On high, from the heaven’s blue canopy,
 Many thousand stars are gleaming,
 Like the eyes of fair women, so large and clear,
 And with locks of yearning beaming.
They’re looking down on the ocean below,
 Whose waves in the distance are curling,
 In phosphorescent blue vapour all veil’d,
 While the billows are joyously whirling.
Not a sail on the slave-ship is fluttering now,
 As though without tackle she’s lying;
 But lanthorns are glimmering high on the decks
 Where the dance with the music is vying.
The cook of the vessel is playing the flute,
 The steersman’s playing the fiddle,
 The trumpet is blown by the Doctor himself,
 And a lad beats the drum in the middle.
A hundred niggers, both women and men,
 Are yelling and whirling and leaping,
 As though they were mad; and at every spring
 Their irons the tune are keeping.
They stamp on the ground in uproarious mirth,
 And many a swarthy maiden
 Clasps her naked partner with warmth, while at times
 The air with their groanings is laden.
The jailer acts as maître des plaisirs,
 And dealing his lashes so fearful,
 The weary dancers he stimulates,
 And bids them be merry and cheerful.
So dideldumdei and schnedderedeng!
 The strange unwonted commotion
 Aroused from their lazy slumbers below
 The monsters fierce of the ocean.
All-heavy with sleep, the sharks swam up,
 In numbers many a hundred;
 They stupidly stared at the ship on high
 With amazement, and blindly wondered.
They see that their usual breakfast time
 Has not come as soon as ’tis wanted,
 So they gape and ope wide their throats, their jaws
 With teeth like saws being planted.
And dideldumdei and schnedderedeng!
 There seems no end to the dances;
 The sharks grow impatient, and bite themselves
 In the tail with their teeth like lances.
I presume that for music they’ve got no taste,
 Like many an ignoramus;
 Trust not the beast that music loves not,
 Says Albion’s poet famous.
And schnedderedeng and dideldumdei!
 Not one of the dancers seems lazy;
 At the foremast stands Mynher Van Koek,
 And with folded hands thus prays he:
“For Christ’s dear sake, O spare, good Lord,
 “The lives of these swarthy sinners;
 “If they’ve anger’d thee e’er, thou know’st they’re as dull
 “As the beasts that we eat for our dinners.
“O spare their lives, for Christ’s dear sake,
 “Who died for our salvation;
 “For unless I have left me three hundred head,
 “There’s an end to my occupation.”

7. AFFRONTENBURG.

Time fleeteth, yet that castle old,
 With all its battlements, its tower,
 And simple folk that in it dwelt,
 Appears before me every hour.
I ever see the weathercock
 That on the roof turn’d round so drily;
 Each person, ere he spoke a word,
 Was wont to look up tow’rds it slily.
He that would talk, first learnt the wind,
 For fear the ancient grumbler Boreas
 Might turn against him suddenly,
 Tormenting him with blast uproarious.
In truth, the wisest held their tongues,
 For in that place an echo sported,
 Which, when it answer’d back the voice,
 Each word maliciously distorted.
Amidst the castle garden stood
 A marble fount, with sphinxes round it,
 For ever dry, though tears enough
 Had flow’d inside it, to have drown’d it.
O most accursèd garden! Ah,
 No single spot was in thy keeping
 Wherein my heart had not been sad,
 Wherein my eye had not known weeping.
No single tree did it contain
 Beneath whose shade affronts injurious
 Had not against me utter’d been
 By tongues ironical or furious.
The toad that listen’d in the grass
 Unto the rat hath all confided,
 Who told his aunt the viper straight
 The news in which himself he prided.
She in her turn told cousin frog,—
 And in this manner each relation
 In the whole filthy race soon learnt
 My dire affronts and sad vexation.
The garden roses were full fair,
 And sweet the fragrance that they scatter’d;
 Yet early wither’d they and died,
 By a mysterious poison shatter’d.
And next the nightingale was sick
 To death,—that songster loved and cherish’d.
 That sang to every rose her song;
 Through her own poison’s taste she perish’d.
O most accursèd garden! Yea,
 It was as though a curse oppress’d it;
 Oft was I seized by ghostly fear,
 While broad clear daylight still possess’d it.
The green-eyed spectre on me grinn’d,
 Terror with fearful mockery vying,
 While from the yew-trees straightway rose
 A sound of groaning, choking, sighing.
At the long alley’s end arose
 The terrace where the Baltic Ocean
 At time of flood its billows dash’d
 Against the rocks in wild commotion.
There sees one far across the main,
 There stood I oft, in wild dreams roaming;
 The breakers fill’d my heart as well
 With ceaseless roaring, raging, foaming.
A foaming, raging, roaring ’twas,
 As powerless as the billows curling
 That the hard rock broke mournfully,
 Proudly as they their shocks were hurling.
With envy saw I ships pass by,
 Some happier country seeking gladly,
 While I am in this castle chain’d
 With bonds accurst, and pining sadly.

