Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest.Could I but see thee, truest friend of all,
Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings
The ivy green around a crumbling wall!
Could I but be with thee, and to thy song
In silence listen, while the redbreast sings,
And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!
5.
A torture-chamber was the world to me,
Where I suspended by the feet did hang;
Hot pincers gave my body many a pang,
A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully.
I wildly cried in nameless agony,
From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang—
A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang,
And presently the coup-de-grace gave she. My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye, My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh, From out my bleeding mouth—a ghastly sight, My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight; My last death-rattle music is the while To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.
6. THE NIGHT WATCH ON THE DRACHENFELS. TO FRITZ VON B——.
’Twas midnight as we scaled the mountain height,
The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d,
And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d,
They sang of Germany’s renown in fight.
Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright,
The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d,
Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d,
And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight.
And from the ruins there arose low moans,
Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans;
A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully.
Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass
On the high Drachenfels—but I, alas,
A wretched cold and cough took home with me!
7. IN FRITZ STEINMANN’S ALBUM.
The bad victorious are, the good lie low;
The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry,
Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh,
Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.—
In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow,
Image on image, flower on flower pile high,
In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die,
Unless, before the egg is laid, you know How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on, Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con, And your own trumpet blow with decent pride. Write for the mob, not for posterity, Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be— You’ll then be by the public deified.
8. TO HER.
The flow’rets red and white that I hold here,
Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound,
Into a lovely nosegay I have bound,
And offer unto thee, my mistress dear.
By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d!
I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear,
Till I have left a sign of love sincere.
Remember me when I my death have found.
Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me;
My life of grief was enviable e’en—
For in my heart I bore thee lovingly.
And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I
Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen,
Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.
9. GOETHE’S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON-THE MAIN. 1821.
Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear,
Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,
The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed
To build a monument to Goethe here.
“At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear
“To foreign traders that we’re of his breed,
“That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed,
“And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.”
O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never,
And keep your money in your pockets too;
’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise.
He dwelt amongst you in his infant days,
But half a world now severs him from you,
Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen[4] sever!
10. DRESDEN POETRY.
At Dresden on the Elbe, that handsome city,
Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made,
They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid)
A music-club and music warehouse pretty. There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty, Herr Kuhn,[5] Miss Nostitz [5a]—adepts at the trade— Spout verses, calling action to their aid. How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!—more’s the pity! Next day the paper tells us all the facts, Bright’s[6] brightness flies, Child’s [6a] childishness is childlike, The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike. Arnoldi [5b] takes the cash, as salesman acts; Then Böttiger [5c] appears, with noise infernal— ’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal!
11. BREADLESS ART.
