Point lace is there, that’s finer far Than Brussels or Mechlin laces; If once I unpack my point, ’twill prick And cruelly scratch your faces. In my head I carry my jewelry all, The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid, The new god’s temple-ornaments rich, The god as yet not comprehended. And many books also you’d see in my head, If the top were only off it! My head is a twittering bird’s nest, full Of books that they gladly would forfeit. Believe me that matters are no worse off In the library e’en of the devil; E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41] ne’er wrote Any works that were half so evil. A passenger who stood by my side Remark’d that we now had before us The famous Prussian Zollverein, The customhouses’ vast chorus. “The Zollverein”--thus he observed,-- “Will found our nationality, “And join our scatter’d fatherland “In bonds of cordiality. “’Twill give us external unity,-- “That kind that’s material and real: “The censorship gives us the other kind, “That’s ghostly and ideal. “It gives us internal unity, “In thought as well as in feelings; “A united Germany need we to rule “Our outward and inward dealings.” CAPUT III. In the old cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle Lie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes; (Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born, Who the writer of so much trash is!) As the smallest of poets I’d sooner live At Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river, Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle, And so be extinguish’d for ever. In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogs Are ennui’d, and humbly implore us: “O stranger, prythee give us a kick, And to life for a time thus restore us.” I saunter’d along in this tedious place For an hour, with great perseverance, And saw that the Prussian soldiery Are not the least changed in appearance. The high red collar still they wear, With the same grey mantle below it-- (The Red betokens the blood of the French, Sang Körner the youthful poet). They are still the wooden pedantic race, In every motion displaying The same right angle, and every face A frigid conceit still betraying. They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts, Stuck up as straight as a needle, Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stick Once used as the best means to wheedle. Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod, They carry it now inside them; Familiar _Du_ will recall the old _Er_ Wherein they were wont to pride them. The long mustachio nothing more Than the pigtail of old discloses The tail that formerly hung behind Is hanging right under their noses.