now  are  dust.     What  shouts  acclaimed 
This  saviour  of  the  laud  that  bore  him ! 

A  knightly  virtuoso,  he  : 

A  Liszt  on  horseback,  playing  merely ; 
Quack  hero  and  somnambulist, 

Tom-fool  by  Philistines  loved  dearly. 

In  riding-habit,  too,  had  come 

His  long-nosed  wife ;  they  rode  together. 
Wild  ecstasy  was  in  her  eye, 

And  in  her  hat  a  saucy  feather. 

They  say  'twas  she  who  vainly  strove 

To  hearten  up  her  spouse,  when  shattered 

His  tender  nerves  were  by  the  shots 
That  on  the  battlefield  were  scattered. 

"  Come,  do  not  play  the  timid  hare, 
Nor  cowardly  misgivings  cherish  ; 

There  is  a  kaiser's  crown  at  stake, 
And  we  must  either  win  or  perish. 

"  Think  of  the  Fatherland's  distress, 

And  of  the  debts  'neath  which  you  sorrow. 

At  Frankfort  crowned,  like  other  kings 

You  will  with  ease  from  Rothschild  borrow. 


\SIMPLICISSIMUS   I.  1 6s 

"  The  ermine  cloak  will  suit  you  well. 

Already  I  can  hear  the  cadence 
Of  welcoming  shouts  :  in  fancy  see 

The  flowers  strewn  by  white-robed  maidens." 

Vain  words  !     Antipathies  exist 

r>y  which  the  strongest  spirits  cowed  are. 

As  Goethe  loathed  tobacco  smoke. 
Our  hero  hates  the  smell  of  powder. 

Crack  go  the  shots — the  hero  pales, 
And  stammers  incoherent  phrases  ; 

He  sees  things  yellow — to  her  nose 
Her  handkerchief  his  poor  wife  raises. 

So  runs  the  story — is  it  true  ? 

Who  knows  ?     Temptations  oft  attack  us 
That  find  us  frail.     Why,  from  the  field, 

Fled  even  the  great  Horatius  Flaccus. 


o* 


Sad  fate  of  all  on  earth  that's  fair ! 

Even  as  the  boor,  the  best  among  us 
Must  pass ;  the  poet  turns  a  clod, 

And  mere  waste-paper  what  he  sung  us. 


i66  LAST   POEMS. 

TELEOLOGICAL. 

(fragmknt.) 

Twain  the  legs  we  have  from  God, 
That  we  might  not  to  the  sod 
Cleave  inertly,  but  alive 
Struggle  on  and  always  strive, 
Were  we  meant  to  stand,  not  run, 
Legs  enow  we  had  with  one. 

And  our  eyes  are  also  twain. 
That  we  might  have  vision  plain. 
For  believing  what  we  read 
One  had  amply  served  our  need. 
God  bestowed  on  us  the  two 

That  around  us  we  might  gaze, 

And,  with  pleasure  and  amaze, 
Earth  and  all  its  wonders  view. 
But  in  gaping  down  the  street 

Well  our  eyes  we  must  employ, 
Lest  the  people  whom  we  meet 

Should  our  tender  corns  annoy — 
Corns  before  whose  pangs  we  flinch 
When  our  shoes  are  tight  and  pinch. 

And  two  hands  from  God  have  we, 
That  our  giving  may  be  free ; 


THLEOLOGICAL.  167 

Not  that  doubly  we  may  store, 
To  our  much  still  adding  more, 
Till  our  iron  chests  are  full, 
Though  such  hoarding  is  the  rule — 
(But  the  names  of  those  who  do  it, 
If  we  gave  them  we  should  rue  it, 
We  would  hang  them  with  delight, 
But  they're  men  of  mark  and  might : 
Philanthropic,  honest — some 
Are  our  patrons,  so  we're  dumb. 
German  oak  was  never  gallows 
To  the  man  whom  money  hallows). 

As  for  nose,  we  have  but  one ; 
There  is  not  a  mother's  son 
In  his  glass  could  manage  more. 
Or  the  wine  would  trickle  o'er. 

Mouth  we've  one,  because  the  double 

Would  have  brought  us  certain  trouble. 

Yes,  we  gossip,  as  it  is. 

Far  too  much,  and  speak  amiss. 

With  two  mouths  provided — why, 

Even  more  we'd  eat  and  lie. 

When  our  mouths  are  full  of  broth. 

We  are  dumb,  however  loth. 

But  with  two  mouths — naught  to  tether — 

We  would  eat  and  lie  together. 


i68  LAST  POEMS. 

With  two  ears  we  are  provided 
By  the  Lord ;  a  most  decided 
Aid  to  symmetry  and  grace ; 
Not  so  long  as  is  the  case, 
For  some  reason,  with  those  others  : 
With  our  honest,  hoary  brothers. 
We  have  two  that  in  the  cadence 
Of  Mozart  and  Gluck  and  Haydn's 
Masterpieces  we  may  revel. 
Were  it  all  the  colic-dreary. 
Hemorrhoidal  music  weary 
Of  the  mighty  Meyerbeer, 
One  were  plenty,  and  to  spare. 

Teutelinda,  blonde  of  head. 
Heard  me  out,  and  then  she  said : 
"  Ah,  I  know  'tis  not  for  us 
To  demand  why  thus  and  thus 
God  has  acted  ;  criticise 
Shall  the  clay  the  potter  wise  ? 
Yet  to  ask  we're  tempted  strongly, 
When  we  think  things  ordered  wrongly. 
Friend,  I've  listened  to  each  word, 
And  with  interest  have  heard 
Why  to  man  the  Maker  wise 
Gave  two  arms,  legs,  ears,  and  eyes, 
While  one  nose  and  mouth  alone 
'Twas  ordained  that  he  should  own  ; 
But  the  reason  now  explain.  ..." 
*  *  * 


PMAN.  i6g 

PiEAN. 

(kragmk.nt.) 

From  your  brow  remove  the  laurel, 
Where  the  leaves  too  long  have  hung ; 

With  my  words,  Beer,  do  not  quarrel, 
Hear  the  stammerings  of  my  tongue. 

Yes,  I  stammer  every  time 
I  address  the  man  sublime, 
Whose  high  genius  reaches  levels 
In  which  every  listener  revels, 
And  whose  fame's  a  master-work — 
No  mere  casual,  happy  quirk 
Of  good  fortune,  which  may  come 
In  their  sleep  unsought,  to  some — 
To  such  slovens  in  their  art 
As  Rossini  or  Mozart. 

No,  our  master  dear  may  vaunt  it — 
'Tis  a  fact,  and  he  may  flaunt  it — 
He  created  all  the  fame 
That  attaches  to  his  name. 
By  his  strength  of  will  'twas  wrought : 
By  his  knowledge  and  his  thought, 
By  political  intriguing, 
Calculations  long,  fatiguing. — 


I70  LAST  POEMS. 

And  his  monarch,  his  protector 

Made  him  general  director 

Of  our  music ;  and,  in  fine, 

Gave  him  power  .  .  . 

Over  what  I  hereby  humbly  claim  as  mine. 


IT  IS  USUALLY  DONE. 

"  The  pancakes  which  I  have  hitherto  given 
for  three  silver  groschen,  I  will  give  in  future 
for  two.     It  is  usually  done." 

As  if  cast  in  bronze,  in  memory  stays 
An  advertisement  which,  in  bygone  days. 
On  a  news-sheet  happened  to  catch  my  eyes 
In  Prussia's  capital,  learned  and  wise. 

Berlin  in  Prussia !     Town  I  love  ! 

Your  fame  will  blossom  eternal  and  prove 

Forever  fresh,  like  your  lindens  green — 

Are  the  winds  that  torment  them  still  as  keen  ? 

And  what  of  the  Zoo  ?     Is  a  beast  still  there 

Who  sits  by  his  wife  with  golden  hair. 

And  drinks  pale  ale  as  he  did  of  old. 

Where  morals  are  good,  and  cups  are  cold  ? 

Berlin  in  Prussia,  what  are  you  doing  ? 
What  idler  to-day  is  your  laughter  wooing  ? 
Your  Nante  had  not  yet  appeared  in  my  time. 
And  the  only  wits  you  considered  prime 


IT  IS    USUALLY  DONE.  171 

Were  Herr  Wisotzki ;  a  humour  pleasant 

Had  the  Crown  Prince,  too,  your  King  at  present. 

But  now  his  jocular  tastes  are  dead, 

And  he  wears  his  crown  with  a  drooping  head. 

For   this   monarch  I've  rather  a  weakness — he's 

shown 
Some  qualities  curiously  like  my  own : 
He  is  lofty  of  soul,  his  talent  is  great, 
And  I'm  sure  I  could  never  have  ruled  a  state ; 
And  music  he  loathes  with  all  his  heart, 
That  noble  and  ear-splitting,  monstrous  art. 
For  this  reason,  no  other,  he  fosters  with  care 
The  music-destroyer,  Meyerbeer. 
It  is  not  true  that  the  king  he  paid, 
As  a  wicked  world  has  falsely  said. 
One  hears  such  lies,  and  repeats  so  many ! 
The  king  has  received  not  a  single  penny  ; 
Nor  has  Meyerbeer  either,  for  though  he  directs 
The  Opera  House,  that  fact  affects 
His  purse  not  at  all ;  the  whole  that  he  gains 
is  an  empty  title  or  two  for  his  pains. 
I  tell  you  a  true  and  authentic  thing — 
He  works  for  nothing  for  Prussia's  king. 

When  I  think  of  Berlin,  I  always  see 
The  University  fronting  me. 
The  red  Hussars  ride  past  it,  proud. 
With  music  and  drum  and  fanfare  loud. 


172  LAST  POEMS. 

The  martial  notes,  with  their  gallant  swing, 

In  the  students'  quadrangle  echo  and  ring. 

And  how  are  the  Herr  Professors  all, 

With  their  asses'  ears  both  large  and  small  ? 

Say,  how  is  Savigny,  the  troubadour  sweet 

Of  the  Pandects — elegant,  dainty,  and  neat  ? 

That  charming  person,  for  all  I  know, 

May  be  dead  and  forgotten  long  ago. 

If  this  be  the  case,  do  not  fear  to  declare  it ; 

My  fortitude's  such  that  I  think  I  could  bear  it. 

And  Lotte  is  gone !     Ah,  for  all  alike — 

For  men  and  for  dogs — the  hour  must  strike, 

And  most  surely  for  dogs  who,  in  ignorance  dark, 

At  wisdom  and  reason  yelp  and  bark, 

And  fain  would  transform  us  Germans  free 

Into  Eoman  slaves  of  base  degree. 

And  flat-nosed  Massmann,  he,  I  trust. 

Is  not  yet  forgotten  and  laid  in  the  dust. 

I  will  not  believe  that  his  race  is  run. 

If  that  were  the  case  I  should  weep  for  woe ! 
Oh,  long  may  he  flourish  beneath  the  sun. 

And  trip  with  his  short  legs  to  and  fro  : 
"With  his  down-drooping  paunch  like  a  mandrake 

go! 
I  really  dote  on  that  figure  queer : 
I  have  loved  it  fondly  for  many  a  year. 
I  can  conjure  it  up  whenever  I  wish — 
So  tiny  he  was,  and  he  drank  like  a  fish 


IT   IS    USUALLY   DONE.  173 

With  his  pupils,  who  crowned  their  feats  gym- 
nastic 

By  giving  their  master  a  drubbing  drastic. 

And  what  blows  they  were  !  The  youths  with  a 
will 

Set  out  to  show  that  vigour  crude 

And  boorish  barbarity  flourished  rude 

In  the  sons  of  Hermann  and  Thusneld  still ! 

With  their  unwashed  German  hands  he  was  beat, 

He  was  pummelled  and  kicked  with  fists  and 
feet ; 

They  seemed  unable  to  pound  him  enough, 

And  the  poor  wretch  took  their  treatment  rough ' 

I  remember  I  cried,  "  My  admiration, 

You  have  won  by  your  patience  'neath  castigation. 

You  have  borne  yourself  as  a  Brutus  true." 

But  Massmann  made  answer,  "Most  people  do." 

And  a  propos  of  our  Massmann,  pray, 

Have  the  Teltower  turnips  done  well  this  year, 
And  the  gherkins  sour,  in  my  Berlin  dear  ? 
And  the  men  of  letters,  how  are  they  ? 
Are  they  still  quite  pleased  with  things,  although 
They  haven't  a  genius  among  them  to  show  ? 
But  what  do  they  want  with  genius  ?     Humble 
And  modest  gifts  are  less  apt  to  stumble. 
And  decent  men  have  their  uses  too — 
Twelve  make  a  dozen — 'tis  all  many  do. 


174  LAST   POEMS. 

The  lieutenants,  say,  of  the  guard,  in  Berlin — 
Are  their  waists  still  ungirt ;  still  as  far  from  thin  ? 
Are  they  always  as  arrogant  ? — Jeering  as  coolly 
At  townsmen  as  dogs,  do  they  swagger  and  bully  ? 
I  warn  you,  your  doom  may  soon  be  spoken. 
Our  patience  is  cracking,  though  still  unbroken ; 
You  may  find  in  the  end,  if  it's  tried  too  sore, 
That  the  Brandenburg  gate  is  as  wide  as  of  yore, 
And  that  all  of  a  sudden  we'll  throw  you  out, 
And  send  your  prince  to  the  right-about — 
It's  usually  done. 


AN   ANSWER. 
(fragment.) 

In  the  right  path  undoubtedly  your  feet  were, 
Though,  as  to  time,  you  may  have  been  all  wrong. 
Those  were  not  musk  and  myrrh,  those  odours  strong 

That  came  from  Germany,  and  far  from  sweet  were. 

Let  trumpe tings  of  victory  be  mute 

So  long  as  our  oppressors  carry  sabres. 

Serpents  that  hiss  of  love,  I  fear  as  neighbours, 
And  wolves  and  asses  that  of  freedom  flute — 


1649-1793—???  175 


'649-1793—??? 

The  British  were,  as  regicides, 
Too  rude  to  serve  as  helpful  guides. 
King  Charles,  doomed  next  day  to  die. 
At  Whitehall  sleepless  had  to  lie, 
While  all  night  long  the  people  clamoured, 
And  on  his  scatfold  workmen  hammered. 

The  French  were  hardly  more  polite. 

By  all  the  rules  of  etiquette 
Poor  Louis  had  a  perfect  right 

To  use  a  carriage ;  we  regret 
That  in  a  cab,  devoid  of  state. 
He  was  conducted  to  his  fate. 

As  for  his  queen,  worse  fell  upon  her; 

A  common  cart  was  all  she  got. 
For  chamberlain  and  maid  of  honour 

Sat  by  her  side  a  sans-culotte. 
Her  Hapsburg  under-lip  stuck  out, 
How  widow  Capet  scorned  the  rout ! 

Both  French  and  British  in  such  dealiners 
Are  lacking  in  the  finer  feelings. 


o^ 


Only  the  German  kind  remains 
When  bloody  terrorism  reigns. 


