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!