The Book Of Signs: 31 Undeniable

Prophecies Of The Apocalypse

From one of the world's most beloved Bible teachers comes a timely,
compelling, and comprehensive biblical interpretation of Bible
prophecy, the end times, and the apocalypse viewed through the lens of
current world events and social crisi

Author: Dr. David Jeremiah

ISBN: 9780785229575
Category: Theology
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Language: English
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
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.
Greet me, as she rode before me.

When the train at last had faded,

And the tumult was extinguish’d,
Still that loving salutation
Glow’d within my inmost brain.

And throughout the livelong night

I my weary limbs kept tossing
On the straw (for feather beds
Were not in Uraca’s cottage),

And methought: What meaning was there

In that strange, mysterious nodding?
Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me
With such tenderness, Herodias?

CAPUT XX.
’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrows
Shot against the white mist fiercely,
Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,
And in light and glory melted.

Finally the victory’s won,

And the day, the triumphator,
Stood, in full and beaming splendour,
On the summit of the mountain.

All the birds in noisy chorus

Twitter’d in their secret nests,
And a smell of herbs arose too,
Like a concert of sweet odours.

At the earliest dawn of morning

To the valley we descended,
And whilst friend Lascaro follow’d
On the traces of the bear,

I the time to kill attempted

With my thoughts, and yet this thinking
Made me at the last quite weary,
And a little mournful even.

Weary, then, and mournful sank I

On the soft moss-bank beside me.
Under yonder mighty ash-tree,
Where the little streamlet flow’d,

Which, with its mysterious plashing

So mysteriously befool’d me,
That all thoughts and power of thinking
From my spirit pass’d away.

And a raging yearning seized me

For a dream, for death, for madness,
For that woman-rider whom I
For that woman-rider, whom I
In the spirit-march had seen.

O ye lovely nightly faces,

Scared away by beams of morning,
Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?
Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?

Under olden temples’ ruins,

Far away in the Romagna
(So ’tis said) Diana refuge
Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.

Only in the midnight darkness

From her hiding place she ventures,
And rejoices in the chase
With her heathenish companions.

And the beauteous fay Abunde

Of the Nazarenes is fearful,
And throughout the day she lingers
Safe within her Avalun.

This fair island lies deep-hidden

Far off, in the silent ocean
Of romance, that none can reach save
On the fabled horse’s pinions.

Never there casts care its anchor,

Never there appears a steamer,
Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,
With tobacco-pipes in mouth.

Never reaches there the languid

Sound of bells, so dull and tedious,—
That incessant bim-bom clatter
Which the fairies so detest.

There, in never-troubled pleasure,

A di h l bl i
And in youth eternal blooming,
Still resides the joyous lady,
Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.

Laughingly her walks there takes she

Under lofty heliotropes,
With her talking train beside her,
World-departed Paladins.

Well, and thou, Herodias, prythee

Say where art thou? Ah, I know it,
Thou art dead, and liest buried
By the town Jerusalem!

Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,

In its marble coffin prison’d;
Yet the cracking whips and halloing
Waken thee at midnight’s hour,

And the wild array thou followest

With Diana and Abunde,
With thy merry hunting comrades,
Who hold cross and pain detested.

O what sweet society!

Could I hunt with you by night-time
Through the forests! By thy side
Always would I ride, Herodias!

For ’tis thee I love the dearest!

More than yonder Grecian goddess,
More than yonder Northern fairy,
Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!

Yes, I love thee! Well I know it

By the trembling of my spirit;
Love thou me, and be my darling,
Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.
I’m the very knight thou wantest!
Little truly it concerns me
That thou’rt dead and damn’d already,
For I’m free from prejudices.

My own happiness ’tis only

That concerns me, and at times I
Feel inclined to doubt if truly
To the living I belong!

Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,

As thy Cavalier servente,
And thy mantle will I carry
And e’en all thy whims put up with.

Every night I’ll ride beside thee,

With the army wild careering;
Merrily we’ll talk and laugh then
At my frenzied conversation.

Thus the time I’ll shorten for thee

In the night; but yet by day-time
All our joy will fly, and weeping
On that grave I’ll take my seat.

Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weeping

On the regal vault’s sad ruins,
On the grave of thee, my loved one,
By the town Jerusalem.

Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,

Then will surely think I’m sorrowing
For the temple’s desolation,
And the town Jerusalem.