8. APPENDIX TO “LAZARUS.”[87]

I.

Holy parables discarding,
 And each guess, however pious,
 To these awful questions plainly
 Seek with answers to supply us:—
Wherefore bends the Just One, bleeding
 ’Neath the cross’s weight laborious,
 While upon his steed the Wicked
 Rides all-proudly and victorious?
Wherein lies the fault? It is not
 That our God is not almighty?
 Or hath he himself offended?—
 Such a thought seems wild and flighty.
Thus are we for ever asking,
 Till at length our mouths securely
 With a clod of earth are fasten’d,—
 That is not an answer, surely?

II.

My head by the maiden swarthy but fair
 Was press’d ’gainst her bosom with yearning;
 But, alas! to grey soon turn’d my hair,
 Where had fallen her tears so burning.
She kiss’d me ill, and she kiss’d me lame,
 She kiss’d till my eyes were faded;
 My spinal marrow dried up became,
 By her mouth’s wild sucking pervaded.
My body is now a corpse, wherein
 My spirit is fetter’d closely;
 ’Tis often angry, and makes a din,
 And storms and struggles morosely,
O impotent curses! Not even a fly
 Can be kill’d by mere execrations;
 Submit to thy fate, and patiently try
 To bear Heaven’s dispensations.

III.

How slowly time is crawling on,
 That serpent terrible and creeping!
 While I, alas! all-motionless,
 On the same spot am ever weeping.
On my dark cell no ray of hope
 Hath shone, no sunbeam e’er hath risen;
 For nothing but the churchyard’s vault
 Shall I exchange this fatal prison.
Perchance I long ago did die,
 Perchance the phantasies which nightly
 Hold in my brain their shifting dance
 Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly.
They may full well the spectres be
 Of some old heathen gods or devils;
 They gladly choose the empty skull
 Of a dead poet for their revels.
Those orgies sweet but terrible,
 Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning,
 The poet’s corpse-hand ofttimes seeks
 To place on record in the morning.

IV.

Once saw I many a blooming flower
 Upon my way, but slothfully
 Stoop’d not to pluck them in that hour,
 And on my proud steed hasten’d by.
Now when I’m near to death, and languish,
 Now when beneath me yawns the tomb,
 Oft in my thought, with bitter anguish,
 Returns the’ unheeded flowers’ perfume.
But most of all, my brain is burning
 With a bright yellow violet fair;
 Wild beauty! How I grieve with yearning,
 To think that I enjoy’d thee ne’er!
My comfort is: Oblivion’s waters
 Have not yet lost their olden might
 The dull hearts of earth’s sons and daughters
 To steep in Lethe’s blissful night.

V.

