No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing,
 They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing:
 “Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we,
 “A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—
 “We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the God to whom our petition
 “We vainly address’d when in starving condition;
 “In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait,
 “He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,—
 “‘re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often
 “Our misery vainly attempted to soften;
 “Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got,
 “And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,—
 “We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“A curse on our fatherland false and contriving,
 “Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving,
 “Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold,
 “Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,—
 “We’re weaving, we’re weaving!
“The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away,
 “We’re weaving busily night and day;
 “Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we,
 “A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,—
 “We’re weaving, we’re weaving!”

POMARE.

1.

All the gods of love are shouting
 In my heart, and blowing airy
 Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
 “Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Not the queen of Otaheite
 Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
 To convert; no, she I mean
 Is a wild untutor’d beauty.
Twice in every week appears she,
 All her subjects quite entrancing
 In that dear Jardin Mabille,
 Waltzes and the polka dancing.
Majesty in all her footsteps,
 Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
 Quite a princess every inch,
 Whichsoever way you take her.
Thus she dances—gods of love are
 In my heart all blowing airy
 Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
 “Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”

2.

She dances. How her figure sways!
 What grace her every limb displays!
 There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,
 As if she from her skin were springing.
She dances. When she twirls with skill
 Upon one foot, and then stands still
 At last with both her arms extended,
 My very reason seems suspended.
She dances. ’Tis the very same
 That once Herodias’ daughter came
 And danced to Herod. As she dances,
 Her eye casts round it deadly glances.
She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,
 What shall be thy reward to-day?
 Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway
 Decapitate the Baptist straightway!

3.

Yesterday for very bread,
 In the mire she wallowèd;
 But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,
 In her carriage takes an airing.
 On its silken cushions she
 Rests her head, and haughtily
 Looks upon the thronging masses
 Whom on foot her carriage passes.
 When I see thee travelling so,
 Then my heart is fill’d with woe!
 Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—
 To the hospital will bear thee,
 Where unfeeling cruel death
 Soon will take away thy breath,
 And the student, with coarse greasy
 Prentice hand, so free and easy,
 Will cut up thy body fair
 Anatomically there;
 And at Montfaucon thy horses
 At the knacker’s end their courses.

4.

Thou hast been by fate befriended
 Better than at first I said;
 God be praised, all now is ended!
 God be praised, and thou art dead!
In thy poor and agèd mother’s
 Garret thou at length didst die.
 She, with love beyond all others,
 Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.
She a winding-sheet bought duly,
 And a coffin, and a grave;
 Somewhat close and wretched truly
 Was the funeral that they gave.
No priests at that funeral lonely
 Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully;
 Thy friseur and poodle only
 As thy mourners follow’d thee.
“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often
 “Used to comb Pomare’s hair,
 “And her long black tresses soften,
 “Sitting in her easy chair!”
But the dog,—away he scamper’d
 At the churchyard gate anon,
 And was lodged and fed and pamper’d
 Afterwards by Rose Pompon.
She, the Provençaler, grudged thee
 Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
 As a hated rival judged thee,
 Made thee victim of her spleen.
Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,
 With thy mud crown on thy head,
 Thou art saved by God’s eternal
 Goodness, thou at last art dead.
As thy mother, so thy Father
 Mercy show’d thee from above;
 This He did, methinks, the rather
 In that thou so much didst love.

THE APOLLO GOD.

The convent stands high on the rocky steep,
 The Rhine beneath it glistens;
 The youthful nun doth eagerly peep
 Through the lattice window, and listens.
A bark of fable is sailing past,
 By the evening glow tinged brightly;
 While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,
 With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.
Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,
 With flowing auburn tresses;
 Of very ancient cut, in truth,
 His gold and purple dress is.
Before his feet nine women lie,
 Of marble-lovely graces;
 A tunic fair and loop’d up high
 Each slender form embraces.
The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,
 And likewise plays his lyre;
 The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,
 And sets it all on fire.
She makes a cross, and once again
 The nun repeats the measure;
 The cross scares not her blissful pain,
 Nor checks her bitter pleasure.

2.

