Son of folly, dream thou ever,
 When thy thoughts within thee burn;
 But in life thy visions never
 To reality will turn.
Once in happier days chance bore me
 To a high mount on the Rhine;
 Smiling lay the land before me,
 Gloriously the sun did shine.
Far below, the waves were singing
 Wild and magic melodies;
 In my inmost heart were ringing
 Blissful strains in wondrous wise.
Now, when gazing from that station
 On the land—how sad its doom!
 I but see a pigmy nation
 Crawling on a giant’s tomb.
So-call’d men wear silken raiment,
 Deem themselves the nation’s flower;
 Honours now are gain’d by payment,
 Rogues possess both wealth and power.
Of descent they boast, not merit,
 ’Tis their dress that makes them men;
 Old coats now alone the spirit
 Of old times bring back again;
When respect and virtue holy
 Modestly went hand in hand;
 When the youth with deference lowly
 By the aged took his stand;
When a hand-shake was more valid
 Than an oath or written sheet;
 When men, iron-clad, forth sallied,
 And a heart inside them beat.
Our fair garden borders nourish
 Many a thousand flow’rets fair;
 In the fostering soil they flourish,
 While the sun smiles on them there.
But the flower most fair, most golden,
 In our gardens ne’er is known,—
 That one which, in days now olden,
 On each rocky height was grown;
Which, in cold hill-fortress dwelling,
 Men endued with iron frame
 Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,—
 Hospitality its name.
Weary wanderer, never clamber
 To the mountain’s fort-crown’d brow;
 ’Stead of warm and friendly chamber,
 Cold, hard walls receive thee now.
From the watch-tower blow no warders
 Not a drawbridge is let fall;
 For the castle’s lord and warders
 In the cold tomb slumber all.
In dark coffins, too, are sleeping
 Those dear maids bards sang of old;
 Shrines like these within them keeping
 Greater wealth than pearls and gold.
Strange soft whispers there are blended
 Like sweet minnesinger’s lays;
 To those dark vaults has descended
 The fair love of olden days.
True, I also prize our ladies,
 For they blossom like the May;
 And delightful, too, their trade is,—
 ’Tis to dance, stitch, paint all day.
And they sing, in rhymes delicious,
 Of old love and loyalty,
 Feeling all the time suspicious
 Whether such things e’er could be.
In their simple minds, our mothers
 Used to think in days of yore,
 That the gem above all others
 Fair, man in his bosom bore.
Very different from this is
 What their daughters wisdom call;
 In the present day our misses
 Love the jewels most of all.
Lies, deceit, and superstition
 Rule,—life’s charms are thrown aside,
 Whilst Rome’s sordid base ambition
 Jordan’s pearls has falsified.
To your dark domain return you,
 Visions of far happier days;
 O’er a time which thus doth spurn you,
 Vain laments no longer raise!

THE CONSECRATION.

Lonely in the forest chapel,
 At the image of the Virgin,
 Lay a gentle, pallid stripling,
 Bent in humble adoration.
O Madonna! Let me ever
 On the threshold here be kneeling;
 Thou wilt never drive me from thee,
 To the world so cold and sinful.
O Madonna! Sunny radiance
 Round thy head’s bright locks is gleaming,
 And a mild sweet smile is playing
 Round thy fair mouth’s holy roses.
O Madonna! Thine eyes’ lustre
 Lightens me like stars in heaven;
 While life’s bark doth drift at random,
 Stars lead on for ever surely.
O Madonna! Without wavering
 I have borne thy test of sorrow,
 On kind love relying blindly,
 In thy glow alone e’er glowing.
O Madonna! This day hear me,
 Full of mercy, rich in wonders!
 Grant me then a sign of favour,
 Just one little sign of favour.
Then presently happen’d a marvellous wonder.
 The forest and chapel were parted insunder;
 The boy understood not the miracle strange,
 For all around him did suddenly change.
In a brilliant hall there sat the Madonna,
 Her rays were gone, as he gazed upon her;
 She bore the form of a lovely maid,
 Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.
And see! from her fair and flowing tresses
 She steals a lock, as she thus addresses
 In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy:
 The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!
What attests this consecration?
 Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding
 Its sublime illumination,
 O’er the wide horizon spreading?
Angels up and down are moving,
 Loudly do their pinions flutter;
 Breathing music strange and loving,
 Sweet the melodies they utter.
Well the stripling knows the yearning
 Through his frame that now doth quiver;
 To that land his footsteps turning,
 Where the myrtle blooms for ever.

