But I must not forget another poet, the greatest German poet I have ever known, and of whom I saw a great deal at Berlin before I migrated to Paris, I mean Rückert. It is strange how little his poems are known in England and France. He has never had an apostle, nor would a mere herald do him much service. He was a poet somewhat like Wordsworth, who must be laid siege to, not till he surrenders, but till we surrender to him. If he is known at all in England, it is through his lyric poems, which have been set to music, as they deserved to be, by Schumann. Who has not heard “Du, meine Seele, du, mein Herz,” one of the grandest songs of our age? But, alas! either the words are murdered in a translation which would break the heart both of the poet and the composer, or the German words are often pronounced so badly that no one can tell whether they are English or German or Sanskrit. Rückert was one of the richest poets. There is hardly a branch of poetry which he has not cultivated. I say cultivated on purpose, for his poetry was always a work of art, sometimes almost of artifice. He was not equally successful in all his poetical compositions: particularly towards the end of his life he disappointed many of his admirers by his dramatic attempts. He is like Wordsworth in this respect also, that one cannot enjoy all he writes, yet in the end one comes to enjoy much that has been put aside at first, because it comes from him. I may be prejudiced, yet a poet whose verses Goethe repeated on his deathbed is not likely to be overrated by me. These are the verses which, we are told, Goethe murmured before he exclaimed, “More light, more light!” and passed away:— UM MITTERNACHT. Um Mitternacht Hab’ ich gewacht Und aufgeblickt zum Himmel, Kein Stern am Sterngewimmel Hat mir gelacht Um Mitternacht. Um Mitternacht Hab’ ich gedacht Hinaus in dunkle Schranken; Es hat kein Lichtgedanken Mir Trost gebracht Um Mitternacht. Um Mitternacht Nahm ich in Acht Die Schläge meines Herzens; Ein einz’ger Puls des Schmerzens War angefacht Um Mitternacht. Um Mitternacht Kämpft’ ich die Schlacht O Menschheit, deiner Leiden; Nicht konnt’ ich sie entscheiden Mit meiner Macht Um Mitternacht.