CAPUT XXI.
Argonauts without a ship,
Who on foot the mountain visit,
And instead of golden fleeces
Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—

We’re, alas! poor devils only,

Heroes of a modern fashion,
And no classic poet ever
Will in song immortalize us.

Yet we notwithstanding suffer’d

Serious hardships! O what rain
Fell upon us on the summit,
Where no tree or hackney-coach was!

Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,

And in buckets it descended;
Jason surely was at Colchis
Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath!

“An umbrella! Gladly would I

“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]
“For the loan of one umbrella!”
“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.

Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,

We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies
Late at night, as best we could,
To the witch’s lofty cottage.

There beside the glowing fire-place

Sat Uraca, busy combing
Her great fat and ugly pug-dog;
Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,

To attend to us instead,
And my bed she soon got ready,
Loosening first my espardillas
Loosening first my espardillas,
That uncomfortable foot-gear—

Help’d me to undress, my stockings

Pulling off; I found them sticking
To my legs, as close and faithful
As the friendship of a blockhead.

“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you

“Six-and-thirty kings for only
“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,
As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.

Freezing and with chattering teeth, I

Stood awhile upon the hearth;
By the fire then driven senseless
On the straw at length I sank.

But I slept not. Blinking look’d I

On the witch, who by the chimney
Sat, and held the head and shoulders
Of her son upon her lap,

Helping to undress him. Near her

Stood upright her ugly pug-dog,
And he in his front paw managed
Cleverly to hold a pot.

From the pot Uraca took some

Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the
Ribs and bosom of her son,
Rubbing hastily, with trembling.

And while rubbing him and salving,

She a cradle-song was humming
Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled
On the hearth the ruddy flames.

Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,

On his mother’s lap the son lay,
Sorrowful as death, wide open
Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.

Is he truly but a dead man

Who each night by love maternal
Hath a life enchanted giv’n him
By the aid of strongest witch-salve?

Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,

Where the leaden limbs feel weary
As though fetter’d, and the senses
O’er-excited, wide awake!

How the herb-smell in the chamber

Troubled me! With painful effort
Thought I where I had already
Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.

How the wind a-down the chimney

Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded
Of dejected dried-up spirits,—
Like the sound of well-known voices.

Most of all was I tormented

By the stuff’d birds, which were standing
On a shelf above my head,
Near the place where I was lying.

They their wings were slowly flapping

And with awful motion, bending
Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing
Their long beaks, like human noses.

Ah! where have I seen already

Noses such as these? At Hamburg,
Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?
Sad the glimmering recollection!
I at last was overpower’d
Quite by sleep, and in the place of
Wakeful, terrible phantasmas,
Came a healthful, steady dream.

And I dreamt that this poor cottage

Suddenly became a ball-room
Which by columns was supported,
And by candelabra lighted.

Some invisible musicians

Play’d from out Robert-le-Diable
That fine crazy dance of nuns;
All alone I walk’d about there.

But at length the doors were open’d,

Open’d wide and then advanced
With a step both slow and stately
Guests of wonderful appearance.

They were solely bears and spirits!

Walking bolt upright, each bear
Led a spirit as his partner,
In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.

In this manner pair’d, began they

Waltzing up and down with vigour
In the hall. The sight was curious,
Laughable, but also fearful!

For the awkward bears soon found it

Difficult to keep in step
With the white and airy figures,
Who whirl’d round with easy motion.

But those poor unhappy creatures

Were inexorably driven,
And their snorting overpower’d
E’en the’ orchestral double bass.

Oftentimes one couple jostled

’Gainst another, and the bear
Gave the spirit that had push’d him
Some hard kicks on his hind quarters.

Often in the dance’s bustle

Would a bear tear off the shroud
From the head of his companion,
And a death’s head was disclosed then.

But at length with joyous uproar

Crash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,
And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,
And there came the gallopade.

To the end of this I dreamt not,—

For a stupid clumsy bear
Trod upon my corns, and made me
Cry aloud, and so awoke me.

CAPUT XXII.
Phœbus in his sunny droschka
Lash’d his flaming horses onwards,
And had half his course already
Through the spacious heavens completed,

Whilst I still in slumber lay,

And of bears and spirits, strangely
Intertwining with each other
In quaint arabesque, was dreaming.

Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,

And I found myself alone;
Both my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had started early.

In the hut the pug-dog only

Still remain’d. Beside the hearth he
Stood upright before the kettle,
While his paws a spoon were holding.

Admirably had they taught him

Whensoe’er the broth boil’d over
Hastily to stir it round,
And to skim away the bubbles.

But am I myself bewitch’d?

Or still blazes there the fever
In my head? I scarce can credit
My own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!

Yes, he’s talking, and his accent

Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming,
As though buried in deep thought,
Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:

“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!

“In a foreign land I sadly
“Languish as a dog enchanted
 Languish, as a dog enchanted,
“And a witch’s kettle watch!

“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!

“O how sad, how deeply tragic
“Is my fate,—with human feelings
“Underneath a dog’s exterior!

“Would that I at home had tarried

“With my trusty school companions!
“They’re at any rate no wizards,—
“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!

“Would that I at home had tarried

“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant
“Wallflow’rs of my native country,
“With its pudding-broth delicious!

“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—

“Would that I could see the smoke
“Rising from the chimneys where they
“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”

When I heard this, deep emotion

Came across me; quickly sprang I
From the couch, approach’d the fireplace,
And address’d him with compassion:

“Noble bard, say how it happens

“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?
“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee
“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”

But with joy exclaim’d the other:

“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,
“But a German, understanding
“All my silent monologue?

“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that

“C ’ll fl i Köll
“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,
“When we o’er our pipes and glasses
“Held discussions in the beershop,

“Always harp’d upon the thesis

“That by travelling alone we
“Could obtain that polish, which he
“Had from foreign lands imported!

“So, that I might wipe away all

“That raw crust which stuck upon me,
“And like Kölle might acquire
“Elegant and polish’d manners,

“From my country I departed,

“And while thus the grand tour making,
“Came I to the Pyrenees,
“To the cottage of Uraca.

“I an introduction brought her

“From Justinus Kerner[34], never
“Thinking that this so-called friend
“Was in wicked league with witches.

“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,

“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship
“Kept on growing, till converted
“At the last to sensual passion.

“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d

“Wildly in the wither’d bosom
“Of this wretched, worthless woman,
“And she now must needs seduce me!

“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,

“ ‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous
“ ‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong
“ ‘To the poet-school of Swabia.
“ ‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,
“ ‘And the drawers she wears are made of
“ ‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,
“ ‘Do not violate my virtue!

“ ‘Other poets boast of genius,

“ ‘Others fancy, others passion,
“ ‘But the pride of Swabian poets
“ ‘Is especially their virtue.

“ ‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!

“ ‘Do not rob me of the modest
“ ‘And religious simple garment
“ ‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’

“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman

“Smiled ironically; smiling
“She a switch of mistletoe
“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.

“Thereupon I felt a chilly

“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin
“Being o’er my members drawn;
“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—

“On the contrary, a dog-skin

“Was it rather; since that fearful
“Moment have I been converted
“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”

Poor young fellow! Through his sobbing

Not a word more could he utter;
And he wept with so much fervour,
That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.

“Listen now,” I said with pity:

“Can I possibly relieve you
“Of your dog-skin, and restore you
“To humanity and verses?”

But the other raised his paws up

In the air disconsolately
And despairingly; at length he
Spake with sighing and with groaning:

“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I

“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,
“If I’m freed not from enchantment
“By a virgin’s self-devotion.

“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,

“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,
“And the following condition
“Truly keeps, alone can free me.

“This unsullied virgin must,

“In the night of Saint Sylvester,
“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35] poems,
“And not go to sleep one moment!

“If she keeps awake while reading,

“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—
“Then shall I be disenchanted,
“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”

“In that case, good friend,” replied I,

“I at any rate can never
“Undertake to disenchant you,
“For I’m no unsullied virgin;

“And still less should I be able

“To fulfil the task of reading
“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,
“And not fall asleep instanter!”

CAPUT XXIII.
From the witch’s entertainment
To the valley we descended,
And our footsteps to the region
Of the Positive return’d.

Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!

Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!
We find rational employment
Once again with Atta Troll.

In the cavern, by his young ones,

Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,
With the snore of conscious virtue,
And at length he wakes with gaping.

Near him squats young Master One-ear

And his head he’s gently scratching.
Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,
And upon his paws he’s scanning.

