I chide with thee not, that thy sharp Upbraidings often assailed England, my country; for we, Heavy and sad, for her sons, Long since, deep in our hearts, Echo the blame of her foes. We too sigh that she flags; We too say that she now-- Scarce comprehending the voice Of her greatest, golden-mouthed sons Of a former age any more-- Stupidly travels her round Of mechanic business, and lets Slow die out of her life Glory, and genius, and joy. So thou arraign’st her, her foe; So we arraign her, her sons. Yes, we arraign her! but she, The weary Titan, with deaf Ears, and labor-dimmed eyes, Regarding neither to right Nor left, goes passively by, Staggering on to her goal; Bearing on shoulders immense, Atlanteän, the load, Well-nigh not to be borne, Of the too vast orb of her fate. But was it thou--I think Surely it was!--that bard Unnamed, who, Goethe said, _Had every other gift, but wanted love_-- Love, without which the tongue Even of angels sounds amiss? Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine. Love is the fountain of charm. How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet! the world to thy way? Not by the lightnings of wit, Not by the thunder of scorn. These to the world too are given; Wit it possesses, and scorn: Charm is the poet’s alone. _Hollow and dull are the great,_ _And artists envious, and the mob profane._ We know all this, we know! Cam’st thou from heaven, O child Of light! but this to declare? Alas! to help us forget Such barren knowledge a while, God gave the poet his song. Therefore a secret unrest Tortured thee, brilliant and bold; Therefore triumph itself Tasted amiss to thy soul. Therefore, with blood of thy foes, Trickled in silence thine own. Therefore the victor’s heart Broke on the field of his fame. Ah! as of old, from the pomp Of Italian Milan, the fair Flower of marble of white Southern palaces,--steps Bordered by statues, and walks Terraced, and orange bowers Heavy with fragrance,--the blond German Kaiser full oft Longed himself back to the fields, Rivers, and high-roofed towns Of his native Germany; so, So, how often! from hot Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps Blazing, and brilliant crowds, Starred and jewelled, of men Famous, of women the queens Of dazzling converse; from fumes Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain That mount, that madden,--how oft Heine’s spirit outworn Longed itself out of the din, Back to the tranquil, the cool Far German home of his youth!