I am the god of music bright,
 Revered in every nation;
 In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height,
 My temple had its station.
In Greece I oft have sat and play’d
 On famed Parnassus’ mountain,
 Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade,
 Beside Castalia’s fountain.
My daughters sat around their Pa,
 And raised a vocal chorus;
 They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la!
 While laughter floated o’er us.
The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra!
 From out the forest loudly;
 There hunted Artemisia,
 My little sister, proudly.
And whensoe’er I took some sips,—
 I can’t describe it neatly,—
 From out Castalia’s fount, my lips
 Burst into music sweetly.
I sang—my lyre, as it replied,
 O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping;
 I felt as if I Daphne spied
 Behind the laurels peeping.
I sang—ambrosial incense stream’d,
 And lightly o’er me hover’d;
 And the whole world around me seem’d
 By a bright halo cover’d.
A thousand years from Grecia’s land
 Have I been sadly banish’d;
 Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land
 Remain’d, though I have vanish’d.

3.

In the costume of the Beguins,
 In the cloak with cap upon it
 Of the coarsest blackest serge,
 Is the youthful nun envelop’d.
Hastily along the Rhine banks
 Paces she adown the highway
 On the road to Holland, asking
 Eagerly of every passer:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
 “He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
 “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
 “And he is my darling idol.”
None will answer her inquiry,
 Many turn their backs in silence,
 Many stare upon her smiling,
 Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”
But along the highway trotting
 Comes a slovenly old man;
 Making figures in the air, he
 Keeps on singing through his nose.
He a clumsy wallet carries,
 And a little hat three-corner’d,
 And with sharp and smiling eyes he
 Listens to the nun’s inquiry:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
 “He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
 “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
 “And he is my darling idol.”
He however gave this answer,
 Whilst his little head he waggled
 Here and there, and comically
 At his sharp beard kept on twitching:
“Have I chanced to see Apollo?
 “Yes, I certainly have seen him
 “When at Amsterdam full often,
 “In the German synagogue.
“He was there the leading singer,
 “Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,
 “Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—
 “But he’s not my idol truly.
“Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too
 “I remember; genuine scarlet,
 “And the price per ell eight florins,—
 “Not all paid for to this moment.
“His old father, Moses Jitscher,
 “Know I well; he’s circumciser
 “To the Portuguese, I fancy,
 “And to various sovereigns also.
“And his mother is a cousin
 “Of my sister’s husband, trading
 “On the Gracht in pickled gherkins,
 “And in worn-out pairs of breeches.
“In their son they take no pleasure;
 “On the lyre he plays not badly,
 “But, I grieve to say, far better
 “Plays he at taroc and ombre.
“He is likewise a free-thinker,
 “Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh,
 “And then travell’d round the country
 “With some painted low comedians.
“In the shops and on the markets
 “Has he acted as Jack-pudding,
 “Holofernes, or King David,
 “But the latter most excell’d in.
“For the king’s own sorrows sang he
 “In the king’s own mother language,
 “Giving all the proper quavers
 “In the proper olden fashion.
“Recently some wenches took he
 “From the Amsterdam casino,
 “And he’s travelling with these Muses
 “Round the country as Apollo.
“One amongst them is a stout one,
 “Squeaking very much and grunting:
 “On account of her green laurel
 “Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.”

HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69]

Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king,
 Few monarchs are half so splendid;
 In him a king the Bavarians revere,
 From an ancient line descended.
He’s fond of art: fair women to get
 For their portraits to sit, is his passion:
 In this painted seraglio takes he his walks,
 In eunuch-artistic fashion.
A marble place of skulls hath he
 Near Ratisbon constructed,
 And all the arrangements for every head
 In his own royal person conducted.
Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece,
 Where the merit of every man is
 Set forth, with his character and his acts,
 From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71]
But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all,
 Has no place in this proud mausoleum;
 The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out
 In a natural hist’ry museum.
King Louis is also a poet renown’d;
 Whenever sings or plays he,
 Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims:
 “O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”
King Louis is also a hero renown’d,
 Like his child, his little son, Otho,
 Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece
 (He disgraced it long ago, tho’).
When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be
 At Rome by the holy Father;
 A cat with ruffles a face like his
 With its Glory will look like rather.
As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos
 Are converted to Christianity,
 They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint,
 In proof of their perfect sanity.

TWO KNIGHTS.

