Oh, my brave Anabasis-heart! How often, ah! how sadly often Wast thou pressed hard by the North's fair Barbarians! From large and conquering eyes They shot forth burning arrows; With crooked words as sharp as a rapier They threatened to pierce my bosom; With cuneiform angular missives they battered My poor stunned brains; In vain I held out my shield for protection, The arrows hissed and the blows rained down, And hard pressed I was pushed to the sea By the North's fair Barbarians-- And, breathing freely, I greet the sea, The sea my deliverer, the sea my friend-- Thalatta! Thalatta! [Illustration: PLAY OF THE WAVES _From the Painting by Arnold Böcklin_] * * * * * IN THE HARBOR[38] (1825-26) Happy is he who hath reached the safe harbor, Leaving behind him the stormy wild ocean, And now sits cosy and warm In the good old Town-Cellar of Bremen. How sweet and homelike the world is reflected, In the chalice green of Rhinewine Rummer. And how the dancing microcosm Sunnily glides down the thirsty throat! Everything I behold in the glass-- History, old and new, of the nations, Both Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans, Forests of citron and big reviews, Berlin and Shilda, and Tunis and Hamburg; But, above all, thy image, Beloved, And thy dear little head on a gold-ground of Rhenish! Oh, how fair, how fair art thou, Dearest! Thou art as fair as the rose! Not like the Rose of Shiras, That bride of the nightingale, sung by Hafis, Not like the Rose of Sharon, That mystic red rose, exalted by prophets-- Thou art like the "Rose, of the Bremen Town-Cellar," Which is the Rose of Roses; The older it grows the sweeter it blossoms, And its breath divine it hath all entranced me, It hath inspired and kindled my soul; And had not the Town-Cellar Master gripped me With firm grip and steady, I should have stumbled! That excellent man! We sat together And drank like brothers; We spoke of wonderful mystic things, We sighed and sank in each other's arms, And me to the faith of love he converted; I drank to the health of my bitterest foes, And I forgave all bad poets sincerely, Even as I may one day be forgiven; I wept with devotion, and at length The doors of salvation were opened unto me, Where the sacred Vats, the twelve Apostles, Silently preach, yet oh, so plainly, Unto all nations. These be men forsooth! Of humble exterior, in jackets of wood, Yet within they are fairer and more enlightened Than all the Temple's proud Levites, Or the courtiers and followers of Herod, Though decked out in gold and in purple; Have I not constantly said: Not with the herd of common low people, But in the best and politest of circles The King of Heaven was sure to dwell!