176  LAST   POEMS. 

Yes,  majesty  he'll  always  treat 
With  pious  awe  and  honour  meet. 
He'll  see  that  the  coach  and  six  is  draped 
With  black,  the  horses  plumed  and  craped : 
That  high  on  the  box  the  driver's  weeping 
With  his  mourning  whip ;  and  thus,  in  keeping 
With  his  royal  birth,  our  king  shall  ride 
To  the  guillotine  with  pomp  and  pride. 


CTTKONIA. 

'TwAS  in  the  days  of  long  ago, 

While  still  in  frocks  I  used  to  go, 

And  in  a  dame-school,  knowledge  winning, 

My  ABC  was  just  beginning — 

I  was  the  only  boy  who  pined 

In  that  bird-cage  narrow  and  confined. 

A  dozen  charming  little  maidens 

Piped  joyously  in  merry  cadence  ; 

Most  sweetly  they  would  trill  and  chatter— 

Their  spelling  was  another  matter. 

In  spectacled  and  arm-chair  state 

Frau  Hindermans  dispensed  our  fate, 

(Her  nose  an  owl's  beak,  you'd  have  said) 

As  to  and  fro  she  wagged  her  head, 

The  ominous  birch-rod  in  her  hand 

With  which  she  beat  her  little  band, 


CITRONIA. 

When  the  poor  weeping  things  would  make 
Some  harmless,  innocent  mistake. 
By  that  old  woman  not  a  few 
Were  beaten  black  and  beaten  blue. 
Scorn  and  ill-treatment  are  the  share 
Of  all  on  earth  that  is  most  fair. 


Citronia  I  called  the  land, 

Evoked  as  by  a  magic  wand ; 

Once  at  Frau  Hindermans',  while  dreaming, 

In  sudden  light  I  saw  it  gleaming. 

'Twas  an  ideal  sweet  and  tender, 

Oval,  of  lemon-golden  splendour. 

Of  friendly  and  alluring  grace. 

But  proud  withal— Ah,  lovely  face. 

First  blossom  of  my  love,  thy  bloom 

For  me  no  blighting  years  could  doom ! 

The  child  became  a  youth,  a  man, 

The  golden  dream  the  child  began— 

Oh,  wondrous  strange  that  it  should  wend 

To  sweet  fulfilment  in  the  end! — 

That  what  I  sought  for  far  and  wide 

Now  wanders,  living,  by  my  side : 

That,  in  her  presence  warm,  I  feel 

Her  fragrant  breath  upon  me  steal ! — 

But  ah  !  a  curtain  black  as  night 

Still  robs  mine  eyes  of  their  delight ! 
VOL.  XII.  ji 


177 


178  LAST   POEMS. 

Some  flimsy  shreds,  as  slight  and  thin 
As  the  frail  web  that  spiders  spin, 
Betwixt  me  and  the  glory  stand 
Of  my  Citronia — magic  land  ! 

Like  Tantalus,  I  must  endure 

Vain  joys  that  mock  while  they  allure ; 

The  draught  that  draws  my  thirsty  lips, 

From  me,  as  from  that  monarch,  slips. 

Alas !  so  near  and  yet  so  far 

The  fruits  that  I  would  taste  of  are ! 

Accursed  be  the  worm  that  span 

The  silk,  accursed  be  the  man 

Who  wove  the  hateful  fabric  dim 

Whereof  that  curtain  dark  and  grim, 

And  infamously  vile  was  made ! 

My  sunshine  turning  into  shade, 

It  holds  me  evermore  asunder 

From  my  Citronia,  land  of  wonder ! 

Often  I've  felt  within  me  burning 
A  frantic  and  a  fevered  yearning. 
Oh,  the  accursed  barrier !     Oft 
An  impious  hand  I've  raised  aloft 
To  tear  the  silken  shroud,  and  find 
The  bliss  that  lurks  concealed  behind. 
But  'twas,  for  many  reasons,  plain 
From  such  a  deed  I  must  refrain. 


CITRON  I  A. 


179 


Besides,  such  hardihood  and  passion 
Are  now-a-days  no  more  the  fashion ! 


EPILOGUE. 

Plainly,  without  figures  garnished, 

I  shall  tell  you,  quite  unvarnished, 

What  Citronia  was.     But,  now. 

Time  and  place  will  not  allow. 

(And  of  those  who  guess,  or  know  it. 

None  will  e'er  betray  the  poet.) 

Meanwhile  trust  me,  for  'tis  true : 

Art  is  only  vapour  blue. 

What  that  blossom  was  which  flowered, 

Blue  of  chalice,  and  embowered 

In  great  Ofterdinger's  lay, 

Sweet,  romantic,  who  shall  say  ? 

The  blue  nose,  for  aught  we  know. 

Of  some  cousin  dying  slow. 

In  a  nunnery  of  consumption  ; 

Or,  as  likely  a  presumption, 

Just  a  garter  dropped  by  chance 

By  some  lady  iu  a  dance ; 

Though  from  such  a  thought  one  shrinks- 

Shame  to  him  who  evil  thinks! 


i8o  LAST   POEMS. 


COLD   HEARTS. 

When  I  saw  you  first  performing 
In  the  pasteboard  world  of  art, 

Dressed  in  gold  and  silken  raiment, 
Shylock's  daughter  was  your  part. 

Cold  and  shining  was  your  forehead, 
And  your  voice  was  cold  and  clear, 

And  you  seemed,  0  Donna  Clara, 
Like  a  glacier,  fair,  austere. 

And  for  wife  the  Christian  won  you. 
And  the  Jew  his  daughter  lost — 

For  Lorenzo  worse  than  Shylock  ! 
And  my  heart  was  chilled  with  frost. 

When  the  second  time  I  saw  you 
We  were  near  enough  to  woo ; 

I  was  cast  to  play  Lorenzo, 
And  my  Jessica  were  you. 

And  you  seemed  with  love  delirious ; 

I,  alas  !  was  drunk  with  wine  : 
Pressed  your  eyes  with  drunken  kisses, 

Eyes  like  jewels,  cold  and  fine. 


COLD   HEARTS.  i8i 

Was  I  mad  when  I  determined 

To  be  wed  at  any  price  ? 
Was  my  reason  only  frozen 

By  its  nearness  to  your  ice  ? 

On  our  honeymoon  we  started  : 

To  Siberia  took  the  way ; 
Like  a  steppe  the  bridal  couch  was — 

Cold  and  rigid,  bleak  and  grey. 

With  my  limbs  benumbed  and  stiffened, 

On  the  steppe  I  lay  alone. 
While  my  amorous  ditties,  freezing, 

Made  a  soft,  complaining  moan. 

For  my  Jessica  ignored  me  ; 

Amor's  teeth  betrayed  the  cold. 
I  was  fain  a  snowy  pillow 

To  my  burning  heart  to  hold. 


Now,  alas !  my  songs  and  sallies. 
Children  luckless  and  forlorn, 

One  and  all  into  this  world 
Are  with  frozen  noses  born. 


i82  LAST   POEMS. 

For  my  muse  has  influenza — 
Muses  feel  and  muses  sneeze — 

And  she  says  to  me,  "  Dear  Henry, 
Let  me  go  before  I  freeze." 

O  Love's  temples,  faintly  heated 
But  with  farthing  dips  in  parts, 

Wherefore  points  my  passion's  compass 
To  the  North  Pole  of  such  hearts  ? 


IN   THE   MOENING  EARLY. 

Lo  !  my  wife  so  dear  and  kind, 
Wife  most  lovely  and  beloved, 
Has  my  breakfast  ready  waiting ; 
White  the  cream,  the  cofiee  brown. 

And  she  pours  it  out  herself. 
Joking,  smiling,  and  caressing, 
In  all  Christendom  so  sweetly 
Not  another  mouth  can  smile. 

And  a  voice  so  flute-like  only 
Can  be  heard  among  the  angels, 
Or,  on  earth,  if  there's  another, 
'Mongst  the  sweetest  nightingales. 


BIMINI.  183 

B  I  M  I  N  I. 

PROLOGUE. 

Faith  in  miracles  ! — Blue  flower 
That  has  vanished  now,  how  radiant 
In  the  hearts  of  men  it  blossomed 
In  the  days  of  which  we  sing ! 

Ah,  that  time  of  faith  in  wonders ! 
'Twas  a  wonder  in  itself ; 
And  the  marvels  were  so  many 
That  at  last  one  ceased  to  marvel. 

In  the  common  light  of  custom 
Cold  and  workaday,  familiar, 
Men  beheld  things  strange,  prodigious, 
Which  for  wilduess  far  transcended 

In  their  flight  the  wildest,  maddest 
Of  the  fables  in  the  legends 
Told  by  credulous  and  pious 
Monks  and  chivalric  romaucists. 

Came  a  morn  of  bridal  beauty 
When  there  rose  a  sea-born  marvel, 
An  undreamed-of,  a  new  world 
From  the  billows  blue  of  ocean. 


1 84 


LAST   POEMS. 

New  the  world  and  new  the  men  there, 
New  the  beasts  and  new  the  flowers, 
New  the  trees  and  birds,  and  also 
New  and  many  the  diseases. 

And  our  own,  our  old  world,  meanwhile, 
Was  completely  metamorphosed, 
Was  transformed  beyond  all  knowing, 
And  miraculously  changed. 

By  inventions  and  discoveries 
Of  the  mind,  the  new  magician, 
By  our  Berthold  Schwarz's  black  art, 
And  the  black  art  still  more  subtle 

Of  the  exorcist  of  Mainz  ; 

By  the  power  and  the  magic 

Of  the  books  that,  from  Byzantium 

And  from  Egypt,  bearded  wizards 

Wending  westward  brought  amongst  us, 
And  with  learned  skill  translated — 
One  was  called  the  Book  of  Beauty, 
And  the  Book  of  Truth  the  other. 

Both  by  God  Himself  were  written, 
In  two  different  heavenly  tongues  ; 
We  believe,  too,  that  He  wrote  them 
With  His  own  eternal  hand. 


BIMINI. 

By  the  little  trembling  needle, 
The  divining-rod  of  sailors, 
Men,  exploring  on  the  waters, 
Found  at  last  the  way  to  India, 

To  the  home  they  long  had  sought  for 
Of  sweet  aromatic  spices, 
Where  they  grow  in  careless  plenty, 
And  where,  creeping  on  the  ground, 

Twist  and  riot  growths  fantastic, 
Herbs  and  flowers,  trees  and  bushes, 
In  the  vegetable  kingdom 
Nobles,  jewels  of  the  crown : 

Those  most  rare  and  subtle  spices, 
With  their  strange,  mysterious  powers. 
Which  may  cure  man  of  diseases. 
Or  more  aggravate  his  sickness — 

It  depends  entirely  whether 
Some  apothecary  learned 
Has  compounded  them,  or  only 
An  illiterate  Hungarian. 

When  the  garden-gate  of  India 
Was  thrown  wide,  into  the  heart 
Of  the  ancient  world  an  ocean 
Poured  its  aromatic  billows : 


185 


i86  LAST  POEMS. 

A  lascivious  and  monstrous 
Flood  of  strange,  balsamic  odours. 
Softly  deadening  the  senses, 
Or  intoxicating  wildly. 

And  the  blood  of  men  danced  madly, 
As  if  scourged  by  fiery  brands. 
Or  by  rods  of  flame,  so  eager 
Was  the  love  of  gold  and  pleasure. 

But  'twas  gold  that  was  the  watchword. 
For  by  gold,  the  yellow  pander, 
Every  sort  of  earthly  pleasure 
Can  be  easily  obtained. 

Hence  was  gold  the  first  word  uttered 
By  the  Spaniard  when  he  entered 
Hut  or  tent  among  the  Indians  ; 
Even  water  was  but  second. 

Yes,  the  Mexicans,  Peruvians 
Saw  the  orgy  of  this  gold- thirst. 
Saw  Pizarro,  Cortes,  wallowing, 
Weltering,  drunk  with  gold,  in  gold. 

When  the  temple  fell  at  Quito, 
Lopez  Bacca  stole  the  sun — 
Full  twelve  hundredweight  'twas  heavy- 
Yet  the  self-same  night  he  lost  it ; 


BIMINI.  187 

Playing  dice  he  staked  and  lost  it. 
Still  the  people  have  a  proverb  : 
"  That  is  Lopez ;  he  who,  gambling, 
Lost  a  sun  before  the  dawn." 

Ha !     Those  men  were  maghty  players, 
Mighty  thieves  and  great  assassins, 
(None,  of  course,  is  wholly  perfect) 
But  miraculous  their  deeds  were. 

In  their  prowess  far  transcending 
Those  of  even  the  dreadest  warriors, 
From  great  Holofernes  downward 
To  our  Haynau  and  Kadetzki. 

For,  when  men  believed  in  wonders, 
Wonders  also  they  accomplished ; 
The  impossible,  believed  in. 
The  impossible  performs. 

Only  foolish  people  doubted  ; 

All  the  wise  were  firm  believers ; 

Yes,  before  the  daily  marvels 

Wise  men  bowed  their  heads  devoutly. 

From  that  time  of  faith  and  wonder ; 
Strange  that  thus  there  should  keep  ringing 
In  my  head  to-day  the  story 
Of  Don  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon, 


LAST  POEMS. 


Who  was  Florida's  discoverer, 
And  who  many  years  sought  vainly 
For  the  island  of  his  yearning, 
For  the  magic  Bimini. 


*&' 


Bimini !     Thy  name  so  sweet  is 

That  the  sound  within  my  bosom 

Stirs  my  heart,  and  reawakens 

Dreams  of  youth,  with  youth  that  perished. 

On  their  heads  the  crowns  are  withered, 
And  they  gaze  upon  me  sadly ; 
Long-dead  nightingales  are  fluting, 
Sobbing  tenderly  to  death. 

From  my  couch  I  rear  up  startled. 
And  my  poor  sick  limbs  are  shaking 
With  such  violence  that  stitches 
Crack  and  burst  in  my  strait  waistcoat. 

But  I  needs  must  end  by  laughing, 
For  I  hear  the  parrot-voices, 
Seem  to  hear  them  shrilling  sadly, 
Drolly  shrilling,  Bimini. 

Aid  me,  Muse,  wise  mountain-fairy 
Of  Parnassus,  God-descended ! 
Help  me  now,  and  prove  the  magic 
Of  the  noble  art  poetic — 


BIMINI.  189 

Show  the  power  of  thy  witchcraft ; 
Change  my  song  into  a  vessel — 
Magic  vessel  that  shall  bear  me 
To  the  Isle  of  Bimini ! 

And  the  words  are  scarcely  uttered, 
When,  behold  !  my  wish  is  granted ; 
From  the  airy  stocks  of  fancy. 
See  !  the  magic  ship  is  launched. 

Who  for  Bimini  will  sail  now  ? 
Sirs  and  ladies,  step  on  board. 
Wind  and  weather  in  our  favour, 
You'll  be  borne  to  Bimini. 