Crapulinski and Waschlapski,
 Poles in Poland born and bred,
 Fought for their dear country’s freedom
 ’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.
Boldly did they fight, and lastly
 Found at Paris a retreat;
 Living, just as much as dying
 For one’s fatherland, is sweet.
Like Achilles and Patroclus,
 David and his Jonathan,
 Loved the pair of Poles each other,
 Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”[72]
Neither e’er betray’d the other,
 Both were faithful friends and true,
 Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
 Born and bred in Poland too.
They the same apartment dwelt in,
 In the selfsame bed slept they,
 And in noble emulation
 Scratch’d themselves by night and day.
In the selfsame beershop dined they,
 And as neither was content
 That the other paid his reckoning,
 Neither ever paid a cent.
’Twas the selfsame washerwoman
 Did the washing for the pair;
 Humming, for their linen came she
 Every month to wash and air.
Yes, they really had their linen,
 Each one had two shirts, well-worn,
 Notwithstanding that they Poles were,
 Poles in Poland bred and born.
They to-day sit near the chimney,
 Where the flames a bright glow cast;
 Out of doors are night, a snowstorm,
 And the coaches driving past.
They a mighty bowl of punch have
 Drain’d already and devour’d;
 (Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d,
 And unwater’d and unsour’d.)
Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping,
 Tears their furrow’d faces streak:
 With a voice of deep emotion
 Thus doth Crapulinski speak;
“Would that I had here in Paris
 “My dear bearskin, my old cotton
 “Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap,
 “In my fatherland forgotten!”
Thus to him replied Waschlapski:
 “O thou art a driv’ller true;
 “Of thy home thou’rt over thinking,
 “Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.
“Poland has not yet quite perish’d,
 “Still our wives to sons give birth,
 “And our girls will do so likewise,
 “And produce us men of worth,
“Heroes, like great Sobieski,
 “Like Schelmufski and Uminski,
 “Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski,
 “And the mighty Eselinski.”

OUR MARINE.[73]

(A Nautical tale.)

A dream of a fleet we lately dreamt,
 And enjoy’d a sail delicious
 Far over the wide and boundless sea,
 The wind was quite propitious.
We gave our frigates the proudest names
 That we in our calendar reckon’d;
 One Hoffmann of Fallersleben we call’d,
 And Prutz[74] we christen’d the second.
There floated the cutter Freiligrath,
 Whereon was seen the figure
 Of the Moorish king, which gazed below
 Like a moon (but as black as a nigger).
There floated Gustavus Schwab as well,
 A Pfizer, a Kölle, a Mayer;
 On each of them stood a Swabian face,
 Each holding a wooden lyre.
There floated Birch-Pfeiffer, a brig which bore
 On its mast the escutcheon olden
 Of the famous German Admiralty,
 On tatters black-red-golden.
We boldly clamber’d on bowsprit and yard,
 And bore ourselves like sailors;
 Our jackets were short, our hats betarr’d,
 And our trousers as big as a tailor’s.
Full many, who formerly sipp’d but tea
 As husbands kind and forbearing,
 Now drank their rum, their pigtail chew’d,
 And, seaman-like, took to swearing.
So bright was our vision, we well nigh won
 A naval victory splendid;
 But when return’d the morning sun,
 Both fleet and vision had ended.
We still were lying at home in bed,
 Our limbs all over it sprawling;
 We rubbed the sleep from out of our eyes,
 The following wise speech bawling:
“The world is round; why seek to be tost
 “On the idle billows, faint-hearted?
 “When we sail round the world, at last we return
 “To the point from which we started.”

THE GOLDEN CALF.

Fiddle, flute, and horn uniting,
 To the idol-dance inviting—
 Round the golden calf with springing
 All of Jacob’s daughters come—
 Brum—brum—brum—
 Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Girding up their tunics lightly,
 Clasping hands together tightly,
 Noble maidens, off’rings bringing,
 Twist, like whirlwinds at the least,
 Round the beast—
 Kettle drums and laughter ringing!
Aaron’s self joins in the mazy
 Circling dance with motions crazy;
 His concerns not looking after,
 Skips he, in his high-priest’s coat,
 Like a goat—
 Kettle drums and ringing laughter!

KING DAVID.