Likewise by their father’s side

On their backs are dreaming lying
Innocent four-footed lilies,
Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.

Say, what tender thoughts are pining

In the softly blooming spirits
Of these snowy young bear-virgins?
Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.

Most of all appears the youngest

Deeply moved. Within her bosom
She a blissful twinge is feeling,
And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.

Yes, that little god’s sharp arrow

Through her thick skin penetrated
When she saw Him—O good heavens
When she saw Him O, good heavens
Him she loves, a living man is!

Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;—

Whilst before his foes retreating
He arrived by chance one morning
At the mountain in his flight.

Woes of heroes touch all women,

And within our hero’s features
Were depicted want of money,
Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.

All his military chest,

Two-and-twenty silver groschen,
Which he had when Spain he enter’d,
Was the prey of Espartero.

E’en his watch was not preserved him,

But remain’d at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,
Costly and of genuine silver.

And with long legs swiftly ran he,

But unconsciously whilst running
Won he something that’s far better
Than the best of fights,—a heart!

Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!

O thou most unhappy bearess!
If thy father knew the secret,
He would growl in frightful fashion.

As the aged Odoardo[36]

Stabb’d Emilia Galotti
In his pride of citizenship,
So would also Atta Troll

Sooner have destroy’d his daughter,

Yes, with his own paws destroy’d her
Than permitted her to tumble
In the arms of any monarch

Yet he at this very moment

Is of tender disposition,
With no wish to crush a rosebud
Ere the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]

Tenderly lies Atta Troll

In the cavern, by his young ones.
O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,
Mournful yearnings for the future.

“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes

“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,
“All my earthly pilgrimage
“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.

“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping

“Came a vision full of meaning,
“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful
“Foretaste of an early death.

“Now, I’m far from superstitious,

“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there
“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven
“Unaccountable to thinkers.

“Over world and fate whilst poring,

“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,
“And I dreamt that I was lying
“Underneath a mighty tree.

“From the branches of this tree there

“Trickled down some whitish honey,
“Gliding in my open muzzle
 Gliding in my open muzzle,
“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.

“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,

“Saw I on the very tree-top
“Seven tiny little bears
“Sliding up and down the branches.

“Tender, pretty little creatures,

“With a skin of rose-red colour,
“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders
“Hung a something, like two pinions.

“Yes, those rose-red little bears

“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,
“And with sweet celestial voices,
“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!

“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,

“And from out my skin there mounted,
“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—

Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering

Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy—
But his ears with sudden impulse

Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they,

Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
“Do ye hear that sound, my children?

“Is it not the darling accents

“Of your mother? O, well know I,
“ ’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”

Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,

Hasten’d, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!

CAPUT XXI
In the vale of Ronceval
On the very spot where whilome
Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew
To the foe his life surrender’d,

There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,

And he fell by cunning, like him
Whom the base equestrian Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.

Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,

Namely his uxorious feelings,
Was a snare which old Uraca
Cunningly avail’d herself of.

She the growl of swarthy Mumma

Copied with such great perfection,
That poor Atta Troll was tempted
Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.

On the wings of yearning ran he

Through the vale,—oft stood he, gently
Snuffing at a rock in silence,
Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.

Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro

With his musket, and he shot him
Through the middle of his heart, whence
Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.

Once or twice his head he waggled,

But at last with heavy groaning
Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,
And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”

Thus the noble hero fell;

Thus he died. And yet immortal
Will he in the poet’s numbers
Will he in the poet s numbers
After death arise in glory.

Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,

And his glory, grown colossal,
On four-footed solemn trochees
O’er the face of earth stride proudly.

And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch

Will erect in the Walhalla,
Writing on it this inscription,
In true lapidary style:

“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;

“Devotee; a loving husband;
“Full of sans-culottic notions,
“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.

“Wretched dancer; strong opinions

“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;
“Often stinking very badly;
“Talentless; a character!”

CAPUT XXV.
Three-and-thirty aged women,
Wearing on their heads the scarlet
Old Biscayan caps we read of,
Stood around the village entrance.

One, like Deborah, amongst them

Beat the tambourine, and danced too,
And she sang a song of triumph
O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.

Four strong men upon their shoulders

Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;
Upright sat he on the seat,
Like a sickly bathing patient.

And behind, as if related

To the dead bear, went Lascaro
With Uraca; right and left she
Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.