I saw them laughing, smiling gladly,—
 I saw them ruin’d utterly;
 I heard them weeping, dying sadly,—
 And yet I utter’d not a sigh.
Each corpse I as a mourner follow’d,
 Yea, to the churchyard follow’d I,
 And then—with appetite I swallow’d,
 My noontide meal, I’ll not deny.
I now recall that band long perish’d,
 With feelings sadden’d and oppress’d:
 Like sudden glowing love once cherish’d
 They strangely storm within my breast.
And most ’tis Juliet’s tears so burning
 That in my memory spring to light;
 My sadness turns to ceaseless yearning,
 I call upon her day and night.
In feverish dreams, with soft emotion
 The faded flower oft comes again;
 Methinks a posthumous devotion
 To my love’s glow it offers then.
O gentle phantom, clasp me often
 With strong and ever stronger power;
 Unto my lips press thine, and soften
 The bitterness of this last hour.

VI.

Thou wast a maiden fair, so good and kindly,
 So neat, so cool—in vain I waited blindly
 Till came the hour wherein thy gentle heart
 Would ope, and inspiration play its part.
Yea, inspiration for those lofty things
 Which prose and reason deem but wanderings,
 But yet for which the noble, lovely, good
 Upon this earth rave, suffer, shed their blood.
Upon the Rhine’s fair strand, where vine-hills smile,
 Once in glad summer days we roam’d the while;
 Bright laugh’d the sun, sweet incense in that hour
 Stream’d from the beauteous cup of every flower.
The purple pinks and roses breath’d in turn
 Red kisses on us, which like fire did burn;
 Even the smallest daisy’s faint perfume
 Appear’d a life ideal then to bloom.
But thou didst peacefully beside me go,
 In a white satin dress, demure and slow,
 Like some girl’s portrait limn’d by Netscher’s art,
 A little glacier seem’d to be thy heart.

VII.

At reason’s solemn judgment-seat
 Thy full acquittal hath been spoken;
 The verdict says: the little one
 By word or deed no law hath broken.
Yes, dumb and motionless thou stood’st,
 While madd’ning flames were raging through me;
 Thou stirredst not, no word thou spak’st,
 Yet thou’lt be ever guilty to me.
Throughout my visions every night
 A voice accusing ceaseth never
 To charge thee with ill will, and say
 That thou hast ruin’d me for ever.
It brings its proofs and witnesses,
 Its musty rolls from thought long banish’d
 And yet at morning, with my dream,
 Lo, the accuser too hath vanish’d!
Now hath it in my inmost heart,
 With all its records, refuge taken—
 One only haunts my memory still:
 That I am ruin’d and forsaken.

VIII.

Thy letter was a flash of lightning,
 Illuming night with sudden glow;
 It served with dazzling force to show
 How deep my misery is, how fright’ning.
E’en thou compassion then didst share,
 Who, ’mid my life’s sad desolation,
 Stood’st, like the sculptor’s mute creation,
 As cold as marble, and as fair.
O God, how wretched must I be!
 For into speech her lips are waking,
 From out her eyes the tears are breaking,
 The stone feels for me tenderly.
The sight hath fill’d me with confusion;
 Have pity, Lord, though thou mayst chasten,
 Thy peace bestow, and quickly hasten
 This fearful tragedy’s conclusion.

IX.

The true sphynx’s form’s the same as
 Woman’s; this I see full clearly;
 And the paws and lion’s body
 Are the poet’s fancy merely.
Dark as death is still the riddle
 Of this true sphynx. E’en the clever
 Son and husband of Jocasta
 Such a hard one found out never.
By good luck, though, woman knows not
 Her own riddle’s explanation;
 If the answer she discover’d,
 Earth would fall from its foundation.

X.

Three women sit at the crossway lonely,
 They’re thinking and spinning,
 They’re sighing and grinning;
 Their very aspect is hideous only.
The distaff the first holds, so placid;
 The threads she setteth,
 And each one wetteth;
 So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.
The spindle the second one dances
 In a circle ’tis whirling,
 In droll fashion twirling;
 The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.
The third Fate’s hands, so befitting,
 Hold the scissors so dreary,
 She hums Miserere,
 And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.
O hasten thee quickly, and sever
 My life’s thread so sadd’ning,
 Escaping this madd’ning
 Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!

XI.