THE MOOR’S SERENADE.

To my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
 Bosom run, ye tears all burning!
 Then will her sweet heart for Abdul
 ’Gin to beat with tender yearning.
Round my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
 Ear disport, ye tears of anguish!
 Then will her fair head in vision
 Sweet for Abdul’s love straight languish.
O’er my sleeping dear Zuleima’s
 Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing!
 Then will her sweet hand bear on it
 Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.
Sorrow is, alas, born voiceless,
 In its mouth no tongue is growing,
 It hath only tears and sighing,
 And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.

DREAM AND LIFE.

The day was glowing, my heart, too, glow’d,
 In silence I bore my sorrow’s load;
 When night arrived, I hastened then
 To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.
I softly approach’d, and mute as the grave,
 While tears my cheeks did secretly lave,
 I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair,
 And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.
By the rose I joyfully fell asleep,
 When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep;
 The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d;
 A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.
She gave me soon a rich golden store,
 To a golden cottage the prize I bore;
 Strange goings-on in the cottage I found,—
 Small elves are dancing in graceful round.
Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
 And closely their hands together are press’d;
 And soon as a dance has come to a close,
 Another begins, and each merrily goes.
And the music they dance to thus sounds in my ear:
 “The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear,
 “The whole of thy life was only a dream,
 “And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”
The dream is over, the sun is up,
 I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup.
 Alas! in the place of the glimmering light,
 A nasty insect meets my sight.

THE LESSON.

Mother tells little bee,
 Yonder wax taper flee;
 But for his mother’s prayers
 Little bee little cares.
Round the light hovers he,
 Humming all merrily;
 Mother’s cry hears not he,
 Little bee! Little bee!
Youthful one! Foolish one!
 Poor little simpleton!
 In the flame rusheth he,
 Little bee! Little bee!
Now the flame flickers high,
 In the flame he must die:
 ’Ware of the maidens, then,
 Sons of men! Sons of men!

TO FRANCIS V. Z——.

I’m drawn to the North by a golden star;
 Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far;
 To poetry ever faithful abide,
 And never desert that charming bride.
 As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast
 The German language so fair and blest;
 And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand
 O listen awhile at that Northern strand;
 And list till thou hearest a ringing remote
 That over the silent waters doth float.
 When this thou hearest, expect ere long
 The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song.
 Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord,
 And give me news that may pleasure afford;
 How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go,
 And with the others whom I loved so;
 And how it fares with the lovely girl
 Who set so many young hearts in a whirl,
 And filled so many with yearnings divine—
 The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine.
 And give me news of my fatherland too,
 If still ’tis the land of affection true;
 If still the old God in Germany lives,
 And none to the Evil One homage now gives.
 And when thy sweet song thus lovingly rings,
 And joyous stories with it thus brings
 Far over the waves to the distant strand,
 The bard will rejoice in the far North land.

A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY.

All I saw and heard when travelling,
 All that soul and heart found pleasing,
 All that gave me food for cavilling,
 All that tedious was or teasing;
Solemn jostlings, wild excitement,
 Both of simpletons and sages,—
 All shall swell the long indictment
 Of my travels in these pages.
Give not travels life twice over?
 When at home one lives once only;
 Wouldst thou nobler ends discover,
 Thou must leave thy closet lonely.
On the world’s wide stage, each player
 Is a mimic or a puppet,
 Rides his hobby his own way, or
 Bids the others clamber up it.
If we’re laughed at by our neighbour,
 Riding in this curious fashion,
 Let us him in turn belabour,
 Jeering him without compassion.
Read these travels in the manner
 And the sense in which I’m writing;
 Each one has his fav’rite banner
 Under which he fancies fighting.