And the Mayor’s Assistant gave them

Quite a speech before the town hall,
When the grand procession got there,
And he spoke on many subjects,—

As, for instance, on the increase

Of the navy, on the press,
On the weighty beetroot question,
On the curse of party spirit.

After fully illustrating

Louis Philippe’s special merits,
He proceeded to the bear,
And Lascaro’s great achievement.

“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,

As with his tricolour’d sash he
Wiped the sweat from off his forehead
Wiped the sweat from off his forehead,
“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!

“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d

“France and Spain from Atta Troll,
“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,
“Pyrenean Lafayette!”

When Lascaro in this manner

Heard officially his praises,
In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,
And quite blush’d with satisfaction,

And in very broken accents,

One word o’er another stumbling,
Gave he utt’rance to his thanks
For this most exceeding honour!

Every one with deep amazement

Gazed upon this sight unwonted,
And the aged women mutter’d
In alarm, beneath their breath:

“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!

“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!
“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!
“He, the dead son of the witch!”—

Atta Troll that very day was

Flay’d, and then they sold by auction
His poor skin. A furrier bought it
For one hundred francs, hard money.

He most beautifully trimm’d it

With a lovely scarlet border,
And then sold it for just double
What it cost him in the first place.

Juliet then became its owner

A hi d h d d i h b d
At third hand, and in her bedroom
Lies it now in Paris, serving
As a rug beside her bed.

O, with naked feet how often

Have I stood at night upon this
Earthly brown coat of my hero,
On the skin of Atta Troll!

And o’ercome by sad reflections,

Schiller’s words I then remember’d:
“What in song shall be immortal
“Must in actual life first die!”[38]

CAPUT XXVI.
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor Mumma
Is a woman! Frailty
Is her name! Alas! all women
Are as frail as any porcelain.

When by fate’s hand she was parted

From her glorious noble husband,
She by no means died of sorrow,
Nor succumb’d to her affliction.

On the contrary, she gaily

Went on living, went on dancing
As before, with ardour wooing
For the public’s daily plaudits.

Finally she found a solid

Situation, and provision
For the whole of life, at Paris
In the famed Jardin des Plantes.

When I chanced the other Sunday

With my Juliet to go thither
And expounded Nature to her,
Of the plants and beasts conversing,

Showing the giraffes and cedars

Of Mount Lebanon, the mighty
Dromedary, the gold pheasants,
And the zebra,—as we chatted

It so happen’d that at length we

Stood before the pit’s close railing
Where the bears are all collected,—
Gracious heavens, what saw we there!

An enormous desert-bear
From Siberia, white and hairy,
With a lady-bear was playing
With a lady-bear was playing
A too-tender game of love there.

And the latter was our Mumma!

Was the wife of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the tender
Humid glances of her eye.

Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!

She it was,—yes, Madame Mumma
With a Russian is now living,
With a Northern wild barbarian!

With a simp’ring face a negro

Who approach’d us, thus address’d me:
“Is there any sight more pleasing
“Than to see two lovers happy?”

I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,

“I’ve the honour of addressing?”
But the other cried with wonder:
“Don’t you really recollect me?

“Why, the Moorish prince am I

“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;
“Things in Germany went badly,
“I was far too isolated.

“Here, however, where as keeper

I am station’d, where I’m living
’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigers
Of my home within the tropics,

“Here I find it much more pleasant

Than your German fairs attending,
Where I day by day was drumming
And was fed so very badly.

“I quite recently was married

T f i kf Al i
 To a fair cook from Alsatia;
When within her arms reposing
Feel I then at home completely.

“Her dear feet remind me closely

Of our darling elephants;
When she speaks in French, her language
My black mother-tongue resembles.

“Oft she scolds me, and I think then

Of the rattling of that drum
Which had skulls around it hanging;
Snake and lion fled before it.

“Yet with feeling in the moonlight

Weeps she, like a crocodile
Peeping from the tepid river
To enjoy a little coolness.

“And she gives me charming tit-bits,

And I thrive upon them, eating
Once again, as on the Niger,
With old African enjoyment.

“I am getting fat; my belly’s

Grown quite round, and from my shirt it
Is projecting, like a black moon
From the snow-white clouds advancing.”