I scorn the heavenly plains above me,
 In the blest land of Paradise;
 No fairer women there will love me
 Than those whom here on earth I prize.
No angel blest, his high flight winging,
 Could there replace my darling wife;
 To sit on clouds, whilst psalms I’m singing,
 Would small enjoyment give to life.
O Lord, methinks ’twere best to leave me
 Upon this lower world to dwell;
 But first from sufferings reprieve me,
 Some money granting me as well.
The world, I know, is overflowing
 With sin and misery; yet I
 Have learnt full well the art of going
 Along its pavement quietly.
Life’s bustle cannot now annoy me,
 For ’tis but seldom that I roam;
 Beside my wife I’d fain employ me
 In slippers and loose-coat at home.
Leave me with her! When she is prattling,
 My soul drinks in the music dear
 Of that sweet voice, so gaily rattling,—
 Her look so faithful is and clear!
For health alone and means of living,
 Lord, ask I! Let me stay below
 For many a day its blessings giving,
 Beside my wife in statu quo!

9. THE DRAGONFLY.

The beauteous dragonfly’s dancing
 By the waves of the rivulet glancing;
 She dances here and she dances there,
 The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair.
Full many a beetle with loud applause
 Admires her dress of azure gauze,
 Admires her body’s bright splendour,
 And also her figure so slender.
Full many a beetle, to his cost,
 His modicum small of reason lost;
 Her wooers are humming of love and truth,
 Brabant and Holland pledging forsooth.
The dragonfly smiled and thus spake she:
 “Brabant and Holland are nought to me;
 “But haste, if my charms you admire,
 “And fetch me a sparklet of fire.
“The cook has just been brought to bed,
 “And I my supper must cook instead;
 “The coals on the hearth are burnt away,—
 “So fetch me a sparklet of fire, I pray.”
Scarce had the false one spoken the word,
 When off the beetles flew, like a bird.
 They seek for fire, and soon they find
 Their home in the wood’s left far behind.
At length they see a candle’s light
 In garden-bower burning bright;
 And then with amorous senseless aim,
 They headlong rush in the candle’s flame.
The candle’s flame with crackling consumed
 The beetles and their fond hearts so doom’d:
 While some with their lives did expiation,
 Some only lost wings in the conflagration.
O woe to the beetle, whose wings have been
 Burnt off! In a foreign land, I ween,
 He must crawl on the ground like vermin fell,
 With humid insects that nastily smell.
One’s bad companions—he’s heard to say,—
 Are the worst of plagues, in exile’s day.
 We’re forced to converse with every sort
 Of noxious creatures, of bugs in short,
Who treat us as though their comrades were we,
 Because in the selfsame mud we be.
 Of this complain’d old Virgil’s scholar,
 The poet of exile and hell, with choler.
I think with grief of the happier time,
 When I in my glory’s well-winged prime
 In my native ether was playing,
 On sunny flowers was straying.
From rosy calixes food I drew,
 Was thought of importance, and wheeling flew
 With butterflies all of elegance rare,
 And with the cricket, the artist fair.
But since my poor wings I happen’d to burn,
 To my fatherland now I ne’er can return;
 I’m turn’d to a worm, that will soon expire,
 I’m rotting away in foreign mire.
O would that I had never met
 The dragonfly, that azure coquette,
 With figure so fine and slender,
 The fair but cruel pretender!