DEFEND NOT.

Defend it not, defend it not,
 This wretched world below;
 Defend its gaping people not,
 Who care for nought but pomp and show.
The tedious ones, defend them not,
 Who cause us such ennui;
 The learned ones, defend them not,
 In their o’erpow’ring pedantry.
The women, too, defend them not,
 Though good ones may be there;
 The best amongst them scorneth not
 The man she loves not, to ensnare.
And then my friends—defend them not:
 Count not thyself one now;
 For thou those friends resemblest not,—
 No! firm, and good, and true art thou.

A PARODY.

Indeed they have wearied me greatly,
 And made me exceedingly sad,
 One half with their prose so wretched,
 The other with poetry bad.
Their terrible discord has scatter’d
 What little senses I had,
 One half with their prose so wretched,
 The other with poetry bad.
But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers,
 They most have stirr’d up my bile,
 Who write in neither prosaic
 Nor true poetical style.

WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN.

Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend,
 Thy yearnings may satisfied be;
 The fairest of womankind here, friend,
 All walking together, thou’lt see.
How charming they look, how delicious,
 In gay silken garments all dress’d!
 A certain poet judicious
 “Walking flowers” has named them in jest.
How very charming each bonnet!
 Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams!
 Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it!
 Each neck, how swanlike it seems!

EVENING SONGS.

1.

Without any aim, forth I sallied,
 And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea;
 The charming flowers look’d pallid,
 And spectre-like gazed upon me.
Upon me they gazed, and to chatter
 And tell my dull tale I began;
 They ask’d me, what was the matter
 With me, poor sad-looking man.
The truth, I valiantly said it,
 No love in the world can I find;
 And as I have lost all my credit,
 With want of cash ’tis combin’d.

2.

And over the pond are sailing
 Two swans all white as snow;
 Sweet voices mysteriously wailing
 Pierce through me as onward they go.
They sail along, and a ringing
 Sweet melody rises on high,
 And when the swans begin singing,
 They presently must die.

3.

When in sorrow, they dare not show it,
 However mournful their mood,
 For the swan, like the soul of the poet,
 By the dull world is ill understood.
And in their death-hour they waken
 The air, and break into song;
 And, unless my ears are mistaken,
 They sing now, while sailing along.

4.

The cloudlets are lazily sailing
 O’er the blue Atlantic sea;
 And mid the twilight there hovers
 A shadowy figure o’er me.
Full deep in my soul it gazes,
 With old-time-recalling eye,
 Like a glimpse of joys long buried,
 And happiness long gone by.
Familiar the vision appeareth,
 Methinks I know it full well;
 ’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary,
 Who on earth no longer doth dwell.
She beckons in friendly silence,
 And clasps me with gentle despair;
 But I seize hold of my glasses,
 To have a better stare!

SONNETS.

1. TO AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL.

The worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt—
 The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power—
 These struggled my life’s marrow to devour;
 I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out.
 Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour,
 And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about;
 To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout,
 Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower.
 O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace,
 That as a tree the garden it may grace
 Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert.
 My nurse used of that garden to assert
 That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells,
 Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.

2. TO THE SAME.

Contented not with thine own property,
 The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal,
 The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,—
 The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee,
 Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal,
 The Seine paid tribute to thine industry,
 Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary,
 Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal.
 Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content
 With that which seldom unto man is lent;
 Instead of adding more, to spend prepare!
 And with the treasures which thou with such ease
 From North and South accustom’d wert to seize,
 Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.

