still ’tis the land of affection true;If still the old God in Germany lives,
And none to the Evil One homage now gives. And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings, And joyous stories with it thus brings Far over the waves to the distant strand, The bard will rejoice in the far North land.
A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.
All I saw and heard when travelling,
All that soul and heart found pleasing,
All that gave me food for cavilling,
All that tedious was or teasing;
Solemn jostlings, wild excitement,
Both of simpletons and sages—
All shall swell the long indictment
Of my travels in these pages.
Give not travels life twice over?
When at home one lives once only;
Wouldst thou nobler ends discover,
Thou must leave thy closet lonely.
On the world’s wide stage, each player
Is a mimic or a puppet,
Rides his hobby his own way, or
Bids the others clamber up it.
If we’re laughed at by our neighbour,
Riding in this curious fashion,
Let us him in turn belabour,
Jeering him without compassion.
Read these travels in the manner
And the sense in which I’m writing;
Each one has his fav’rite banner
Under which he fancies fighting.
DEFEND NOT.
Defend it not, defend it not,
This wretched world below;
Defend its gaping people not,
Who care for nought but pomp and show.
The tedious ones, defend them not,
Who cause us such ennui;
The learned ones, defend them not,
In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.
The women, too, defend them not,
Though good ones may be there;
The best amongst them scorneth not
The man she loves not, to ensnare.
And then my friends—defend them not:
Count not thyself one now;
For thou those friends resemblest not—
No! firm, and good, and true art thou.
A PARODY.
Indeed they have wearied me greatly,
And made me exceedingly sad,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
Their terrible discord has scatter’d
What little senses I had,
One half with their prose so wretched,
The other with poetry bad.
But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers,
They most have stirr’d up my bile,
Who write in neither prosaic
Nor true poetical style.
WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN.
Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend,
Thy yearnings may satisfied be;
The fairest of womankind here, friend,
All walking together, thou’lt see.
How charming they look, how delicious,
In gay silken garments all dress’d!
A certain poet judicious
“Walking flowers” has named them in jest.
How very charming each bonnet!
Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams!
Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it!
Each neck, how swanlike it seems!
EVENING SONGS.
1.
Without any aim, forth I sallied,
And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea;
The charming flowers look’d pallid,
And spectre-like gazed upon me.
Upon me they gazed, and to chatter
And tell my dull tale I began;
They ask’d me, what was the matter
With me, poor sad-looking man.
The truth, I valiantly said it,
No love in the world can I find;
And as I have lost all my credit,
