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, “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 “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.