3. TO COUNCILLOR GEORGE S——, OF GOTTINGEN.

Though the demeanour be imperious, proud,
 Yet round the lips may gentleness play still;
 Though the eye gleam and every muscle thrill,
 Yet may the voice with calmness be endow’d.
 Thus art thou in the rostrum, when aloud
 Thou speak’st of governments and of the skill
 Of cabinets, and of the people’s will,
 Of Germany’s long strifes and ends avow’d.
 Ne’er be thine image blotted from my mind!
 In times of barbarous self-love like these,
 How doth an image of such greatness please!
 What thou, in fashion fatherly and kind,
 Spak’st to my heart, while hours flew swiftly by,
 Deep in my heart I still bear faithfully.

4. TO J. B. ROUSSEAU.

Thy friendly greetings open wide my breast,
 And the dark chambers of my heart unbar;
 Home visions greet me like some radiant star,
 And magic pinions fan me into rest.
 Once more the Rhine flows by me, on its crest
 Of waters mount and castle mirror’d are;
 On vine-clad hills gold clusters gleam afar,
 Vine-dressers climb, while shoot the flow’rets blest.
 Could I but see thee, truest friend of all,
 Who still dost link thyself to me, as clings
 The ivy green around a crumbling wall!
 Could I but be with thee, and to thy song
 In silence listen, while the redbreast sings,
 And the Rhine’s waters softly flow along!

5.

A torture-chamber was the world to me,
 Where I suspended by the feet did hang;
 Hot pincers gave my body many a pang,
 A vice of iron crush’d me fearfully.
 I wildly cried in nameless agony,
 From mouth and eyes the blood in torrents sprang,—
 A maid passed by, who a gold hammer swang,
 And presently the coup-de-grace gave she.
 My quivering limbs she scans with eager eye,
 My tongue protruding, as death’s hour draws nigh,
 From out my bleeding mouth,—a ghastly sight,
 My heart’s wild pantings hears she with delight;
 My last death-rattle music is the while
 To her, who stands with cold and mocking smile.

6. THE NIGHT WATCH ON THE DRACHENFELS. TO FRITZ VON B——.

’Twas midnight as we scaled the mountain height,
 The wood pile ’neath the walls the flames devour’d,
 And as my joyous comrades round it cower’d,
 They sang of Germany’s renown in fight.
 Her health we drank from Rhine wine beakers bright,
 The castle-spirit on the summit tower’d,
 Dark forms of armèd knights around us lower’d,
 And women’s misty shapes appear’d in sight.
 And from the ruins there arose low moans,
 Owls hooted, rattling sounds were heard, and groans;
 A furious north wind bluster’d fitfully.
 Such was the night, my friend, that I did pass
 On the high Drachenfels,—but I, alas,
 A wretched cold and cough took home with me!

7. IN FRITZ STEINMANN’S ALBUM.

The bad victorious are, the good lie low;
 The myrtles are replaced by poplars dry,
 Through which the evening breezes loudly sigh,
 Bright flashes take the place of silent glow.—
 In vain Parnassus’ heights you’ll plough and sow,
 Image on image, flower on flower pile high,
 In vain you’ll struggle till you’re like to die,
 Unless, before the egg is laid, you know
 How to cluck-cluck; and, bulls’ horns putting on,
 Learn to write sage critiques, both pro and con,
 And your own trumpet blow with decent pride.
 Write for the mob, not for posterity,
 Let blustering noise your poems’ lever be,—
 You’ll then be by the public deified.

8. TO HER.

The flow’rets red and white that I hold here,
 Which blossom’d erst from out the heart’s deep wound,
 Into a lovely nosegay I have bound,
 And offer unto thee, my mistress dear.
 By its acceptance be thy bard’s love crown’d!
 I cannot from this earth’s scene disappear,
 Till I have left a sign of love sincere.
 Remember me when I my death have found.
 Yet ne’er, O mistress, shalt thou pity me;
 My life of grief was enviable e’en,—
 For in my heart I bore thee lovingly.
 And greater bliss shall soon be mine, when I
 Shall, as thy guardian spirit, watch unseen,
 Thy heart with peaceful greetings satisfy.