Despots smiling yield their breath,
 Knowing after their own death
 That their slaves but change their master,
 And, if anything, work faster.
Ah, poor race! like horse and bull
 They the waggons still must pull,
 And their backs will soon be broken
 If they heed not what is spoken.
David said to Solomon
 On his deathbed: “List, my son!
 “My most dreaded foe of course is
 “Joab, general of my forces.
“This brave general many a year
 “I have view’d with hate and fear;
 “But, however I detest him,
 “I ne’er ventured to arrest him.
“Thou, my son, of sterner stuff,
 “Fearing God, art strong enough;
 “’Tis for thee an easy matter
 “That said Joab’s brains to scatter.”

KING RICHARD.

Through the silent glades of the forest there springs
 An eager horseman proudly;
 He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings
 Exultingly and loudly.
His armour is made of the brass most strong,
 But stronger still is his bosom;
 ’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along,
 That Christian chivalry’s blossom.
“Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough
 “Exclaims with joyous assurance;
 “We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou
 “Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.”
The king snuffs up the free air the while,
 Like a newborn creature lives he;
 He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,—
 And his spurs to his proud horse gives he.

THE ASRA.

Daily went the wondrous lovely
 Sultan’s daughter at the cooling
 Hour of evening to the fountain,
 Where the waters white were plashing.
Daily at the hour of evening
 Stood the young slave at the fountain
 Where the waters white were plashing,
 Daily grew he pale and paler.
And one evening came the princess,
 And these sudden words address’d him:
 “Thou must tell me what thy name is,
 “And thy country and thy kindred!”
And the slave replied: “My name is
 “Mahomet, I came from Yemmen,
 “And my race is of those Asras,
 “Who, whene’er they love, must perish.”

THE NUNS.

Who at night the convent walls
 Passes, sees the windows brightly
 Lighted up, for there the spectres
 Make their gloomy circuit nightly.
’Tis dead Ursulines that join
 In the sad and dark procession;
 From the linen hoods are peeping
 Faces young of sweet expression.
Tapers bear they in their hands,
 Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious
 Strangely echo in the crossway
 Whispers low, wails sad and serious.
To the church the train moves on;
 Sitting on the wooden benches
 Of the quire, their mournful chorus
 Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches.
Like a litany it sounds,
 But the words are wild and shocking
 They are poor and outcast spirits
 At the heavenly portal knocking.
“Brides of Christ we used to be,
 “But by love of earth were chainèd,
 “And we render’d unto Cæsar
 “Things that unto God pertainèd.
“Charming is a uniform
 “And mustachios smooth and shining
 “For the epaulettes of Cæsar
 “Were our hearts in secret pining.
“Antlers to the brow we gave
 “By our shameless ill behaviour,
 “Which the crown of thorns once carried,—
 “We betray’d our heavenly Saviour.
“Jesus,—mercy’s very self,—
 “Softly wept o’er our transgression,
 “And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd
 “‘For disgracing your profession!’
“Grave-sprung spectres of the night,
 “We must wander in these dreary
 “Walls, our folly to atone for,—
 “Miserere! Miserere!
“Ah, within the grave ’tis well!
 “Though indeed ’tis far more cheery
 “In the glowing realms of heaven,—
 “Miserere! Miserere!
“Jesus sweet, forgive at length
 “Our transgression sad and weary;
 “Let us feel the warmth of heaven,—
 “Miserere! Miserere!”
Thus the troop of nuns sing on,
 And a long-dead clerk is playing
 On the organ. Hands of spirits
 O’er the keys are wildly straying.

PALSGRAVINE JUTTA.

The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light,
 Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright;
 The Countess speaks, while rows the maid:
 “Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d
 “That, seeking to find us,
 “Are floating behind us?—
 “So sadly are floating the corpses!
“Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d,
 “And tenderly sank on my heaving breast,
 “And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make
 “That they their oaths should never break,
 “I seized and bound them,
 “And straightway drown’d them,—
 “So sadly are floating the corpses!”
The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows,
 Through the air her laughter scornfully goes;
 From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh,
 And point with their fingers towards the sky,
 In token of swearing,
 With glassy eyes staring—
 So sadly are floating the corpses!

THE MOORISH KING.