10. ASCENSION.

The body lay on the bier of death,
 While the poor soul, when gone its breath,
 Escaping from earth’s constant riot,
 Was on its way to heavenly quiet.
Then knock’d it at the portal high,
 And spake these words with a heavy sigh:
 “Saint Peter, give me inside a place,
 “I am so tired of life’s hard race.
“On silken pillows I fain would rest
 “In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best
 “With darling angels at blindman’s-buff,
 “Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”
A clatter of slippers ere long was heard,
 A bunch of keys appear’d to be stirr’d,
 And out of a lattice, the entrance near,
 Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.
He spake: “The vagabonds come again,
 “The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train,
 “The idlers and the Hottentots—
 “They come alone and they come in knots,
 “And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest,
 “And there be angels, and there be blest.
 “Halloa, halloa! For gallows’ faces
 “Like yours, for such contemptible races
 “Were never created the halls of bliss,—
 “Your portion’s with Satan, far off from this.
 “Away, away, and take your flight
 “To the black pool of endless night.”—
The old man thus growl’d, but hadn’t the heart
 To continue to play a blustering part,
 So added these words, its spirits to cheer:
 “Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear
 “To that base troop of rogues to belong—
 “Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong,
 “Because it is my birthday to-day,
 “And I feel just now in a merciful way.
 “But meanwhile tell me the country and place
 “From whence thou comest; and was it the case
 “That thou wast married? It happens sometimes
 “A husband’s patience atones for all crimes;
 “A husband need not in hell to be stew’d,
 “Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”
The soul replied: “From Prussia I came,
 “My native town is Berlin by name,
 “There ripples the Spree, and in its bed
 “The young cadets jump heels over head;
 “It overflows kindly, when rains begin—
 “A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin!
 “I was a private teacher when there,
 “And much philosophy read with care.
 “I married a chanoinesse—strange to say,
 “She quarrell’d frightfully every day,
 “Especially when in the house was no bread—
 “’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”
Saint Peter cried: “Alack, alack!
 “Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack.
 “In truth it is a puzzle to me
 “Why people study philosophy.
 “It is such tedious and profitless stuff,
 “And is moreover godless enough;
 “In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell,
 “Till Satan carries them off to hell.
 “Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations
 “Against the thin and washy potations
 “From whence upon her, with comforting gleam
 “No eye of fat could ever beam.
 “But now, poor soul, pray comforted be!
 “The strictest commands are given to me,
 “’Tis true, that each who whilst he did live
 “To philosophy used his attention to give,
 “Especially to the godless German,
 “Should be driven away from hence like vermin.
 “Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I
 “Have said, so there is a reason why
 “I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute
 “The gate of heaven—quick, enter within it
 “With utmost speed—
 “Now all is right!
 “The whole of the day, from morn’s first light
 “Till late in the evening, thou canst walk
 “Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk
 “Along its jewel-paved streets so fair;
 “But mind, thou must not meddle when there
 “With any philosophy, or I shall be
 “Soon compromised most terribly.
 “When angels thou hearest singing, assume
 “A face of rapture, and never of gloom;
 “But if an archangel sang the song,
 “Be full of inspiration strong,
 “And say that Malibran ne’er pretended
 “To have a soprano so rich and splendid;
 “And ever applaud each tuneful hymn
 “Of cherubim and of seraphim.
 “Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
 “With Mario and Tamburini,
 “Give them the title of Excellencies,
 “And be not sparing of reverencies.
 “The singers in heaven, as well as on earth,
 “Have all loved flattery since their birth.
 “The world’s great Chapel-master on high,
 “E’en He is pleased when they glorify
 “His works, and delighteth to hear ador’d
 “The wonders of God, the mighty Lord,
 “And when a psalm to His glory and praise
 “In thickest incense clouds they raise.
“Forget me not. Whenever to thee
 “The glory of heaven causes ennui,
 “Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play.
 “All games alike are in my way,
 “From doubledummy to faro I’ll go,—
 “We’ll also drink. But, apropos,
 “If thou should’st meet, when going from hence,
 “The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence
 “Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said,
 “But say, from Vienna or Munich instead.”

