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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.

      How soon my poverty would ended be,

       Could I the pencil use, and paint away,

       The walls of castles proud and churches gay

       Adorning with my pictures merrily!

       How soon would wealth replace my penury,

       Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play.

       And with such elegance perform each day,

       That lords and ladies all applauded me!

       But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part,

       For I have follow’d thee alone, alas!

       Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art!

       When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!)

       Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass,

       I needs must go without, or drink on credit!

BOOK OF SONGS.

       Table of Contents

PREFACE.

       Table of Contents

      This is the olden fairy wood!

       The linden blossoms smell sweetly,

       The strange mysterious light of the moon

       Enchants my senses completely.

      I onward went, and as I went,

       A voice above me was ringing;—

       ’Tis surely the nightingale’s notes that I hear

       Of love and love’s sorrows she’s singing.

      She sings of love and love’s sorrows as well,

       She sings of smiling and aching,

       She sadly exults, she joyfully sobs,

       Forgotten visions awaking.

      I onward went, and as I went,

       I saw before me lying,

       On open ground, a castle vast,

       With gables in loftiness vying.

      The windows were closed, and all things appear’d

       To stillness and sadness converted;

       It seem’d as though silent death had his home

       Within those walls deserted.

      A sphinx was lying before the door,

       Part comical, part not human;

       Its body and paws a lion’s were,

       With the breasts and head of a woman.

      A woman fair! her white eyes spoke

       Of yearnings wild but tender;

       Her lips, all mute, were closely arch’d,

And smiled a silent surrender.

      The nightingale so sweetly sang,

       I found it in vain to resist it—

       I kiss’d the beauteous face, and, ah!

       Was ruined as soon as I kissed it.

      The marble figure with life was fill’d,

       The stone began sighing and groaning;

       She drank my kisses’ tremulous glow

       With thirsty and eager moaning.

      She well nigh drank my breath away,

       And then, with sensual ardour,

       Embraced me, while her lion’s paws press’d

       My body harder and harder.

      O blissful torment and rapturous woe!

       The pain, like the pleasure, unbounded!

       For while the mouth’s kisses filled me with joy,

       The paws most fearfully wounded.

      The nightingale sang: “O beauteous sphinx!

       “O loved one, explain the reason

       “Why all thy raptures with pains of death

       “Are mingled, in cruel treason?

      “O beauteous sphinx! explain to me

       “The riddle so full of wonder!

       “I over it many a thousand years

       “Have never ceased to ponder.”

YOUTHFUL SORROWS. 1817–21.

       Table

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