But the bier she falleth over, And her shrieks are loud and shrill-- "I _will_ have my lord, my lover! In the grave I seek him still. Shall that godlike frame be wasted By the fire's consuming blight? Mine it was--yea mine! though tasted Only one delicious night!" But the priests, they chant ever--"We carry the old, When their watching is over, their journeys are told; We carry the young, when they pass from the light! VIII. "Hear us, woman! Him we carry Was not, could not be, thy spouse. Art thou not a Bayadere? So hast thou no nuptial vows. Only to death's silent hollow With the body goes the shade; Only wives their husbands follow: Thus alone is duty paid. Strike loud the wild turmoil of drum and of gong! Receive him, ye gods, in your glorious throng-- Receive him in garments of burning array'd!" IX. Harsh their words, and unavailing, Swift she threaded through the quire, And with arms outstretch'd, unquailing Leap'd into the crackling fire. But the deed alone sufficeth-- Robed in might and majesty, From the pile the god ariseth With the ransom'd one on high. Divinity joys in a sinner repenting, And the lost ones of earth, by immortals relenting, Are borne upon pinions of fire to the sky! * * * * * Let us now take a poem of the Hartz mountains, containing no common allegory. Every man is more or less a Treasure-seeker--a hater of labour--until he has received the important truth, that labour alone can bring content and happiness. There is an affinity, strange as it may appear, between those whose lot in life is the most exalted, and the haggard hollow-eyed wretch who prowls incessantly around the crumbling ruins of the past, in the belief that there lies beneath their mysterious foundations a mighty treasure, over which some jealous demon keeps watch for evermore. But Goethe shall read the moral to us himself. THE TREASURE-SEEKER. I. Many weary days I suffer'd, Sick of heart and poor of purse; Riches are the greatest blessing-- Poverty the deepest curse! Till at last to dig a treasure Forth I went into the wood-- "Fiend! my soul is thine for ever!" And I sign'd the scroll with blood. II. Then I drew the magic circles, Kindled the mysterious fire, Placed the herbs and bones in order, Spoke the incantation dire. And I sought the buried metal With a spell of mickle might-- Sought it as my master taught me; Black and stormy was the night. III.