CAPUT XXVII.
(To Augustus Varnhagen Von Ense.)
“Where in heaven, Master Louis,
Did you pick up all this crazy
Nonsense?”—these the very words were
hich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.

When he read the well-known poem

Of Orlando’s frantic doings,
Which politely Ariosto
To his Eminence inscribed.

Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,

Yes, I round thy lips see plainly
Hov’ring those exact expressions,
By the same sly smile attended.

Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,

Yet at intervals thy forehead
Solemnly is wrinkled over,
And these thoughts then steal across thee:

“Sounds it not like those young visions

That I dreamt once with Chamisso,
And Brentano and Fouqué,
In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]

“Is it not the dear notes rising

From the long-lost forest chapel?
Sound the well-known cap and bells not
Roguishly at intervals?

“In the nightingale’s sweet chorus

Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass,
Dull and growling, interchanging
In its turn with spirit-whispers!

“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!

Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!
Dying sighs which suddenly
Dying sighs, which suddenly
Into laughter are converted!”—

Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tis

From the long departed dream-time;
Save that modern quavers often
’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.

Signs of trembling thou’lt discover

Here and there, despite the boasting;
I commend this little poem
To thy well-proved gentleness!

Ah! perchance it is the last free

Forest-song of the Romantic;
In the daytime’s wild confusion
Will it sadly die away.

Other times and other birds too!

Other birds and other music!
What a crackling, like the geese’s
Who preserved the Capitol!

What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.

While their claws hold farthing rushlights;
Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle
With the mighty thunderbolt!

What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;

Sick of love, they now are hating,
And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,
Draw the chariot of Bellona!

What a humming, world-convulsing!

’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers
Of the springtime of the people,
Smitten with a sudden frenzy!

Other times and other birds too!

Other birds and other music!
They perchance could give me pleasure
Had I only other ears!
 GERMANY.[40]

A WINTER TALE.

CAPUT I.
In the mournful month of November ’twas,
The winter days had returnèd,
The wind from the trees the foliage tore,
When I tow’rds Germany journied.

And when at length to the frontier I came

I felt a mightier throbbing
Within my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,
And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.

And when I the German language heard,

Strange feelings each other succeeding,
I felt precisely as though my heart
Right pleasantly were bleeding.

A little maiden sang to the harp;

Real feeling her song was conveying,
Though false was her voice, and yet I felt
Deep moved at hearing her playing.

She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes,

Of sacrifices, and meeting
Again on high, in yon better world
Where vanish our sorrows so fleeting.

She sang of this earthly valley of tears,

Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,
Of yonder, where revels the glorified soul
In eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.

The song of renunciation she sang,

The heavenly eiapopeia,
Wherewith the people, the booby throng,
Are hush’d when they soothing require.

I know the tune, and I know the text,

I know the people who wrote it;
I know that in secret they drink but wine
I know that in secret they drink but wine,
And in public a wickedness vote it.

A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too,

Shall be now for your benefit given!
Our object is, that here on earth
We may mount to the realms of heaven.

On earth we fain would happy be,

Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;
The idle stomach shall gorge itself
With the fruit of hard labour no longer.

Bread grows on the earth for every one,

Enough, and e’en in redundance,
And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,
And sugarplums too in abundance.

Yes, sugarplums for every one,

As soon as the plums are provided;
To angels and sparrows we’re quite content
That heaven should be confided.

If after death our pinions should grow,

We’ll pay you a visit auspicious
In regions above, and with you we’ll eat
Sweet tarts and cakes delicious.

A song that’s new, and a better one, too,

Resounds like fiddle and flute now;
The Miserere’s at last at an end,
The funeral bells are mute now.

The maiden Europe has been betroth’d

To the handsome Genius Freedom;
They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,
As their newborn passions lead ’em.

The priestly blessing may absent be,

B h ddi i ill ddi
 But the wedding is still a wedding;
So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,
And the future fruit of their bedding!

An epithalamium is my song,
My latest and best creation;
Within my soul are shooting the stars
That proclaim its inauguration.

Those stars inspired blaze wildly on

In torrents of flame, and with wonder
I feel myself full of unearthly strength,
I could rend e’en oaks asunder!

Since I on Germany’s ground have trod,

I’m pervaded by magical juices;
The giant has touch’d his mother once more,
And the contact new vigour produces.

CAPUT II.