Honoured  sirs,  is  gout  your  trouble. 
Or  have  lovely  ladies,  prying, 
On  your  snowy  brow  already 
Wrinkles  premature  discovered  ? 

Ship  for  Bimini ;  and  yonder. 
For  the  shamefullest  diseases 
You  will  find  a  swift  assuagement ; 
Hydropathic  is  the  treatment ! 

Fear  not,  gallants  ;  ladies,  fear  not ; 
Stout  and  steady  is  my  vessel, 
For  the  keel  and  planks  are  fashioned 
Out  of  trochees  strong  as  oak. 


190  LAST  POEMS. 

At  the  helm  sits  Fancy,  steering, 
And  Good-humour  fills  the  sails. 
Wit's  the  cabin-boy.     If  Wisdom 
Is  on  board,  too  ? — That  I  know  not. 

Of  apt  metaphors  the  yards  are, 
An  hyperbole  my  sail  is ; 
Black-red-golden  is  my  ensign — 
Fable-colours  of  romance, 

Barbarossa's  tricolor, 

As  in  days  of  old  I  saw  it 

In  Kyff'hauser,  and  at  Frankfort, 

In  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  hanging. — 


On  through  Fairyland's  bright  ocean, 
Through  the  blue,  the  fairy  sea, 
Sails  my  ship,  my  magic  vessel : 
Whitely  ploughs  its  dreamy  furrows. 

In  the  swelling,  billowy  azure. 
Strewn  with  sparks  of  fire,  before  me 
Eippling,  splashing,  sails  an  army — 
Tumbling  dolphins  giant-headed. 

On  their  backs  my  sea-postillions. 
Little  loves  with  chubby  faces. 
Gaily  ride,  and  through  the  curious 
Horns  of  shell,  as  through  a  trumpet, 


BIMINI.  191 

Blow  resounding,  lusty  fanfares. 
And — oh  hearken  ! — from  the  ocean 
Underneath,  arose  a  sudden 
Sound  of  twittering  and  laughter. 

Ah,  I  know  those  little  people, 
Know  those  sweetly  mocking  voices, 
Know  those  doubting,  scoffing  witches. 
Those  Undines,  pertly  laughing 

At  my  passengers  and  vessel. 
And  at  me — at  fools  and  folly — 
At  the  madness  of  my  voyage 
To  the  Isle  of  Bimini. 


L 


On  the  shore  of  Cuba,  lonely 
By  the  mirror  of  calm  water, 
Stands  a  man  who  gazes  silent 
On  his  imag-e  in  the  flood. 


"O" 


He  is  old,  but  stands  unstooping, 
With  the  Spaniard's  bold  uprightness ; 
Half  a  sailor,  half  a  soldier, 
He  would  seem  from  his  apparel. 


192  LAST   POEMS. 

Eoomy  fishing-boots  are  bagging 
'Neath  a  coat  of  tawny  elk-skin, 
While  his  bandolier  is  fashioned 
Of  embroidered  cloth  of  gold. 

And,  of  course,  from  this  suspended, 
Hangs  the  long  sword  of  Toledo ; 
From  his  grey  felt  hat  cock-feathers, 
Jaunty,  red  as  blood,  are  waving. 

But  these  throw  a  gloomy  shadow 
On  the  tanned  old  face  beneath  them — 
Face  that  time  has  treated  roughly 
And  that  men  have  marred  as  well ; 

For  across  the  wrinkles,  furrowed 
By  fatigue  and  age  and  toil, 
Kun  the  scars  of  badly  mended 
Deep  and  deadly  sabre-wounds. 

'Tis  with  little  satisfaction 
That  the  man  intently  gazes 
At  the  sad  and  troubled  image 
In  the  water  at  his  feet. 

Now  and  then  he  thrusts  his  hands  out, 
As  if  warding  off  some  evil, 
And  he  shakes  his  head  and,  sighing 
To  himself,  begins  to  mutter. 


BIMINI. 

"  Is  this  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon, 
He  who  bore  the  gorgeous  train  of 
The  Alcalde's  lovely  daughter 
At  the  castle  of  Don  Gomez  ? 

"  Light  the  youth  was  then,  and  slender; 
Hound  a  head  that  harboured  only 
Rosy  thoughts  and  giddy  fancies 
Golden,  shining  tresses  curled. 

"  Every  lady  in  Seville 
Knew  his  horse's  tread  and  hurried. 
Swift  and  eager,  to  the  window 
When  he  rode  along  the  street. 

"  If  the  rider  called  his  dogs  in — 
Clicked  his  tongue  against  his  gums — 
Through  the  hearts  of  lovely  women, 
Blushing  women,  pierced  the  music. 

"  Is  that  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon, 
He  who,  dreaded  by  the  Moors, 
Mowed  the  turbans  down  by  hundreds, 
Mowed  them  down  like  heads  of  thistles  ? 

"  On  the  plain  before  Granada, 
In  the  presence  of  the  army — 
All  the  Christian  army — knighthood 
I  received  from  Don  (Jonzalvo. 
VOL.  Xll,  N 


193 


194  LAST   POEMS. 

"  And  I  spent  that  evening  dancing 
To  the  fiddles'  merry  cadence, 
In  the  tent  of  the  Infanta, 
With  the  ladies  of  the  court. 

"  But  by  me,  that  night,  unheeded 
Was  the  music  of  the  fiddles : 
Was  the  soft  and  tender  wooing 
Of  the  women,  lovely  women. 

"  Like  a  foal  I  stamped  and  pounded 
On  the  floor  of  the  pavilion, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  clanking 
Of  my  golden  spurs,  my  first  ones. 

"  With  the  years  came  deeper  earnest 
And  ambition  ;  with  Columbus 
I  adventured  on  his  second 
Wondrous,  world-discovering  voyage. 

"  My  devotion  was  unswerving 
To  this  Christopher,  who  also. 
Like  his  namesake,  bore  the  Gospel 
To  the  heathen,  through  the  water. 

"Unforgettable  the  mildness 
Of  his  eye.     He  suffered  dumbly, 
And  by  night  he  wailed  his  sorrows 
To  the  stars  and  billows  only. 


BIMINI. 

"When  the  admiral,  his  mission 
Well  achieved,  returned  to  Spain, 
I  took  service  with  Ojeda, 
And  I  shared  in  his  adventures. 

"  And  from  tip  to  toe  Ojeda 
Was  a  gallant  knight ;  no  better 
In  the  past  was  ever  famous 
At  King  Arthur's  Table  Round. 

"Fighting,  fighting,  was  the  passion 
Of  his  soul,  and,  smiling  gail\-. 
He  would  fight  the  savage  races 
When  by  countless  swarms  surrounded. 

"  When  a  poisoned  arrow  struck  him, 
He  himself  would,  with  an  iron 
Red  and  glowing  from  the  furnace, 
Brand  his  wound,  still  gaily  smiling. 

"  I  remember  once  we  waded 
To  the  hips  in  deep  morasses 
From  which  no  one  knew  the  exit, 
Without  food  and  without  water, 

"  And  for  thirty  days  already 
Thus  had  tioundered  (of  the  hundred 
Men  and  twenty  who  had  started 
More  than  eighty  must  have  perished). 


195 


196  LAST   POEMS. 

"  And  the  bog  grew  ever  deeper, 
And,  despairing,  we  lamented — 
'Twas  Ojeda  cheered  our  spirits, 
Still  undaunted,  smiling  gaily. 

"  Later  on,  with  Don  Dilbao 
I  went  fighting — as  courageous 
As  Ojeda  was  this  hero, 
And  more  skilled  as  a  tactician. 

"  All  his  thoughts  were  soaring  eagles 
That  had  made  his  head  their  eyrie. 
Generosity  illumined, 
Like  a  sun,  his  heart  with  radiance. 

"  And  he  won  a  hundred  kingdoms 
For  the  Spanish  crown,  that  greater 
Were  than  Europe,  and  much  richer 
Than  are  Venice  even,  and  Flanders. 

"  And  the  guerdon  that  they  gave  him 
For  those  hundred  kingdoms,  larger 
Far  than  Europe,  and  much  richer 
Even  than  Venice,  or  than  Flanders, 

"  Was  a  simple  hempen  neckband  : 
Was  a  rope ;  they  hanged  Bilbao 
Like  a  common  malefactor 
On  the  square  at  St.  Sebastian. 


BIMINI.  uj7 

"  Though,  as  warrior,  less  knightly 
And  of  spirit  less  heroic, 
Yet  was  Don  Fernando  Cortez 
As  a  leader  unsurpassed. 

"  In  the  miniature  armada 
By  which  Mexico  was  conquered 
I  took  service ;  full  of  hardship 
Was  that  toilsome  expedition. 

"  Gold  I  won  there ;  gold  in  plenty, 
And  fell  ill  of  yellow  fever ; 
Of  my  health  a  goodly  portion 
I  was  forced  to  leave  behind  me. 

"  With  the  gold  I  was  enabled 
To  equip  some  vessels ;  trusting 
To  my  lucky  star,  discovered 
Here  at  last  the  Isle  of  Cuba ; 

"  Which  I  govern  in  the  name  of 
Queen  Joanna  of  Castile 
And  of  Arragon's  Fernando — 
Greatly  loved  by  both  the  monarchs. 

"  I  have  now  attained  the  object, 
Reached  the  goal,  of  man's  ambition — 
Titles,  glory,  princely  favour 
And  the  Calatrava  Order. 


198  LAST   POEMS. 

"  I  am  viceroy,  and  possessor 
Of  a  hundred  thousand  pesos, 
Golden  ingots,  precious  jewels, 
Many  a  sack  of  precious  pearls. 

"  But  I  cannot  see  the  pearls 
Without  thinking,  sighing  sadly, 
'  It  were  better  to  have  guarded 
Still  the  teeth  I  had  when  young.' 

"  Ah,  the  teeth  of  youth  !     Together 
With  the  days  of  youth  they  vanished — 
At  the  thought  with  futile  anger 
Now  I  gnash  my  rotten  stumps. 

"  Ah,  ye  teeth  of  youth,  together 
With  the  days  of  youth  !     How  gladly 
All  my  bags  of  pearls  I'd  barter 
For  the  power  to  buy  you  back  : 

"All  my  jewels,  golden  ingots. 
And  my  hundred  thousand  pesos. 
Yes,  and,  over  and  above  that, 
Even  my  Calatrava  Order — 

"  Take  my  wealth,  my  fame  and  honours. 
And,  instead  of  Excellency 
Call  me  dunce  and  clown  and  booby, 
Good-for-nothing,  ragged  urchin ! 


BIMINI.  1 99 

"  Blessed  Virgin,  hear  and  help  me ! 
Oh,  have  pity  on  the  fool 
Who,  ashamed,  thus  pines  in  secret, 
And  conceals  his  hopeless  sorrow  ! 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  to  thee  only 
Can  I  show  my  heart,  confessing 
What  I  could  not  bear  to  utter 
To  a  saint  of  my  own  sex. 

"For  those  saints  are  men,  as  I  am  ; 
And  Caracho  !  even  in  heaven 
Never  man  shall  smile  in  pity 
Upon  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon. 

"Though  thy  pure  and  spotless  beauty 
Is  unchanging  and  eternal. 
Thou,  0  Virgin,  art  a  woman — 
With  the  instinct  of  a  woman 

"Wilt  divine  the  woe  the  wretched, 
Frail  and  fleeting  man  must  suffer. 
When  his  noble  strength  and  glory 
Dies  and  withers  to  grotesqueness ! 

"  Ah,  the  trees  who  all  together 
Are  denuded  of  their  foliage 
By  the  self-same  wind  of  autumn. 
How  much  happier  are  they ! 


200  LAST  POEMS. 

"  All  alike  they  stand  in  winter, 
Sad  and  bare  ;  no  tender  stripling, 
Still  in  garlands  green,  to  triumph 
O'er  his  withered  forest  comrades. 

"But  we  men  have  separate  seasons, 
And  alone  we  wax  and  wane; 
With  the  one  'tis  cruel  winter, 
With  the  other  blooming  spring. 

"  And  the  old  man  feels  his  weakness 
Doubly  bitter  when  he  gazes 
Upon  youth's  superfluous  vigour — 
Blessed  Virgin,  hear  in  heaven  ! 

"  From  my  limbs  shake  off  the  languor 
Of  this  wintry  hoar  old  age, 
Which  my  head  with  snow  has  covered, 
And  my  blood  has  chilled  and  frozen, 

"  Bid  the  sun  to  pour  his  ardour 
Once  again  into  my  veins ; 
Bid  the  spring  to  reawaken 
In  my  heart  her  nightingales. 

"  To  my  cheeks  restore  their  roses, 
To  my  head  its  tresses  golden ; 
Hear,  0  Virgin  !  hear  and  answer ; 
Give  me  back  my  vanished  youth  ! " 


BIMINI.  201 

When  Don  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon 
Thus  a  while  had  grievi  d  and  muttered, 
In  his  hands  his  face  he  buried, 
Hid  his  face  in  bitter  sorrow ; 

And  he  wept  and  sobbed  so  wildly, 
With  such  overpowering  passion, 
That,  between  his  meagre  fingers, 
Flowed  his  tears  in  crystal  torrents. 


II. 

To  his  ancient  sailor  habits 
Still  on  land  the  knight  is  faithful, 
For  his  bed  he  swings  a  hammock. 
As  of  old  upon  his  vessel. 

And  he  misses,  too,  the  motion 

Of  the  billows  that  so  often 

Used  to  soothe,  and  bring  him  slumber 

So  at  night  they  rock  the  hammock. 

And  the  duty  falls  to  Kaka, 
To  an  ancient  Indian  woman 
Who  repulses  the  mosquitoes 
With  a  fan  of  peacock  feathers. 


202  LAST   POEMS. 

While  she  rocks  the  airy  cradle 
With  its  poor  grey-headed  infant, 
As  a  lullaby  she  murmurs, 
Soft,  a  legend  of  her  home. 

Is  the  magic  in  the  sing-song, 
Or  the  woman's  voice  that  croons  it. 
Fluting  faintly,  like  the  twitter 
Of  a  siskin  ?     And  she  sings  : 

"  Little  birdie,  Kolibri, 
Lead  the  way  to  Bimini ; 
Fly  ahead  and  we  will  follow 
In  a  pennoned,  gay  piragua. 

"  Little  fish,  my  Brididi, 
Lead  the  way  to  Bimini ; 
Swim  in  front  and  we  will  follow, 
Wreaths  of  flowers  on  our  oars. 

"  On  the  Isle  of  Bimini 
Blooms  the  bliss  of  May  eternal. 
Golden  larks  for  ever  warbling 
In  the  blue  their  tirili. 

"  Slender  flowers  bloom  and  wanton 
As  if  wild  upon  a  prairie, 
Sweet  and  passionate  their  odour, 
And  their  hue  voluptuous,  burning. 


BIMINI. 


203 


"  From  the  ground  the  mighty  palm  trees 
Rear  to  heaven,  with  their  fans 
Cool  and  shadowy  kisses  wafting 
To  the  flowers  underneath  them. 