To the Alpuxarres’ exile
 Went the youthful Moorish monarch;
 Silent and with heart full mournful
 Heading the procession rode he.
And behind, on lofty palfreys
 Or in golden litters riding,
 Sat the women of his household;
 Swarthy maids on mules were sitting.
And a hundred trusty followers
 Rode on noble Arab horses;
 Haughty steeds, and yet the riders
 Carelessly bestrode the saddles.
Not a drum and not a cymbal,
 Not a single song resounded;
 Silver bells upon the mules, though,
 Echoed sadly in the silence.
On the height, from whence the glances
 Sweep across the Duero valley,
 And Granada’s battlements
 For the last time rise before one,
There the mournful king dismounted,
 And he gazed upon the city
 Glittering in the light of evening,
 As though deck’d with gold and purple.
But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas!
 In the place of that dear crescent
 Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard
 On the tow’rs of the Alhambra.
Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry
 Broke from out the monarch’s bosom;
 Suddenly the tears ’gan falling
 Like a torrent down his cheeks.
Sadly from her lofty palfrey
 Downward gazed the monarch’s mother,
 Looking on her son’s affliction;
 Proudly, bitterly, she chided:
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
 “Like a woman thou bewailest
 “Yonder town, which thou neglectedst
 “To defend with manly courage.”
When the monarch’s dearest mistress
 Heard these words, so harsh and cruel,
 Hastily she left her litter,
 Her lord’s neck embracing fondly.
“Boabdil el Chico,” said she,
 “Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one!
 “From the deep abyss of sorrow
 “Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel.
“Not alone the glorious victor,
 “Not alone the proud triumphant
 “Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune,
 “But misfortune’s bloody son, too,
“And the’ heroic-fighting warrior,
 “Who to destiny o’erpow’ring
 “Has succumb’d, will live for ever
 “In the memory of mortals.”—
“Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh”
 To this very moment call they
 Yonder height from whence the monarch
 For the last time saw Granada.
Time has now fulfill’d full sweetly
 His beloved one’s prophecy,
 And the Moorish monarch’s name is
 Reverenced and held in honour.
Never will his glory vanish,
 Never, till the last chord’s broken
 Of the last guitar remaining
 In the land of Andalusia.

GEOFFRY RUDÈL AND MELISANDA OF TRIPOLI.

In the Château Blay still see we
 Tapestry the walls adorning,
 Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’
 Own fair hands, no labour scorning.
Her whole soul was woven in it,
 And with loving tears and tender
 Hallow’d is the silken picture,
 Which the following scene doth render:
How the Countess saw Rudèl
 Dying on the strand of ocean,
 And the’ ideal in his features
 Traced of all her heart’s emotion.
For the first and last time also
 Living saw Rudèl and breathing
 Her who in his every vision
 Intertwining was and wreathing.
Over him the Countess bends her,
 Lovingly his form she raises,
 And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,
 That so sweetly sang her praises.
Ah! the kiss of welcome likewise
 Was the kiss of separation,
 And they drain’d the cup of wildest
 Joy, and deepest desolation.
In the Château Blay at night-time
 Comes a rushing, crackling, shaking
 On the tapestry the figures
 Suddenly to life are waking.
Troubadour and lady stretch their
 Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,
 And from out the wall advancing,
 Up and down the hall they wander.
Whispers fond and gentle toying,
 Sad-sweet secrets, heart-enthralling,
 Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,
 Minnesingers’ times recalling:
“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music
 “Warmth is in my dead heart glowing,
 “And I feel once more a glimmer
 “In the long-quench’d embers growing!”
“Melisanda! I awaken
 “Unto happiness and gladness,
 “When I see thine eyes; dead only
 “Is my earthly pain and sadness.”
“Geoffry! Once we loved each other
 “In our dreams; now, cut asunder
 “By the hand of death, still love we,—
 “Amor ’tis that wrought this wonder!”
“Melisanda! What are dreams?
 “What is death? Mere words to scare one!
 “Truth in love alone e’er find we,
 “And I love thee, ever fair one!”
“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings
 “In this moonlit chamber nightly,
 “Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams
 “I no more shall wander lightly.”
“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!
 “Thou art light and sun, thou knowest!
 “Love and joys of May are budding,
 “Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”—
Thus those tender spectres wander
 Up and down, and sweet caresses
 Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight
 Through the window’s arch’d recesses.
But at length the rays of morning
 Scare away the fond illusion;
 To the tapestry retreat they
 On the wall, in shy confusion.

THE POET FERDUSI.

1.