9. GOETHE’S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON-THE MAIN. 1821.

Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear,
 Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,
 The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed
 To build a monument to Goethe here.
 “At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear
 “To foreign traders that we’re of his breed,
 “That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed,
 “And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.”
 O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never,
 And keep your money in your pockets too;
 ’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise.
 He dwelt amongst you in his infant days,
 But half a world now severs him from you,
 Whom a stream doth from 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.

PREFACE.

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.

I. VISIONS.

1.

Of love’s wild glow I dreamt in former days,
 Of mignonette, fair locks, and myrtle twining,
 Of lips so sweet, with bitter words combining,
 Of mournful melodies of mournful lays.
The dreams have long been scatter’d far and banish’d,
 My dearest vision fled for evermore,
 And, save the burning glow I used to pour
 Into my tender numbers, all is vanish’d.
Thou ling’rest still, deserted song! Now go,
 And seek that long-lost vision; shouldst thou meet it,
 On my behalf in loving fashion greet it,—
 An airy breath to that dim shade I blow.

2.

A dream both strange and sad to see
 Once startled and delighted me;
 The dismal vision haunts me still,
 And in my heart doth wildly thrill.
There was a garden wondrous fair,—
 I fain would wander gladly there;
 The beauteous flowers upon me gazed,
 And high I found my rapture raised.
The birds were twittering above
 Their joyous melodies of love;
 The sun was red with rays of gold,
 The flowers all lovely to behold.
Sweet fragrance all the herbs exhale,
 And sweetly, softly blows the gale;
 And all things glisten, all things smile,
 And show their loveliness the while.
Amid that bright and flowery land
 A marble fountain was at hand,
 And there I saw a maiden fair
 Washing a garment white with care.
Her cheeks were sweet, her eyes were mild,
 Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child,
 And as I gazed, she seem’d to be
 So strange, yet so well known to me.
The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
 A song was humming, strange indeed:
 “Water, water, quickly run,
 “Let the washing soon be done.”
I went and stood then in her way,
 And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
 “Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
 “For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”
Then spake she quickly: “Ready be!
 “I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!”—
 Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
 Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
And still entranced, ere long I stood
 Within a desert, gloomy wood:
 To reach the skies the branches sought;
 I stood amazed, and thought and thought.
And hark! what hollow echoing sound
 Like axe-strokes fills the air around
 Through waste and wood I speed apace,
 Until I reach an open place.
In the green plain before me spread
 A mighty oak tree rear’d its head;
 And lo! the maiden, strange to see,
 Was felling with an axe the tree.
With blow on blow a song she sings
 Unceasing, as the axe she swings:
 “Iron glittering, iron bright,
 “Hew the oaken chest aright.”
I went and stood then in her way,
 And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
 “Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine,
 “For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”
Then spake she quickly: “Time is short,
 “To hew thy coffin is my sport!”—
 Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
 Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
Bleak, dim was all above, beneath,
 Around was barren, barren heath:
 I felt in strange mysterious mood,
 And shuddering inwardly I stood.
And as I roam’d on silently,
 A whitish streak soon caught mine eye;
 I hasten’d tow’rd it, and when there,
 Behold, I found the maiden fair!
On wide heath stood the snowy maid,
 Digging the ground with sexton’s spade;
 Scarce dared I gaze on her aright,
 So fair yet fearful was the sight.
The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
 A song was humming, strange indeed:
 “Spade, O spade, so sharp and tried,
 “Dig a pit both deep and wide.”
I went, and stood then in her way,
 And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
 “Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
 “What means the pit that’s lying there?”
Then spake she quickly: “Silent be!
 “A cold, cold grave I dig for thee.”
 And when the fair maid thus replied,
 Its mouth the pit straight opened wide.
And when the pit was full in view,
 A chilling shudder pierced me through,
 And in the grave so dark and deep
 Headlong I fell, and—woke from sleep.

3.