"  In  the  Isle  of  Bimini 
From  a  precious  magic  fountain, 
From  a  well,  on  earth  the  fairest, 
Flows  the  youth-bestowing  water. 

"  If  a  flower  wan  and  withered 
Is  but  sprinkled  with  this  water — 
With  some  drops — anew  it  blossoms, 
Flaunts  again  in  bloom  and  beauty. 

"  If  a  twig,  however  faded, 

Is  but  sprinkled  with  this  water — 

With  some  drops — with  buds  new-thronging 

It  will  burgeon  brave  and  greenly. 

"  If  an  old  man  drinks  this  water 
He  grows  young  again  ;  his  age 
Casts  completely,  as  a  beetle 
Casts  his  caterpillar  skin. 

"  Many  a  greybeard,  by  the  water 
Made  a  stripling  blonde  and  handsome, 
Lacking  courage  for  returning 
To  his  home,  a  saucy  youth — 


204  LAST   POEMS. 

"  Many  a  mother  who  has  swallowed 
Of  the  spring,  and  youth  recovered, 
Lacking  courage  for  returning 
To  her  home  a  merry  maiden — 

"  Tarry  still,  as  maids  and  striplings, 
In  the  Isle  of  Bimini, 

Chained  by  spring  and  chained  by  pleasure 
To  the  land  of  youth  eternal. 

"  For  the  land  of  youth  eternal, 
For  the  island  Bimini 
I  am  yearning,  I  am  longing ; 
Friends  beloved,  fare  ye  well. 

"  Dear  old  tabby,  Mimili, 
Dear  old  cock,  my  Kikriki, 
Fare  ye  well,  no  more  shall  we 
Home  return  from  Bimini !  " 

So  the  woman  sang.     The  warrior, 
Slumber-drunken  hears  her  singing  ; 
Like  a  child  he  sighs,  he  stammers ; 
Dreaming,  murmurs :  "  Bimini !  " 


BIMINI.  205 


III. 


On  the  Isle  of  Cuba  gaily 
Shines  the  sun  on  gulf  and  shore ; 
In  the  sky  above  there's  music, 
All  the  blue  is  hung  with  fiddles. 


'o 


Kissed  by  ardent  spring  to  blushes, 
In  her  green,  her  emerald  corset, 
Like  a  bride  adorned  and  radiant. 
Blooms  and  glows  the  lovely  island. 

Folk  of  every  age  and  station, 
Iridescent  on  the  beach, 
Move  and  swarm,  but  every  bosom 
With  a  common  pulse  is  beating. 

For  a  common  thought  consoling 
Fills  them  all  alike  with  bliss : 
Thought  whose  rapture  finds  expression 
In  the  quiet,  trembling  gladness 

Of  an  old  Beguin  who,  limi)ing 
On  her  slow  and  painful  crutches, 
Tells  the  beads  upon  her  rosary, 
Murmuring  pious  paternosters. 


2o6  LAST   POEMS. 

'Tis  the  self-same  thone^ht  consoling 
Gives  the  face  of  the  signora, 
On  the  gilded  litter  carried, 
Such  a  look  of  smiling  gladness, 

As  she  prettily  coquets, 
Flower  in  mouth,  with  the  hidalgo 
Who,  the  tip  of  his  moustachios 
Curling  gaily,  walks  beside  her. 

On  the  stiff  and  martial  faces 
Of  the  soldiers  joy  is  shining, 
And  of  those,  to-day  unwrinkled, 
Of  the  clergy  genial,  merry. 

The  emaciated  black-coat. 
How  he  rubs  his  hands,  delighted ! 
How  the  fat  Franciscan  friar 
Strokes  his  double  chin  with  glee ! 

Even  the  bishop  whose  expression 
So  morose  is  at  the  reading 
Of  the  mass,  because  his  breakfast 
Is  delayed  a  little  meanwhile, 

Smiles  and  smirks  with  satisfaction ; 
On  his  nose  the  red  carbuncles 
Sparkle  brightly,  and  he  waddles 
In  his  feast-day  robe,  contented, 


BIMINl.  207 

'Neath  the  canopy  of  purple, 
With  the  choristers  around  him 
Swinging  censers  of  sweet  incense, 
And  by  priests  resplendent  followed — 

Priests  in  gold  brocade  who  carry 
Gilded  parasols  above  them, 
And  who  look,  for  all  the  world, 
Like  colossal  mushrooms  walking. 

To  the  high  communion-table 
They  go  winding,  to  the  altar 
Which,  beneath  the  open  heaven, 
On  the  shore  has  been  erected, 

And  adorned  with  blooming  flowers, 
Holy  paintings,  palms  and  ribbons, 
Silver  vessels,  golden  tinsel, 
Waxen  tapers  glistening  brightly. 

For  his  Eminence  the  Bishop 

Is  about  to  hold  a  high-mass 

On  the  beach :  with  praise  and  prayer, 

To  pronounce  a  solemn  blessing 

On  the  little  fleet  that's  rocking 
In  the  roadstead  yonder,  ready 
To  weigh  anchor  and  set  sail 
For  the  Isle  of  J^imini. 


2o8  LAST  POEMS. 

Yes,  the  vessels  riding  yonder 
Have  by  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon 
Been  equipped  and  manned  for  sailing 
To  the  isle  of  bliss  and  magic, 

Where  the  fount  of  youth  eternal 
Sweetly  bubbles  ;  from  the  strand 
Many  hearts  acclaim  and  bless  him 
As  a  saviour  of  mankind, 

As  a  noble  benefactor 
Of  the  world ;  and  all  are  hoping 
To  receive  a  flask  of  youth. 
When  the  knight  returns  to  Cuba. 

And  already  in  their  fancy 
Many  drain  the  draught  of  healing 
Shake  with  rapture  like  the  vessels 
Yonder  anchored  in  the  roadstead. 

And  the  ships  of  the  flotilla — 
Five  in  number — are  a  carvel 
Big  and  roomy,  two  feluccas 
And  a  pair  of  brigantines. 

And  the  carvel  is  the  flagship, 
And  it  flies  a  gallant  ensign, 
The  escutcheons  of  Castile 
And  of  Arragon  and  Leon. 


BIMINI. 

Like  a  bower  she  is  covered 
And  adorned  with  hawthorn  blossom, 
Garlands  bright,  and  ilower-chaplets, 
And  with  gay  and  lluttering  pennons. 

Dame  Speranza  they  have  called  her, 
And  behind  the  vessel's  poop 
Stands  an  image  of  the  lady, 
Large  as  life  and  carved  in  oak. 

And  most  excellently  painted, 
Too,  in  nicely  varnished  colours, 
To  defy  both  wind  and  weather ; 
'Tis  indeed  a  stately  figure. 

Of  a  brick-red  hue  her  face  is, 

And  her  neck  and  bosom  also. 

From  a  corset  green  emerging ; 

Green  the  garment,  too,  that  clothes  her. 

Green  her  woven  chaplet  likewise, 
While  as  black  as  pitch  her  hair  is ; 
Pitchy  black  her  eyes  and  eyebrows. 
In  her  hand  she  holds  an  anchor. 

And  the  strength  of  the  flotilla 
Is  a  hundred  souls  and  eighty, 
Eoughly  counted,  of  which  only 
Six  are  women  and  six,  priests 
VOL.  XII.  0 


209 


2IO  LAST   POEMS. 

Eighty  men,  one  single  lady 
On  the  caravel  are  quartered, 
Which  by  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon 
Is  commanded ;  and  the  lady, 

She  is  Kaka  :  yes,  old  Kaka 
Has  become  a  stately  lady; 
The  Sefiora  Juanita ; 
By  the  knight  has  been  promoted, 

Made  Grand  Mistress  of  the  Fly-fan, 
And  Chief  Kocker  of  the  Hammock, 
And  dispenser  of  the  water 
Welling  sweet  at  Bimini ; 

Holds,  as  symbol  of  her  office. 
In  her  hand  a  golden  goblet. 
Wears  a  tunic  high-upgirdled, 
Like  a  fair  and  youthful  Hebe. 

Fine  and  costly  Brussels  lace, 
Dozens,  too,  of  strings  of  pearls 
Deck  derisively  the  sallow 
Withered  charms  of  the  Sefiora ; 

While  her  puffed  and  padded  coiffure 
Towers,  cannibal-rococo — 
Caribbean — ■Pompadour-ish, 
Bright  with  countless  little  birds. 


BIMINI.  211 

Birds  no  bigger  than  a  beetle, 
Just  like  Howers  with  their  gorgeous 
Wings  and  gay,  enamelled  colours, 
Formed  of  sparkling  precious  jewels. 

And  this  droll,  fantastic  head-dress 
Made  of  birds  was  strangely  suited 
To  the  curious  face  of  Kaka, 
So  exactly  like  a  parrot's. 

Very  counterpart  of  Kaka 
Was  Don  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon. 
Who,  with  confidence  believinf 
That  his  youth  would  be  restored, 

Had  attired  himself  already 
In  the  dress  of  charming  youth, 
And  adorned  his  person  gaily, 
Like  a  fashionable  coxcomb  : 

Like  a  pert  young  jackanapes — 
Pointed  shoes  with  belts  of  silver; 
Slashed  his  hose,  the  right  leg  coloured 
Rosy  red,  the  left  a  green  one. 

Striped  and  gaudy ;  satin  doublet 
Bravely  puffed  ;  a  mantle  hanging 
Short  and  jaunty  from  his  shoulder  ; 
Cap  with  triple  ostrich  feather. 


212  LAST   POEMS. 

Thus  equipped  and  blithely  holding 
In  his  hands  a  lute,  the  leader, 
Hither,  thither,  lightly  dancing. 
To  the  crew  his  orders  issues. 

He  commands  them  to  weigh  anchor 
On  the  instant  when  the  signals 
Shall  announce  to  them  from  shore 
That  the  holy  mass  is  ended. 

He  commands  that,  on  departing. 
All  the  cannons  on  the  vessels, 
Thrice  a  dozen  salvos  firing, 
Shall  salute  the  Isle  of  C'uba. 

His  commands  he  issues  twirling 
Like  a  top  and  pirouetting. 
Blissful,  drunken  with  the  prospect 
Of  the  dream-begotten  draught. 

And  he  twangs  the  plaintive  lute-strings, 
And  they  wail  and  whine  and  whimper, 
And  he  quavers  out  the  sing-song 
With  his  voice  so  old  and  feeble : 

"  Little  bird,  my  Kolibri, 

Little  fish,  my  Brididi, 

Fly  and  swim  in  front,  and  lead  us 

To  the  Isle  of  Bimini ! " 


BIMINI.  213 


IV. 


Now  this  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon 
Was  no  fool  and  idle  rover, 
When  he  undertook  the  voyage 
To  the  Isle  of  Bimini. 

The  existence  of  the  island 
Was  a  fact  he  never  doubted, 
For  to  him  old  Kaka's  sing-song 
Was  a  guarantee  sufficient. 

Prone  the  sailor  more  than  others 
To  believe  in  signs  and  wonders, 
For  his  eyes  for  ever  look  on 
Heaven's  great  and  flaming  marvel, 

While  around  him  always  murmurs 
The  mysterious  flood  of  ocean, 
From  whose  bosom  rose  aforetime 
Donna  Venus  Aphrodite. 

In  my  few  remaining  trochees 

Ye  shall  hear  related  truly. 

That  the  knight  endured  great  hardship. 

And  sore  labour  and  long  travail. 


214  LAST  POEMS. 

Ah,  instead  of  growing  well 
Of  his  former  pain  and  sickness, 
He  was  grievously  afflicted 
By  a  host  of  new  diseases. 

While  in  search  of  youth  he  voyaged 
He  grew  older,  older  daily  ; 
Lean  and  wasted,  full  of  wrinkles. 
To  the  land  he  came  at  last. 

To  the  silent  land,  where,  drearly, 
Under  cypresses  of  shadow, 
Flows  the  stream  whose  darkling  waters 
None  the  less  are  strangely  healing — 

And  the  river's  name  is  Lethe  ! 
If  thou  drink  thereof,  thy  sorrow 
Is  forgotten ;  yea,  forgotten 
All  the  woes  that  thou  hast  suffered. 

Healing  water  !     Happy  land  ! 
None  who  find  it  ever  leave  it. 
For  that  country  is  the  real, 
Is  the  only  Bimini. 


APPENDIX    TO    '^LAZARUS:'  215 


APPENDIX    TO    "LAZARUS." 

I. 

Holy  parables  discarding, 

Hypothetical  and  pious, 
Our  accursed  questions  answer. 

And  with  truth  direct  supply  us. 

Tell  us  plainly  why  the  good  man 
'Neath  a  heavy  cross  should  bleed, 

While  the  wicked  man  rides  proudly 
Like  a  conqueror  on  his  steed. 

Whose  the  fault  ?     Is  God  in  heaven 

Not  almighty  after  all  ? 
Is  the  wrong  of  His  contriving  ? 

That  were  surely  base  and  small. 

So  we  ask  and  ask  unceasing, 

Till  a  handful  of  cold  clay 
Stops  our  mouths  and  we  are  silenced. 

But  is  that  an  answer,  pray  ? 


2i6  LAST   POEMS. 


To  her  heart  the  black  woman  clasped  my  head, 

But,  ah  :  while  thus  it  lay. 
My  hair,  on  which,  weeping,  her  tears  she  shed 

Grew  bleached  and  thin  and  grey. 

She  kissed  me  sick  and  she  kissed  me  lame, 

She  kissed  me  blind ;  alack  ! 
She  even  sucked  with  her  mouth  of  flame 

The  marrow  from  out  my  back. 

My  body  is  now  a  corpse ;  it  keeps 

My  soul  in  a  prisoning  cage ; 
And  my  soul,  gone  crazy,  often  leaps 

And  foams  with  helpless  rage. 

Ah,  fury  vain  !     Not  the  frailest  fly 

Your  bitterest  curse  can  kill ; 
So  whine  and  pray  and  meekly  try 

To  bow  to  heaven's  will. 


How  slowly  Time,  the  horrid  snail, 
Seems  on  his  tardy  way  to  crawl, 

While  I,  a  prisoner  to  one  spot. 
Languish  and  cannot  move  at  all ! 


APPENDIX    TO   ''LAZARUS."  217 

No  sunbeam,  not  a  ray  of  hope 

Eeaches  my  cell  to  pierce  the  gloom ; 

I  know  that  for  the  grave  alone 
I  shall  exchange  this  hateful  room. 

I'erhaps  I  have  for  long  been  dead, 
These  fancies  may  be  only  ghosts 

That  whirl  by  night  within  my  head, 
In  rainbow-hued  and  airy  hosts. 

Yes,  spectral  forms  they  well  may  be, 

Of  the  divine  old  pagan  sort, 
And  a  dead  poet's  skull  like  mine 

Is  just  the  place  they'd  choose  for  sport. 

The  orgies  terrible  and  sweet, 
The  revels  of  that  spectral  horde, 

Often  the  poet's  poor  dead  hand 
Strives  on  the  morrow  to  record. 