11. THE AFFIANCED ONES.

Thou weep’st, and on me look’st, believing
 That thou art for my anguish grieving—
 Thou know’st not, wife, that ’tis for thee
 The tear escapes thee, not for me.
O tell me if it be not true
 That o’er thy spirit sometimes grew
 The blest foreboding, showing thee
 That we were join’d by fate’s decree?
 United, bliss was ours below,
 But sever’d, nought is ours but woe.
In the great book ’tis written clearly
 That we should love each other dearly.
 Thy place should be upon my breast,
 Here first awoke self-knowledge blest;
 From out the realm of plants, with power
 ’Twas mine to free, to kiss thee, flower!—
Raise thee to me, to highest life,
 ’Twas mine to give thee soul, my wife.
Now, when reveal’d the riddles stand,
 When in the hour-glass is the sand
 Run out, weep not, ’tis order’d so—
 Alone thou’lt wither, when I go;
 Thou’lt wither, ere thou yet hast bloom’d,
 Ere thou hast glow’d, be quench’d and doom’d;
 Thou’lt die and be the prey of death
 Ere thou hast learnt to draw thy breath.
I know it now. By heaven, ’tis thou
 Whom I have loved. How bitter now,
 The moment we are join’d for ever,
 To find the hour when we must sever.
 The welcome meanwhile must give way
 To sad farewell. We part to-day
 For evermore, for ’tis not given
 To us to meet again in heaven.
 Beauty to dust will fall at last,
 Thou’lt pass away, and crumble fast.
 The poets’ fate will happier be,
 Death cannot kill them utterly.
 Annihilation strikes us ne’er,
 We live in poesy’s land so fair,
 In Avalon, where fairies dwell—
 Dear corpse, for ever fare thee well!

12. THE PHILANTHROPIST.

There once was a brother and sister,
 The sister was poor, the brother was rich.
 The poor one said to the rich one:
 “Give me a piece of bread.”
The rich one said to the poor one:
 “Leave me to-day in peace,
 “While I give my yearly banquet
 “To the lords of the Council all.
“The first doth turtlesoup relish,
 “The second doth pineapples eat,
 “The third is fond of pheasant
 “And Perigord truffles too.
“The fourth eats nought but seafish,
 “The fifth in salmon delights,
 “The sixth of each dish eateth,
 “And drinketh even more.”
The poor rejected sister
 Went hungry back to her house;
 She threw herself on her straw-bed,
 And deeply sighed and died.
We all alike must perish!
 The scythe of death at last
 Mowed down the wealthy brother,
 As it the sister had mown.
And when the wealthy brother
 His end approaching saw,
 He sent for his notary quickly,
 And straightway made his will.
With legacies large and lib’ral
 The clergy he endow’d,
 The schools, and the great museum
 Of zoological things.
And noble sums moreover
 The great testator bequeath’d
 To the deaf and dumb asylum
 And Jewish Conversion fund.
A handsome bell bestow’d he
 On the new Saint Stephen’s tower;
 It weighs five hundred centners,
 Of first-rate metal too.
It is a bell enormous,
 And sounds both early and late;
 It sounds to the praise and glory
 Of that most excellent man.
It tells, with its tongue of iron,
 Of all the good he has done
 To the town and his fellow-townsmen,
 Whatever might be their faith.
Thou great benefactor of mortals
 In death as well as in life
 The great bell’s ever proclaiming
 Each benefaction of thine!
The funeral next with all honour
 And pomp was solemnized,
 The people crowded to see it
 And reverently gazed.
Upon a coal-black carriage,
 Like a vast canopy
 Adorn’d with black ostrich feathers,
 The splendid coffin lay.
Trick’d out with plates of silver,
 And silver embroidery fine,
 Upon the black ground the silver
 The grandest effect produced.
The carriage was drawn by six horses,
 In coal-black trappings disguised,
 That fell, like funeral mantles,
 Down even to their hoofs.
Behind the coffin were crowded
 The servants in liveries black,
 Their snow-white handkerchiefs holding
 Before their sorrowing face.
The people of rank in the city,
 In long procession form’d
 Of black and showy coaches,
 Totter’d along behind.
In this grand fun’ral procession,
 Remember, were also found
 The noble lords of the Council,
 And yet they were not complete.
The one was missing, whose fancy
 Was pheasant and truffles to eat;
 An attack of indigestion
 Had lately carried him off.

13. THE WHIMS OF THE AMOROUS.

(A true story, repeated after old documents and reproduced in excellent rhyme.)