Time  was  when  many  a  flower  gay 
Bloomed  on  my  path,  but,  seated  high 

Upon  my  horse,  I  did  not  stay 

To  lean  and  pluck  them,  passing  by. 


2i8  LAST   POEMS. 

But  now  that,  sick  to  death,  I  languish, 
And  dug  already  is  my  grave, 

I  think  upon  those  flowers  with  anguish, 
And  for  their  slighted  fragrance  crave. 

A  pansy  warm,  of  golden  fire, 

My  burning  brain  can  clear  recall. 

Wild  thing !  her  beauty  I  desire, 
Untasted  then,  tlie  most  of  all. 

My  comfort  is  :  the  waters,  wan 
Of  Lethe  still  retain  their  might 

To  soothe  the  foolish  heart  of  man 

With  their  sweet,  dark,  oblivious  night. 


5. 

I  have  laughed  by  day,  I  have  laughed  by  night, 
With  maid  and  with  man  been  jolly, 

I've  sometimes  done  wrong  and  sometimes  right, 
And  right  was  the  greater  folly. 

The  maid  was  a  mother  before  a  wife — - 

Why  all  the  lamenting  after  ? 
If  you've  never  been  foolish  at  all  in  your  life, 

Your  wisdom's  a  thing  for  laughter. 


APPENDIX    TO    '' LAZARUS."  219 


I  saw  them  laugh  aud  smile  and  weep ; 

1  saw  them  droop  towards  the  tomb ; 
And  while  they  sighed  and  sank  to  sleep, 

I  gazed  serenely  on  their  doom. 

When  graveward  then  they  bore  the  bier 
I  followed,  mourning  with  the  rest, 

And  on  returning  home,  I  fear, 
I  ate  with  undiminished  zest. 

Now  on  those  faces  dead  so  long 
1  think  with  sorrow  and  desire, 

And  on  a  sudden,  fierce  and  strong, 
Love  fills  my  heart  with  surging  fire. 

But  Julia's  are  the  tears  that  flow, 
And  saddest  in  remembrance  stay, 

To  frantic  longing  mounts  my  woe ; 
I  call  upon  her  night  and  day. 

And  often  in  my  fevered  dreams 

I  fancy  I  can  feel  her  yearn. 
Until  the  poor  dead  tiower  seems 

To  grant  my  love  a  late  return. 


220  LAST   POEMS. 


0  tender  phantom,  hold  me  fast ; 

And  kiss  me  closer — with  thy  breath 
Oh,  ease  and  sweeten,  at  the  last, 

The  dark  and  bitter  hour  of  death ! 


You  were  a  blonde  young  lady,  most  refined. 
Agreeable  and  good  and  coldly  kind, 
In  vain  I  waited  for  your  heart  to  glow, 
And  in  impulsive  rapture  overflow 

With  ardour  for  ideals  high  and  true, 
Which  prose  and  reason  solemnly  pooh-iiooh, 
Hut  which  the  noble  souls  who  know  their  worth, 
Suffer  and  yearn,  and  bleed  for  upon  earth. 

Once  by  the  Ehine,  in  days  of  summer  weather, 
Beneath  the  vineyards  steep  we  walked  together ; 
The  sun  was  laughing,  and  around  our  feet 
The  pe tailed  cups,  were  pouring  fragrance  sweet. 

The  purple  gillyflower  and  rose  were  yearning, 
Their  kisses  red  they  blew  us  sweet  and  burning ; 
Life  fair  and  perfect  seemed  to  blossom  forth. 
Even  in  the  marigold  of  meanest  worth. 


APPENDIX   TO   ^'LAZARUS."  221 

In  your  white  satin  gown,  beside  me  there, 
You  walked  unruflled,  elegant  and  fair, 
Just  like  a  maiden  limned  by  Netscher's  art ; 
A  glacier  in  your  corset  for  a  heart. 


8. 

'Tis  true  before  the  judgment-seat 
Of  reason  you  have  been  acquitted ; 

The  verdict  is  :  "  No  crime  at  all 

By  word  or  deed  the  child  committed." 

Yes,  dumb  and  motionless  you  stood 
And  saw  my  heart  devoured  with  Hame 

You  did  not  speak  or  stir  the  fire, 
Yet  I  condemn  you  all  the  same. 

And  every  night  in  dreams  I  hear 
A  voice  accuse  and  blame  you  sore 

For  malice  and  for  cold  ill-will, 
And  lay  my  ruin  at  your  door. 

With  proofs  and  evidence  'tis  armed, 

And  documentary  array ; 
But  in  the  morning,  with  the  dream, 

The  voice  accusing  melts  away. 


222  LAST   POEMS. 


Deep  in  my  heart,  in  some  recess, 
Both  voice  and  legal  deeds  are  lost. 

That  I  am  ruined — that  alone — 
I  still  remember  to  my  cost. 


Your  letter  plumbed  my  dark  abyss. 
A  lightning  flash,  it  showed  me  plain 
How  deep  and  awful  is  my  pain, 

How  deep  and  dark  my  sorrow  is. 

Even  you  have  pity,  who  of  old 
Within  the  desert  of  my  heart, 
A  silent  statue  stood  apart. 

Like  marble  fair,  like  marble  cold. 

0  God !  how  wretched  must  I  be 
That  even  she  should  silence  break. 
That  she  should  weep,  and  for  my  sake- 

That  even  the  stone  should  pity  me ! 

My  soul  is  shaken  at  the  sight ! 
Have  pity  also,  God,  and  end 
This  awful  tragedy  !     Oh,  send 

The  peace  of  Thy  eternal  night ! 


APPENDIX    TO    ''LAZARUS."  223 


10. 


That  the  real  sphinx  is  woman 

By  her  figure  is  confessed ; 
There's  the  clawed,  the  lion  body, 

And  mere  foolishness  the  rest. 

And  the  real  sphinx's  riddle 
Is  as  dark  as  death.     The  son 

And  the  husband  of  Jocasta 

'Twould  have  puzzled  and  undone. 

Well  that  woman  o'er  this  riddle — 
Even  she — perplexed  should  stumble ; 

Were  the  answer  known,  the  heavens 
And  the  earth  would  surely  crumble. 


1 1. 


At  the  cross-roads  women  three 

Sit  sighing  and  grinning, 

And  plotting  and  spinning ; 
They're  as  old  and  as  ugly  as  ugly  can  be. 


224  LAST  POEMS. 

'   The  first  one  twines  the  thread, 
On  the  distaff  turning 
And  wetting  it ;  burning 
And  dry  are  the  lips  of  her  loose  mouth  dread. 

With  the  second  the  spindle  flies 

And  whirls  without  stay, 

In  the  drollest  way. 
Like  taffeta  red  are  the  old  thing's  eyes. 

The  third  of  the  Parcse  snips 

The  thread — nose  long, 

Shears  sharp  and  strong, 
And  the  Miserere  upon  her  lips. 

Oh,  speed,  ye  Fates,  and  sever 

This  thread  of  mine. 

Accursed,  malign, 
That  the  pain  of  life  may  pass  for  ever ! 


12. 


I  long  not  for  the  realms  of  air, 
The  Paradisal  fields  of  mirth  ; 

No  lovelier  women  can  be  there, 
Than  I  have  known  below  on  earth. 


APPENDIX    TO    '^LAZARUS."  225 

For  angel  with  the  daintiest  wing 
I  should  be  loath  my  wife  to  lose ; 

Psalms  on  the  clouds  to  sit  and  sing 
Is  not  the  pastime  I  would  choose. 

0  Lord !  I  think  it  would  be  best 
To  let  me  in  this  world  remain. 

Some  money's  all  that  I  request, 
And  bodily  relief  from  pain. 

The  world  is  full  of  sin  and  wrong, 
But  I've  got  used  to  my  abode — 

Can  comfortably  jog  along 

This  vale  of  tears ;  I  know  the  road. 

Besides,  I  very  seldom  roam. 

So  do  not  mind  the  strife  and  stir; 

To  sit  beside  my  wife  at  home 
In  slippered  ease  I  much  prefer. 

Leave  me  beside  her !     When  I  hear 
Her  tongue  in  merry  chatter  fly, 

My  soul  drinks  in  the  music  dear, 
So  true  and  honest  is  her  eye  ! 

Yes,  health,  0  Lord !  and  better  pay 

Is  all  I  ask ;  and  here  below 
To  live  for  many  a  happy  day 

Beside  my  wife  in  statu  q^io! 
VOL.  XII.  p 


226  LAST    POEMS. 


13- 

"  May  he  perish  from  remembrance  ! " 
'Twas  old  Esther  Wolff  I  heard 

Thus  exclaim  ;  the  malediction 
I  recorded,  word  for  word. 

To  be  blotted  out  for  ever 
From  the  memory  of  man — 

"  May  he  perish  from  remembrance  !  "- 
So  this  gem  of  curses  ran. 

Heart,  my  heart,  pour  out  the  torrent 
Of  thy  wrong  and  anguish  grim ! 

May  he  perish  from  remembrance  ! — 
Wherefore,  whisper  not  of  him. 

May  he  perish  from  remembrance : 
Live  in  neither  book  nor  verse ! 

Dog  obscure,  entombed  in  darkness. 
Thou  shalt  rot  beneath  my  curse ! 

On  the  Resurrection  morning, 

When  the  awful  trump  shall  blow 

Sounding  fanfares,  and,  arising, 
All  the  dead  to  judgment  go, 


APPENDIX    TO    ''LAZARUS."  227 

And  the  chosen  names  the  Angel 
Reads  before  the  heavenly  host, 

May  he  perish  from  remembrance, 
And  be  numbered  with  the  lost ! 


14. 

Oh,  love  in  the  month  of  March  began, 
When  I  was  a  sad  and  an  ailing  man  ; 
But  May  arrived  with  her  green  delight. 
And  put  my  sorrows  all  to  flight. 

It  was  one  afternoon  at  three, 

At  the  Hermitage,  'neath  a  linden  tree, 

On  a  mossy  bench  while  hid  apart, 

That  I  showed  you  what  was  in  my  heart. 

The  flowers  were  fragrant  at  our  feet, 
The  nightingales  were  singing  sweet. 
But  not  a  note  we  heard  them  sing ; 
We  talked  of  many  a  weighty  thing. 

We  swore  to  love  till  life  was  done ; 
The  hours  flew  on  ;  'twas  set  of  sun  ; 
And  then,  when  forth  the  darkness  crept. 
We  sat  together  still,  and  wept. 


228  LAST   POEMS. 


15. 


My  spirit  binds  you  with  a  spell, 
And  all  ray  thoughts  are  yours  as  well ; 
Your  fancies  have  their  source  in  me, 
And  from  my  soul  you  cannot  flee. 

My  breath  impassioned  fans  your  face ; 
From  you  I  have  my  dwelling-place, 
And  even  asleep  you  cannot  lie 
Safe  from  my  kiss  and  whisper  sly. 

My  body's  rotting  in  the  ground. 
My  spirit  lives,  and  it  has  found 
A  house,  beloved,  in  your  heart : 
It  plays  the  household  kobold's  part. 

Grudge  not  the  strange,  uncanny  thing 
His  cosy  nest,  for  there  he'd  cling. 
The  little  thief,  although  you  ran 
Hot-foot  to  China  and  Japan. 

Where'er  you  fled,  from  Pole  to  Pole, 
Within  your  heart  would  sit  my  soul — 
My  spirit  binds  you  with  a  spell. 
And  all  my  thoughts  are  yours  as  well. 


APPENDIX    TO    ''LAZARUS."  229 


16. 


Bid  me  be  burnt  with  pincers  hot, 
By  cruel  hands  my  face  be  flayed, 

Flog  me,  but  let  me  linger  not 
In  torment  of  a  hope  delayed. 

Oh,  break  and  twist  my  bones  with  pain ; 

'Neath  every  torture  let  me  languish ; 
But  ask  me  not  to  wait  in  vain, 

For  waiting  is  supremest  anguish. 

Till  six  I  waited  yesterday, 

The  whole  long  weary  afternoon  ; 

But  you,  you  never  came  my  way ; 
I  thought  I'd  be  a  madman  soon. 

Impatience  like  a  serpent  wound 
And  coiled  about  me ;  up  I  sprang 

Each  time  I  heard  the  door-bell  sound. 
Then  backward  fell — some  other  vauz 


©• 


You  never  came — I  pant,  I  rave ; 

And  Satan  whispers  in  my  ear, 
"  The  lotus  flower  that  you  crave, 

Is  mocking  vou,  old  fool,  T  fear!" 


230  LAST   POEMS. 


17- 


He  who  has  a  heart,  and  carries 
Love  within  it,  meets  the  foe 

Half  defeated  ;  so  I'm  conquered  : 
Gagged  and  fettered  and  laid  low — 

When  I  die  they'll  cut  my  tongue  out, 
Lest,  though  now  I  lose  my  breath, 

1  should  rise  again,  still  speaking. 
From  the  shadow-land  of  death. 

When  I'm  dead  and  in  my  coffin 
I  shall  rot  beneath  the  clay. 

All  the  stupid  wrongs  I  suffered 
Tongue  of  mine  will  ne'er  betray. 


1 8. 


When  I  raise  my  fist  to  smite, 
rilled  with  anger  fierce  by  night. 
Impotent  my  nerveless  arm 
Sinks  again,  too  weak  to  harm. 


APPENDIX    TO    "LAZARUS."  231 

I  am  dying  crushed,  forlorn ; 
My  vendetta  none  hath  sworn — 
To  take  vengeance  without  ruth, 
Eye  for  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooth. 

Ah !  my  kinsmen  were  my  bane, 
By  my  kinsmen  I  am  slain. 
'Twas  a  bloody  deed  and  vile, 
Wrought  by  treachery  and  guile. 

They  contrived  to  lay  me  low, 
Like  good  Siegfried  long  ago. 
Kinsmen  who  'gainst  kinsmen  plot. 
Know  the  vulnerable  spot. 


19. 

More  diseased  than  tongue  can  tell 
Is  this  earth  on  which  we  dwell. 
All  we  prize  the  most  and  cherish, 
All  that's  loveliest  must  perish. 

Is  it  ancient  dreams  pliantasmal 
From  the  ground  like  mists  miasmal 
Rising,  subtle,  foul  and  still, 
Which  the  air  with  poison  fill  ? 


232  LAST  POEMS. 

Gracious  women  flower-sweet, 
Scarce  unfolded  to  the  heat 
Of  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Death  has  ravished  one  by  one. 

Heroes,  proudly  riding  by, 
From  the  ambushed  arrow  die, 
And  malignant  toads  unclean 
Quickly  slaver  laurels  green. 

That  which  yesterday  shone  bright 
Ptots  to-day,  concealed  from  sight. 
And  poor  Genius  in  his  ire 
Breaks  in  twain  his  golden  lyre. 

Oh,  what  wisdom  has  the  star, 
In  the  heavens  safe  and  far  ; 
So  remote  from  ills  of  earth, 
In  the  region  of  her  birth  ! 

Wise  the  stars  who  will  not  leave 
Life  and  heavenly  calm,  to  grieve 
Upon  earth  with  us  below, 
Sharing  misery  and  woe  ; 

Who  refuse  with  us  to  dwell 
Mid  the  foul  and  putrid  smell 
Of  the  dung  where  worms  unclean 
Crawl  malodorous,  obscene ; 


APPENDIX    TO    "LAZARUS."  233 

Who  are  happy  where  they  are, 
From  our  hateful  tumult  far  : 
From  this  struggle  late  and  early, 
And  the  ceaseless  hurly-burly. 

From  their  high  and  heavenly  places 
They  look  down  with  wistful  faces 
On  this  world  of  sorrow  drear, 
And  they  drop  a  golden  tear. 


20. 

My  days  and  nights  were  merry  all  the  year, 
And,  when  I  used  to  strike  my  poet's  lyre, 
My  folk  rejoiced.     My  song  was  bliss  and  fire, 

And  fanned  full  many  a  lovely  tiame  more  clear. 

Still  blooms  my  summer,  but  with  autumn's  cheer 
My  barns  are  filled,  and  all  that  men  require 
I  have — and  now  I  must  forsake  my  heart's  desire, 

And  leave  what  makes  the  world  so  kind  and  dear ! 

The  chords  slip  from  my  feeble  hand  ;  the  glass 

Breaks  into  atoms,  which  with  heart  acjlow 

A  moment  since  to  merry  lips  I  prest. 

0  God  !  how  bitter  'tis  to  die,  to  pass  ! 

0  God !  how  sweet  it  is  to  live  below 

Here,  in  the  old,  familiar  earthly  nest ! 


234  LAST   POEMS. 


21. 

Within  the  hour-glass  I  can  see 
The  dwindling  sands  run  low. 

My  sweet,  my  angel  wife,  from  thee 
Death  tears  me ;  I  must  go. 

He  tears  me  from  thy  arm,  sweetheart, 

No  longer  can  I  fight, 
My  soul  must  from  my  body  part, 

She  dies  from  sheer  affright. 

In  the  old  house  where  she  would  be 

Death  will  not  let  her  live  ; 
She  trembles,  "  Whither  ?  "—like  a  flea 

Imprisoned  in  a  sieve. 

I  cannot  change  by  tears  or  strife 
What  Fate  has  fixed  for  ever, 

And  soul  and  body,  man  and  wife, 
When  strikes  the  hour,  must  sever. 


22. 

Matilda  plucked  a  posy  gay  ; 
With  pleading  hand  I  waved  away 
Her  smile,  her  flowers, — I  shudder  so 
When  I  behold  sweet  flowers  ablow. 


APPENDIX    TO    "LAZARUS."  235 

They  speak  so  plain  the  thought  I  shun : 
Fair  life  and  I  no  more  are  one. 
In  the  dark  land  that  waits  for  me 
My  poor  unburied  corpse  should  be. 

When  flowers  I  smell  I  fall  aweeping ; 
Of  all  this  world  has  in  its  keeping — 
Love,  beauty,  sun  and  laughter  fain — 
The  tears  alone  to  me  remain. 

I  used  to  sit  and  watch  entranced 
The  rats  that  in  the  opera  danced ; 
And  now  I  hear  the  horrid  shufHhig 
Of  rats  and  moles  in  churchyards  scuffling. 

0  fragrant  flowers  !  to  my  sight 

Ye  bring  a  chorus,  ballet  bright, 

Of  perfumed  memories  old  and  sweet — 

Lo !  up  they  spring  with  dancing  feet, 

In  short  and  fluttering  skirts  come  flashing, 
With  castanets  and  cymbals  clashing  ; 
But  all  the  laughter,  dallying,  wooing 
But  shows  the  darker  my  undoing. 

Hence  with  the  flowers  !  I  cannot  bear 
The  scents  that  mind  of  days  so  fair ; 
Those  pranks  and  revels  long  ago — 
To  think  on  them's  to  weep  for  woe. — 


236  LAST   POEMS. 


23- 


I  was  ordained,  0  lamb,  to  be 
A  shepherd  and  a  shield  to  thee. 
I  gave  thee  of  my  bread  to  eat, 
With  water  from  the  fountain  sweet. 
When  cold  and  loud  the  winter  storm, 
Upon  my  bosom  thou  wert  warm ; 
In  my  embrace  I  held  thee  fast. 
When  chill  and  fierce  the  winter  blast, 
When  wolf  and  torrent,  rivals  dread. 
Howled  in  their  dark  and  rocky  bed, 
Thou  didst  not  shake  or  start  affrighted. 
Even  when  the  blazing  levin  blighted 
The  tallest  pine — upon  my  bi'east 
In  sleep  untroubled  thou  didst  rest. 

My  arm  is  feebler  than  of  old ; 

Pale  Death  draws  nigh.     From  sheep  and  fold 

And  pastoral  things  I  must  away. 

0  God,  within  Thy  hands  I  lay 

The  staff  Thou  gavest. — Do  Thou  keep 

My  lamb  when  I  am  laid  asleep 

Beneath  the  grass — preserve  untorn 

Her  flesh  from  every  wounding  thorn. 

Oh,  guard  her  fleece  from  briars  keen, 

And  bogs  defiling  and  unclean ; 


APPENDIX   TO   '' LAZARUS."  237 

Spread  everywhere  before  her  feet 
The  greenest  pasture  springing  sweet ; 
And  free  from  sorrow  may  she  rest 
As  once  she  slumbered  on  my  breast. 


24. 

I  do  not  envy  Fortune's  sons 

Their  life — I  envy  sore 
The  swift  and  painless  ease  with  which 

They  pass  and  are  no  more. 

In  splendid  raiment,  laugh  on  lip, 
And  on  their  head  a  crown, 

While  seated  at  the  board  of  life 
The  sickle  mows  them  down. 

In  festal  garb,  with  roses  decked 
That  had  not  time  to  fade,     ^ 

These  favourites  of  Fortune  fall. 
And  reach  the  realms  of  shade. 

Dead  men  of  gallant  mien  are  they, 

Unwasted  by  decline. 
To  court  they're  bidden  welcome  by 

Tzaritza  Proserpine. 


238  LAST  POEMS. 

I  envy  them  their  happy  lot ! 

For  seven  years  have  I 
In  anguish  tossed  upon  the  ground, 

And  yet  I  cannot  die ! 

0  God !  cut  short  this  torment  vile, 
And  let  me  buried  be ; 

1  have  no  gift  for  martyrdom, 
As  Thou  must  surely  see. 

At  Thy  inconsequence,  0  Lord  ! 

Forgive  me  if  I  wonder ; 
To  sour  a  poet  born  so  glad — 

It  surely  is  a  blunder. 

This  pain  has  dulled  my  mirth  of  soul, 
Grief  makes  in  me  her  home ; 

And  if  the  sorry  jest  goes  on, 
I'll  join  the  Church  of  Eome. 

And  then  like  other  saints  I'll  whine, 
And  din  Thee  to  Thy  cost — 

And  so  the  best  of  humorists. 
To  letters  will  be  lost. 


APPENDIX   TO    ''LAZARUS."  239 


25. 

In  my  brain  there's  a  glimmerinf:^,  surging  flood ; 

Woods,  meadows,  and  hills  roll  past. 
But  now  there  emerges  something  plain : 

One  picture  is  clear  at  last. 

I  imagine  the  place  is  Godesberg  town 

That  in  fancy  I  seem  to  see. 
I  sit  outside  the  old-world  inn, 

In  the  shade  of  the  linden  tree. 

My  throat  is  as  dry  as  if,  at  a  draught, 

I  had  swallowed  the  setting  sun. 
Mine  host !  mine  host !  a  bottle  of  wine, 

And  drawn  from  your  mellowest  tun  ! 

And  down  to  my  soul  the  juice  of  the  grape 
Flows  kindly  and  warm  and  sweet, 

And  quenched,  for  a  season,  within  my  throat 
Is  the  flame  of  the  sunset  heat. 

Come,  one  bottle  more !     I  drank  the  first 

In  a  dull,  undevotional  mood. 
And  with  wandering  thoughts.     0  noble  wine, 

Forgive  my  manners  rude  ! 


240  LAST   POEMS. 

I  was  gazing  aloft  at  the  Drachenfels, 

Whose  castle  ruins  shine 
So  romantic  and  fair  in  the  sunset  glow 

Thus  mirrored  in  the  llhine. 

I  was  listening,  too,  to  the  vintagers'  song, 
And  that  saucy  finch  who  chatters ; 

I  drank  the  wine  with  roving  thoughts, 
And  while  musing  on  other  matters. 

But  now  I  will  stick  my  nose  in  the  glass ; 

One  train  of  thought  I'll  follow ; 
I'll  gaze  at  the  wine,  then  shut  my  eyes, 

And  devoutly  swallow,  swallow. 

But  how  odd !     While  drinking  I  seem  to  see 

A  sight  by  which  I'm  troubled. 
Another  poor  toper  drinks  as  well, 

From  one  to  two  I'm  doubled. 

And  the  second  man  is  so  ailing  and  sick, 

So  wasted  and  pale  his  look ! 
His  mocking  gaze  is  so  fixed  and  sad : 

I  find  it  hard  to  brook. 

And  the  fellow  asserts  we  are  one  and  the  same, 

Maintains  he  is  no  deceiver, 
And  that  he  and  I  are  a  single  man, 

And  are,  both  of  us,  sick  with  fever, 


APPENDIX    TO    ''LAZARUS."  241 

And  that  neither  is  sitting  in  Godesberg  town — 
That  in  Paris  our  limbs  we  stretch 

On  a  sick-bed,  weary  and  ill  and  sad. 
You  lie,  you  pale-faced  wretch ! 

You  lie !     I'm  as  red  as  a  rose  in  bloom, 

I  am  hale  and  free  from  lantiuor. 
My  arm  is  strong — you  had  better  beware — 

Provoke  me  not  to  anger ! 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  sighs,  "  Poor  fool !  " 
And  my  patience  gives  way  at  last. 

With  my  cursed  second  self  I  fiyht ; 
The  blows  fall  thick  and  fast. 

And  yet  while  the  fellow  I'm  beating  thus — 
'Tis  a  curious  thing ! — with  each  thump 

My  body  appears  to  feel  the  blow 
And  ache  with  another  lump. 

And  while  I've  been  fighting  and  pummelling  hard 

My  throat  has  again  grown  dry  ; 
But  when  I  would  call  for  more  wine,  the  words. 

They  stick  in  my  throat  and  die. 

My  senses  reel,  and  I  hear  them  talk 

Of  plasters  and  medicines  sour — 
In  a  tablespoon  the  dose  to  be  given. 
Twelve  drops  of  it  every  hour. 
VOL.  XII.  Q 


242  LAST   POEMS. 


26. 


When  the  fat  leech  has  sucked  his  fill, 
One  shakes  him  off  without  ado  ; 

One  drops  some  salt  upon  his  back — 
But  how  to  rid  myself  of  you  ? 

My  patron,  friend,  my  faithful  leech, 
What  salt  for  you  ought  one  to  try  ? 

You've  sucked  the  marrow  from  my  spine 
Your  loving  lips  have  sucked  it  dry. 

And  now  my  body's  grown  so  thin : 
A  skeleton,  and  lean  at  that ! 

But  you've  attained  a  noble  size ; 

Your  cheeks  are  red,  your  belly's  fat. 

Oh  send  me,  God,  some  bandit  brave, 
Who'll  slay  me  with  a  single  blow, 

Anything  rather  than  this  leech — 

How  shake  him  off' — he  sucks  so  slow  ! 


27. 

At  home  on  German  ground 

The  trees  of  life  abound  ; 

But,  though  the  cherries  tempt  our  touch, 

We  dread  the  scarecrows  overmuch. 


APPENDIX   TO   ''LAZARUS."  243 

Ours  is  the  sparrows'  case, 

If  a  bogey  bvit  grimace ; 

When  cherries  laugh  and  woiihl  entice 

We  sing  a  song  of  sacrifice  ! 

Oh,  red  without  the  cherries  flame, 
But  death's  the  kernel  all  the  same. 
Above  in  the  stars  alone 
Grow  cherries  without  stone. 

0  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 
Whom  we  adore  and  honour  most. 
The  German  soul's  endeavour 
Is  after  God  for  ever ! 

Only  where  angels  fly 
Grows  joy  that  shall  not  die ; 
Here  all  is  sin  and  sore  distress. 
And  cherries  sour  and  bitterness. 


28. 


From  love's  sweet  goblet  I  have  quaffed, 
I've  drained  it  to  my  heart's  desire. 
A  burning  and  consuming  fire — 

A  whisky  punch — I  found  the  draught. 


244  LAST    POEMS. 

Oh,  friendship's  gentle  warmth  for  me ! — 
That  soothes  the  sonl  in  every  woe, 
And  quickens  with  its  harmless  glow, 

Like  a  refreshing  cup  of  tea. 


29. 

When  the  wild  fires  of  love  no  longer  dwell 
Within  our  hearts,  where  burns  the  vanished 

flame  ? 
In  the  accursed  region  whence  it  came, 

Down  where  the  damned  for  ever  roast  in  hell. 


30. 

Tfie  end  is  near  beyond  a  doubt, 

The  fires  of  love  are  burning  out. 

When  free  from  love  at  last  we  win, 

The  better  days  for  us  begin — 

Cool  domesticity's  delight. 

This  world,  that  money  makes  so  bright, 

We  can  enjoy  and  prize  aright. 

In  comfort  we  digest,  our  food  ; 

A  sleepless  head  in  solitude 

No  longer  toss,  but  slumber  warm 

Within  a  faithful  wedded  arm. 


APPENDIX    TO    '^  LAZARUS."  245 


31- 

To  forsake  ;i  hen  so  plump — 

Oh,  you  wicked,  wanton  man  ! — 

For  a  lean  and  haggard  frump, 
For  a  skinny  Mary  Ann  ! 

To  be  drawn  by  flesh  alluring 
Is  a  weakness  one  condones : 

'Tis  a  crime  beyond  enduring 
To  go  wooing  after  bones  ! 

So  the  Devil  still  gets  at  one, 
So  our  senses  are  misled  ! 

We  forsake  the  comely  fat  one. 
And  we  choose  the  lean  instead ! 


32. 

I  fashion  little  sonws, 

Beloved  of  my  heart, 
And  they  spread  their  sounding  wings, 

And  fly  to  where  thou  art. 

They  are  thy  husband's  children, 
'J'he  offspring  of  his  tongue ; 

O'er  field  and  wood  and  valley 
They  speed  to  thee  when  sung. 


246  LAST  POEMS. 

My  songs  that  choir  together 
The  world  so  gladly  hears 

But,  were  they  wailing  children, 
The  world  would  stop  its  ears. 

*  *  * 


33- 

Do  not  fancy  'tis  from  dulness 
That  your  devilries  I  bear ; 

Nor  suppose  me  God  Almighty, 
Used  to  pardon  and  to  spare. 

I  have  borne  your  pranks  and  whimsies 

Uncomplainingly,  I  know. 
Other  folk,  in  my  position, 

Would  have  killed  you  long  ago. 

Heavy  cross !  And  yet  I  drag  it, 
Always  patient  I  will  prove — 

Woman,  know  I'm  doing  penance 
For  my  sins,  in  that  I  love. 

You're  my  furnace  purgatorial ; 

From  your  cruel  arms  I'll  win, 
By  the  grace  of  God  Almighty, 

Free  and  purified  from  sin. 


APPENDIX    To    ''LAZARUS:'  247 

34- 
No  maiden  have  I  e'er  misled 

By  tender  words  and  flattering  speech ; 
And,  if  I  knew  a  woman  wed, 

I  counted  her  beyond  my  reach. 

Were  it  not  so,  this  name  of  mine 

Would  not  deserve,  forever  writ 
In  honour's  book,  to  blaze  and  shine, 

And  in  my  face  all  men  might  spit. 

35- 

Eternity,  how  long  art  thou  ! 

Years,  a  thousand,  sooner  pass. 
For  a  thousand  years  I've  roasted, 

And  am  not  yet  cooked,  alas ' 

Thou  art  long,  Eternity  ! 

Years  a  thousand  sooner  stop. 
In  the  end  will  come  the  Devil, 

And  devour  me  neck  and  crop. 

36. 

Days  and  hours  unending,  slow. 
Crawl  along  and  never  go  ; 
With  their  horns  protruding,  trail- 
Each  a  grey,  gigantic  snail. 


248  LAST  POEMS. 

Often  in  the  misty  sea, 

In  the  void  eternity, 

Shines  a  beacon  fair  and  bright, 

Like  my  darling's  eyes  of  light. 

But  the  bliss — can  it  have  shone  ?- 
Gleams  a  moment  and  is  gone. 
And  the  only  thing  I  know- 
Is  my  leaden  weight  of  woe. 


38- 


I've  played  the  gambler's  reckless  part ; 

Upon  a  whim  I  staked  my  life; 

And  now  I've  lost,  with  luck  at  strife, 
Thou  canst  not  well  complain,  my  heart. 

"The  will  of  man,"  the  .Saxons  say, 
"His  kingdom  is" — My  life  I've  given, 
And  won  the  thing  for  which  I've  striven. 

My  heart,  at  least,  has  had  its  way. 


APPENDIX   TO    'LAZARUS."  249 

The  happiness  I  bought  so  dearly 
A  moment  tarried  and  took  Hieht ; 
But  they  who've  drunken  of  delight, 

Compute  not  time  by  minutes  merely. 

True  bliss  contains  eternity. 

For  all  the  flames  of  love,  that  yearn, 
In  one  great  fire  together  burn. 

And  Time  and  Space  have  ceased  to  be. 


39- 

Tamed  is  mediicval  rudeness 
By  the  advent  of  the  fine  arts  : 
Chief  'mongst  instruments  of  culture 
In  our  time  is  the  piano. 

And  on  family  life  the  railway 
Has  a  wholesome  influence  also, 
Minimising  much  the  pain  of 
Separation  from  ones  kindred. 

I  regret  that  the  consumption 
Of  my  spinal  cord  prevents  me 
From  continuing  my  sojourn 
In  a  world  so  full  of  progress. 


250  LAST   POEMS. 


40. 


A  demon  in  an  evil  hour 
Placed  in  your  hand  the  dagger  that  you  bore. 

I  know  not  who  the  demon  was ; 
I  know  the  wound  was  poisoned,  and  no  more. 

Oft  in  the  silent  night  I  wish 
That  from  the  realm  of  shades  you  would  arise 

And  solve  the  riddle  once  for  all, 
Approving  yourself  guiltless  in  mine  eyes. 

I  wait  for  you — make  haste  !     If  not, 
I  will  descend  to  hell,  and,  without  ruth, 

In  front  of  Satan  and  his  fiends, 
Will  call  you  to  account,  and  learn  the  truth. 

I  come — like  Orpheus  long  ago, 
The  underworld  and  all  its  horrors  dare. 

Though  in  hell's  deepest  pool  you  cower. 
Be  sure  that  I  will  seek  and  find  you  there. 

Now  I  am  in  the  realm  of  dread. 
Where  the  lost  wring  their  hands  and  gnash  their 
teeth. 

Lo  !  I  tear  off  your  purple  rags 
Of  vaunted  goodness — see  your  soul  beneath — 


APPENDIX   TO   '' LAZARUS."  251 

What  I  desired  to  know  1  know, 
And  gladly  I  forgive  my  murderer  base, 

But  cannot,  even  if  I  would, 
Prevent  the  fiends  from  spitting  in  your  face. 


41. 

With  their  false  lips  they  kissed  me,  and  they  drank, 

And  pledged  me  in  the  juice  of  the  sweet  vine ; 

But  they  had  mingled  poison  with  the  wine— 
For  this  I  have  my  kith  and  kin  to  thank. 
My  flesh  consumes  from  off  my  bones,  and  lank 

And  lean  upon  my  sick-bed  now  I  pine. 

By  fraud   they  stole    the  youth   that   once  was 
mine — 
For  this  I  have  my  kith  and  kin  to  thank. 

I  am  a  Christian — the  church  register 

Proclaims  me  such — wherefore,  ere  I  depart 
I  will  forgive  you  in  a  Christian  way. 
It  is  not  easy ;  1  should  much  prefer 

To  curse  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart : 
May  God  Almighty  damn  your  souls  for  aye ! 


252  LAST   POEMS. 


42. 


Now  death  draws  near,  and  what  unknown, 
Pride  counselled,  should  for  ever  be, 
I  will  declare :  for  thee,  for  thee, 

My  heart  has  beat  for  thee  alone. 

My  coffin's  made,  and  to  my  bed 
They  lower  me,  that  I  may  sleep. 
But  thou,  Maria,  thou  wilt  weep. 

And  think  on  me  when  I  am  dead. 

Thy  pretty  hands  thou'lt  even  wring. 
Oh,  grieve  not — 'tis  the  human  lot : — 
At  last  defiled  in  death  must  rot 

Each  good  and  great  and  lovely  thing. 


HALLELUJAH. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  on  heaven's  height 
Bear  witness  to  Jehovah's  might. 
And,  when  above  the  righteous  gaze, 
They  sing  to  the  Creator's  praise. 

I  have  no  need  to  look  -so  high. 
For  on  the  earth,  at  hand,  there  lie 
Full  many  works  with  wonder  fraught. 
That,  here  below,  the  Lord  hath  wrought. 


HALLELUJAH.  253 

Yea,  worthy  folk,  T  humbly  turn 
My  gaze  to  earth,  and  there  discern 
The  gem  of  God's  creative  art. 
His  masterpiece  :  the  human  heart. 

The  sun  in  all  his  glory  bright, 
The  moon  that  shines  so  soft  at  night, 
The  gleaming  stars,  the  splendour  dire 
Of  comets  with  their  tails  of  fire — 

They  suffer,  one  and  all,  eclipse, 
And,  like  so  many  farthing  dips. 
Before  the  heart  grow  pale  and  wan 
That  flames  within  the  breast  of  man. 

The  world  in  miniature  it  holds, 
The  woods,  the  meadows,  and  the  wolds, 
The  wilds  which  savage  beasts  infest, 
Such  as  the  heart  too  oft  molest. 

Here  rivers  rush  and  torrents  leap. 
Here  yawn  the  precipices  deep. 
Midst  gardens  gay,  and  fields  whose  grass 
Now  feeds  the  lamb,  and  now  the  ass. 

Here  fountains  of  pure  water  spring. 
And  nightingales  complaining  sing : 
To  please  the  lovely  roses  pine, 
Until  they  die  of  a  decline. 


254  LAST   POEMS. 

Nor  is  there  any  lack  of  change, 
So  ample  is  the  weather's  range — 
To-day,  the  land  by  sunshine  kist, 
To-morrow,  grey  with  autumn  mist. 

The  flowers  drop  their  petals  sweet ; 
The  stormy  winds  tempestuous  beat ; 
At  last  the  snow  begins  to  fall, 
And  streams  and  lakes  are  frozen  all. 

Now  is  the  time  for  wintry  sport ; 
The  feelings  to  their  masks  resort : 
In  drunken  folly  dance  along, 
Among  the  masquerading  throng. 

'Tis  true,  amid  those  pleasures  vain 
There  mingles  oft  a  secret  pain ; 
'Mid  masquerade  and  music  gay. 
They  sigh  for  bliss  that's  passed  away. 

A  sudden  crack. — Nay,  start  not  so  ! 

It  is  the  ice  that  breaks  below. 

The  crust  gives  way,  which,  smooth  and  chill, 

Had  bound  our  hearts  so  long  for  ill. 


^o 


Lo  !  what  was  cold  and  sad  is  gone ; 
And  Spring — ah,  joy  ! — returns  anon  : 
The  season  fair  of  all  delight 
Love's  magic  wand  awakens  bright ! — 


THE    ASCENSION.  255 

Great  is  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
In  heaven,  on  earth,  alike  adored. 
Loud  songs  of  praise  to  heaven's  King, 
And  hallelujahs  I  will  sing. 

Man's  heart  He  formed  so  fair  and  sweet, 
And  then  to  make  His  work  complete 
He  breathed  therein  from  heaven  above, 
His  breath  divine,  whose  name  is  love. 

Hence  with  the  lyre  of  ancient  Greece, 
And  let  the  wanton  muses  cease 
Their  dances  lewd  !     In  worthier  ways 
I'll  sing  to  the  Creator's  praise. 

No  pagan  music  shall  be  mine  ; 
But  David's  pious  harp  divine 
With  strings  melodious  shall  prolong 
The  hallelujahs  of  my  song  ! 


THE   ASCENSION. 

[JPON  the  bier  the  body  lay  ; 
Torn  from  earth's  tumult  and  dismay, 
The  soul  was  far  upon  the  road 
That  leads  to  heaven's  glad  abode. 


256  •  LAST   POEMS. 

It  knocks  upon  the  portal  high, 
And  says,  with  many  a  heavy  sigh, 
"  St.  Peter,  come  ;  undo  the  door ! 
Oh,  life  was  wearisome  and  sore. 
On  silken  pillows  I  would  rest, 
And  play  with  little  angels  blest 
At  blindman's-buff,  and,  sorrow  past, 
Enjoy  delight  and  peace  at  last ! " 

There  sounds  a  jingling  bunch  of  keys. 
The  shuffling  step  of  slipshod  ease ; 
And  at  a  window  by  the  gate 
St.  Peter  shortly  shows  his  pate. 

"  Hottentots,  idlers,  gipsies,  Poles, 
Now  one  by  one,  and  now  in  shoals, 
And  ragged  beggars,  human  scum, 
Vagabonds  all — they  come,  they  come  : 
Would  enter  heaven  with  the  best, 
And  live  in  joy  as  angels  blest. 
Begone  !    begone !     For  such  gallows-faces, 
'Tis  evident  that  heaven  no  place  is ; 
The  heavenly  halls  are  not  for  you. 
The  Devil  claims  you  as  his  due. 
Off! — In  the  darksome  pit  to  dwell, 
The  pit  of  everlasting  hell!" — 

So  growls  the  old  man  for  a  minute, 
And  then — for  there  is  nothing  in  it — 


THE   ASCENSION.  257 

He  says  good-naturedly,  "  Poor  soul, 

I  hardly  think,  upon  the  whole, 

You  are  a  rascal  of  that  kind  ; 

You  may  come  in,  I  don't  much  mind. 

To-day's  my  birthday — reason  good 

For  being  in  a  melting  mood. 

Your  town  and  country  tell  me  first. 

And  if  you're  married ; — ^for  the  worst 

And  deepest  dyed  of  human  sins 

Through  wedded  sorrow  pardon  wins ; 

A  married  man  need  roast  no  more. 

And  enters  straight  through  heaven's  door." 

"  I  am  from  Prussia,"  says  the  soul. 

"  Berlin's  my  town,  where  gently  roll 

The  Spree's  fair  waters — after  rain — 

A  charming  place,  as  some  maintain. 

I  lectured  privately  ;  at  college 

I  read  philosophy,  sought  knowledge — 

I  took  a  canoness  to  wife, 

Who,  always  somewhat  given  to  strife. 

Was  worst  when  there  was  lack  of  bread. 

'Twas  that  that  killed  me ;  now  I'm  dead." 

"  Oh,  woe  is  me ! "  St.  Peter  said, 
"  Philosophy's  a  wretched  trade. 
I've  always  marvelled,  I  admit. 
That  any  one  should  study  it. 
VOL.  XII.  R 


258  LAST  POEMS. 

It's  godless,  dreary,  does  not  pay — 

Unprofitable  every  way. 

In  doubt  and  hunger  life  is  passed, 

And  Satan  has  the  soul  at  last. 

Your  own  Xantippe  railed  enough 

At  the  watery  soup — unwholesome  stuff  ! — 

With  never  a  single  eye  of  fat 

To  smile  and  cheer  her  spirits  fiat. — 

But  never  mind ;  take  heart  of  grace  ! 

Though  I  have  orders  strict  to  chase 

From  heaven's  door  with  whip  and  gibe 

The  whole  philosophising  tribe, 

And  more  especially,  indeed, 

The  irreligious  German  breed — 

To-day's  my  birthday,  as  I  said ; 

I  will  not  drive  you  off — instead 

I  will  at  once  unlock  the  gate. 

Come,  enter  without  more  debate. 

Quick ! — 

There !  you're  safe  and  sound  inside  ! 
From  early  morn  till  eventide 

You  now  may  wander,  quite  at  home. 

Through  heaven ;  you  may  dream  and  roam 

About  the  jewel-paven  streets. 

But  no  philosophy  !     All  feats 

Of  reason  here  were  ill-advised ; 

Besides,  I  should  be  compromised. 

And,  when  the  angels  sing,  be  sure 

Your  face  expresses  rapture  pure. 


THE   ASCENSION.  259 

If  an  archangel  sings — mark  this  ! — 

Be  still  more  overcome  by  bliss. 

Say  his  soprano  sounds  so  sweetly 

That  Malibran's  eclipsed  completely. 

Both  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 

Should  be  admired,  too,  when  they  hymn. 

Compare  them  to  the  great  Kubini, 

To  Mario  and  Tamburini. 

Give  them  their  titles  with  complaisance, 

And  never  grudge  them  an  obeisance  ; 

For  singers,  both  in  heaven  and  earth. 

Like  to  be  praised  beyond  their  worth. 

The  Choir-conductor  of  the  spheres — 

Even  He — with  satisfaction  hears 

The  works  that  He  has  wrought  applauded, 

And  God  the  Lord  with  fervour  lauded. 

He  loves  to  hear  His  praises  rise 

In  psalms  and  incense  to  the  skies. 

"  Eemember  me.     And  when  the  glory 

Of  heaven  has  grown  a  tedious  story, 

Come  here.     We'll  play  at  cards,  and  drink. 

I  know  more  games  than  you  would  think. 

From  Faro  down  to  Lasquenet. 

And,  by-the-bye,  ere  I  forget — 

If  God  should  ask  you  whence  you  come. 

About  Berlin  I  would  be  dumb. 

'  Vienna,'  '  Munich,'  answer  boldly, 

But  not  '  Berlin' — it's  looked  on  coldly." 


26o  LAST  POEMS. 


THE   AFFINITIES. 

You  weep,  and  gaze  at  me,  believing 
'Tis  for  my  sorrow  you  are  grieving. 
Be  not  deceived,  0  woman !  know 
'Tis  for  yourself  your  tears  o'erflow. 

Did  no  foreboding  ever  steal 

Across  your  spirit,  and  reveal 

That  the  eternal  will  of  Fate 

Had  formed  us,  each  for  each,  as  mate  ?- 

Happy  together  and  as  one, 

But,  parted,  ruined  and  undone. 

In  the  great  Book  'twas  writ  that  we, 
While  life  endured,  should  lovers  be. 
My  bosom  was  the  place  for  you  ; 
There  you  had  waked  to  knowledge  new. 
From  the  plant  kingdom,  with  a  kiss, 
I  would  have  drawn  you  up  to  bliss, 
To  higher  life  :  to  me,  your  goal ; 
I  would  have  given  you  a  soul. 

Now  that  the  riddle's  solved  at  last, 
The  dwindling  sands  are  fleeting  fast. 


THE  AFFINITIES.  261 

It  was  ordained.     Why  weep  and  moan  ? 
I  go,  and  you  must  fade  alone, 
Before  you  bloom  your  blossom's  shed, 
The  fire,  before  it  burned,  is  dead. 
Death  holds  you,  and  you  cannot  fly ; 
You,  who  have  never  lived,  must  die. 

'Tis  you  I  love.     My  God !  I  know 
The  truth  at  last.     What  bitter  woe 
When,  at  the  moment  heart  finds  heart, 
The  hour  has  struck  for  them  to  part ! 
When  welcome  is  farewell !     To-day 
We  go  asunder,  and  for  aye. 
Nor  will  there  any  meeting  be 
In  heaven  above  for  you  and  me. 
Beauty  beneath  the  ground  shall  rot ; 
You'll  moulder  in  the  clay  forgot. 
But  with  the  poets  'tis  not  thus ; 
Death  cannot  wreak  his  will  on  us. 
Safe  from  annihilation's  wrong, 
Still  in  the  faery  land  of  song, 
In  Avalon  our  spirits  dwell — 
Sweet  corpse,  for  evermore  farewell ! 


262  LAST  POEMS. 


FOR  THE   MOUCHE. 


It  was  a  summer  night  of  which  I  dreamed, 
And  mouldering  remains  of  ancient  glory  ; 

Stonework  of  a  Eenaissance  fabric  gleamed 
Around  me  in  the  moonlight,  wan  and  hoary. 

And  here  and  there,  from  out  the  ruinous  sward, 

A  pillar  with  grave,  Doric  capital 
Arose  and  gazed  defiant  heavenward. 

As  challenging  the  thunderbolts  to  fall ; 

Everywhere     crumbling     fragments,    strewn,    con- 
founded. 

Sculptures  and  portals,  many  a  curious  gable. 
Centaur  and  sphinx,  of  man  and  beast  compounded, 

Satyrs,  chimeeras — figures  of  old  fable. 

Among  the  dSris  was  a  marble  tomb, 
Wide  open,  still  intact  and  undefiled, 

And  in  the  coffin,  brave  in  manhood's  bloom, 
A  dead  man  lying  ;  sad  his  face  and  mild. 

With  necks  upreaching,  Caryatides 

Seemed  to  support  him  with  much  toil  and  strain  ; 
And  carven  on  both  sides  I  could,  with  ease. 

Figures  in  bas-relief  decipher  plain. 


FOR    THE   MOUCHE.  263 

Here  was  portrayed  Olympus  in  its  glory, 
The  Pagan  gods,  still  unashamed  and  glad  ; 

Adam  and  Eve  from  out  the  Bible  story, 
Each  in  the  fig-leaf  apron  chastely  clad. 

And  here  was  burning  Troy — in  classic  poses, 
Paris  and  Helen,  and  bold  Hector  too ; 

Haman  and  Esther,  Aaron  and  great  Moses ; 
Judith,  and  Holofernes  whom  she  slew. 

And  yonder,  lo !  the  God  of  Love  divine  ; 

Phoebus  Apollo,  Vulcan  and  Dame  Venus, 
Mercury,  Pluto  and  his  Proserpine, 

God  Bacchus,  and  Priapus  and  Silenus. 

Beside  them  stood  the  ass  of  Balaam  wise — 
For  speech  an  ass  was  surely  chosen  well ; 

And  Abraham,  prepared  for  sacrifice, 

And  Lot,  who  with  his  daughters  drank  and  fell. 

I  saw  Herodias  dancing,  and  the  head 

Of  John  the  Baptist,  which  the  charger  bore; 

And  hell  with  all  the  fiends,  and  Satan  dread. 
And  Peter  with  the  keys  of  heaven's  door. 

Again  the  subject  changed ;  on  stone  was  drawn 
Lascivious  Jove's  outrageous  crimes  of  old, 

When  he  pursued  poor  Leda  as  a  swan, 
And  Daniie  as  a  shower  of  ducats  gold. 


264  LAST   POEMS. 

I  also  saw  Diana's  headlong  chase, 

With  dogs,  and  following  nymphs  up-girdled  high  ; 
And  Hercules  in  woman's  garb  and  place — 

Distaff  'neath  arm,  he  made  the  spindle  fly  ; 

And,  close  to  Hercules,  Mount  Sinai  rising, 
And  Israel  with  his  oxen  on  the  height ; 

And,  in  the  Temple,  Christ,  the  child,  surprising 
The  Pharisees,  and  arguing  aright. 

So,  in  a  contrast  glaring  and  grotesque, 
Judea's  Godward  yearning  was  combined 

With  the  Greek  sense  of  joy  !     Its  arabesque 
The  clinging  ivy  about  both  had  twined. 

But   strange !     While   of   those   sculptures  thus  I 
dreamed, 

A  curious  fancy  stole  into  my  head, 
And  on  a  sudden  to  myself  I  seemed 

The  man  within  the  marble  lying  dead. 

And  at  the  far  end  of  the  bier  there  grew 

A  flower  of  a  rare,  mysterious  form. 
The  petals  sulphur-gold  and  violet-blue  ; 

The  flower  breathed  of  love's  resistless  charm. 

The  name  we  give  it  is  the  passion-flower ; 

On  Golgotha  it  blossomed  from  the  sod. 
When  flowed  the  blood  of  world-redeeming  power. 

What  time  they  crucified  the  Son  of  God. 


FOR    THE   MOUCHE.  265 

And  it  bears  witness  to  the  blood  they  shed ; 

All  instruments  of  torture  which  the  malice 
Of  the  vile  murderers  employed,  'tis  said, 

Are  counterfeited  plainly  on  its  chalice. 

Yes,  all  the  Passion-requisites,  'tis  urged, 
The  torture-chamber  quite  complete  is  here : 

The  crown  of  thorns,   the  ropes   that   bound   and 
scourged, 
Nails,  hammer,  cup  and  cross,  depicted  clear. 

Such  was  the  flower  by  my  grave  that  grew, 
And,  o'er  my  lifeless  body  bending  low 

As  mourning  women  in  their  sorrow  do, 

Eyes,  brow,  and  hand  it  kissed  in  silent  woe. 

But  magic  of  a  dream,  how  strange  and  fleet ! 

The  sulphur-yellow  passion-flower  moved, 
And  grew  into  a  woman's  likeness  sweet. 

And  it  is  she  herself,  the  best  beloved ! 

Yes,  dearest  child  ;  thyself,  thou  art  the  flower  ; 

I  recognise  thee  by  thy  kisses  yearning. 
No  flower-lips  could  have  such  tender  power, 

No  flower-tears  could  ever  be  so  burning. 

Mine  eyes  were  closed  and  dead,  and  yet  how  plain 
My  soul  could  see,  and  feast  upon  thy  face ; 

And  thou  did'st  look  on  me  enraptured,  fain, 
Touched  by  the  moonlight  with  a  ghostly  grace. 


266  LAST   POEMS. 

My  heart,  although  we  spoke  not,  could'  behold 
The  thoughts  unuttered  in  thy  spirit  move. 

The  spoken  word  is  shameless,  overbold ; 
Oh,  silence  is  the  modest  flower  of  love ! 

A  soundless  dialogue !     One  scarce  would  deem 
How,  by  the  dumb  and  tender  talk,  time  fled. 

Swift  was  the  summer  night  of  lovely  dream, 
Woven  of  dear  delight  and  shuddering  dread. 

But  what  we  talked  of  bid  me  not  betray. 

What  does  the  glowworm  glimmer  to  the  grass  ? 
What  does  the  brooklet  murmur  on  its  way  ? 

What  sigh  the  west  winds,  grieving  as  they  pass  ? 

Ask  the  carbuncle  why  it  shines ;  discover 
What  rose  and  rocket  by  their  scent  betoken ; 

Ask  not  the  passion-flower  and  her  dead  lover 
What  'neath  the  moon  was  said,  although  unspoken. 

I  know  not  for  how  long,  all  sorrow  banished. 
Within  my  cool  and  slumbrous  marble  chest 

I  dreamed  of  joy.     But  ah,  too  quickly  vanished 
The  rapture  of  my  calm,  untroubled  rest ! 

Thou  only  givest  bliss  without  annoy, 

0  death,  within  the  silent  grave.;  this  life, 

Foolish  and  vulgar,  gives  unquiet  joy, 
And  passion  always  warring  and  at  strife. 


FOR    THE   MOUCHE.  267 

Ah,  woe  is  me !  A  tumult  rose  without, 
And  chased  the  calm  and  happiness  away. 

I  heard  them  arguing  with  stamp  and  shout, 
My  gentle  flower  was  seized  with  sore  dismay. 

Yes,  from  without,  alas !  we  were  surprised 
By  sounds  of  hate — assertion  and  dissent ; 

And,  from  their  voices,  soon  I  recognised 
The  bas-reliefs  about  my  monument. 

Does  the  old  superstition  haunt  my  bier, 

And  are  the  marble  phantoms  still  debating  ? 

Is  sylvan  Pan,  with  his  loud  cry  of  fear. 
The  anathemas  of  Moses  emulating  ? 

Oh,  well  I  know  they  never  will  agree ; 

Beauty  and  truth  will  always  be  at  variance. 
The  army  of  mankind  will  always  be 

Split  in  two  camps :  the  Helens  and  Barbarians. 

Denunciations,  insults,  and  alas  ! 

No  sign  at  all  of  burying  the  hatchet ; 
While  loud  above  the  din  brayed  Balaam's  ass — 

The  voice  of  neither  god  nor  saint  could  match  it ! 

Hee-ha !  it  went,  both  in  and  out  of  season — 

That  hideous  sound,  half  hiccoucrh  and  half  choke  ; 

I  think  that  I  should  soon  have  lost  my  reason, 
But  in  despair  I  cried  aloud — and  woke. 


268  LAST  POEMS. 


THE   LOTUS- FLO  WEE. 

(to  the  mouchk.) 

Indeed  we're  as  queer  a  couple 
As  anyone  surely  could  name, 

For  weak  on  her  legs  is  the  loved  one, 
And  the  lover's  completely  lame. 

No  dog  could  be  sicker  than  he  is, 

And  a  suffering  cat  is  she ; 
I  rather  fancy  that  neither 

Quite  right  in  the  head  can  be. 

Poor  thing !  she's  got  hold  of  the  notion 
She's  a  lotus-flower  in  love ; 

And  he,  the  poor  pale  fellow, 
He  thinks  he's  the  moon  above. 

The  lotus-flower  in  the  moonlight 
May  unfold  and  yearn  and  long ; 

Instead  of  life,  the  renewer. 
She  can  only  receive  a  song. 


EPILOGUE.  269 


WHERE  ? 

Wheke  shall  I,  who  wander  weary, 
Find  the  rest  for  which  I  pine  ? 

Under  palms  mid  deserts  dreaiy  ? 
Under  lindens  by  the  Rhine  ? 

In  some  wilderness  will  strangers 
Dig  my  grave  with  callous  hand  ? 

Shall  I  rest  at  last  from  dangers 
By  a  sea,  beneath  the  sand  ? 

'Tis  no  matter  !     For  God's  heaven 
Will  be  round  me,  there  as  here, 

And  the  stars  that  swing  at  even, 
Will  be  lamps  above  my  bier. 


EPILOGUE. 

That  our  grave  is  warmed  by  glory — 
Stuff  and  nonsense  !     'Tis  a  story  ! 
Better  warmth  than  that's  imparted 
By  a  milkmaid  loving-hearted. 


270  LAST  POEMS. 

Kissing  full-lipped  and  afire, 

Though  she  reeks  of  dung  and  byre. 

Why,  a  better,  truer  heat 

Comes  of  drinking  brandy  neat : 

Comes  of  drinking  punch  and  swallowing 

All  the  grog  you  can,  and  wallowing 

In  the  dens  of  vilest  stamp, 

Filled  with  every  sort  of  scamp 

That  has  dodged  the  gallows-tree, 

But  who's  living,  breathing  free, 

And  who  tastes  of  more  that  sweet  is 

Than  the  famous  son  of  Thetis. — 

Yes,  Pelides  spoke  the  truth  : 

"  It  is  better,  in  good  sooth. 

On  the  earth  to  live  a  slave 

Than  to  rule  on  Styx's  wave. 

Mid  the  shadows  first  in  glory, 

Even  though  Homer  sing  your  story." 


THE   DYING  MAN. 

Within  my  breast  desire  is  done 
For  vain  delight  beneath  the  sun. 
I  hate  no  longer  what  is  bad : 
Hate  too  is  dead.     I  am  not  sad 
For  others'  sorrow  or  my  own — 
'Tis  death  that  lives  in  me  alone. 


THE   DYING   MAN.  271 

The  curtain  falls  upon  the  play 

And,  yawning  on  its  homeward  way, 

My  worthy  German  public  hies. 

The  honest  folk  are  very  wise. 

They're  dining  now  in  ease  and  pleasure, 

They  sing  and  laugh  and  drink  their  measure. 

'Twas  truth  the  noble  hero  told 
Who  spoke  in  Homer's  book  of  old : 
The  Philistine  of  least  renown 
Alive  to-day  in  Stukkert  town 
Beside  the  Neckar — ah,  he  still  is 
More  blest  than  I,  the  great  Achilles, 
Dead  hero  who,  the  king  of  ghosts, 
In  Hades  rule  my  shadowy  hosts. 


Printed  by  Ballantvne,  Hanson  &^  Co 
Edinburgh  A'  London 


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