When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round, And saw where was glimmering brightly My silent attendant’s terrible axe, And he read my meaning rightly. So he quickly approach’d, and with the axe Remorselessly he shatter’d Those skeletons poor of bigotry, And into atoms scatter’d. The echoing blows from the vaulted roof Rang wildly, in countless numbers; While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast, And I awoke from my slumbers. CAPUT VIII. From Cologne to Hagen it costs to post Five Prussian dollars, six groschen; The diligence chanced to be full, so I came In a chaise, though rough was the motion. ’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and grey The coach in the mud groan’d sadly; Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road, Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly. ’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheek Could bear no other construction; The very dirt in the highway itself Is my fatherland’s production! The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends, As they went along in a canter; Their very dung appear’d to me fair As the apples of Atalanta! We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dull And busy, the town far from dirty; I last was there in the merry month Of May, in the year one and thirty. All things then stood in blooming attire, And the sunlight sweetly was blinking; The birds were singing their yearning song, While the men were hoping and thinking. Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights “Will depart from amongst us shortly; “Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks “Of iron, in fashion not courtly! “And freedom shall come with sport and with dance, “With the banner, the white-blue-red one; “Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave “E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!” Alas! the knights remain as before; More than one of those fools so derided Who enter’d the country as thin as a lath Are now with fat bellies provided. The pallid canaille, who used to look The pictures of faith, hope, charity, Have got red noses by tippling our wine With the utmost regularity. And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lost For springing and raving all power; In Paris itself the tricolour flag Looks mournfully down from each tower. The Emperor truly arose again, Yet the English, fearing a riot, Converted him into a peaceable man, And he let them inter him in quiet. Yes, I myself his funeral saw, The golden carriage so splendid, And victory’s golden goddesses, Who the golden coffin attended. Along the famous Champs Elysées, Through the Arc de Triomphe stately, Across the mist and over the snow The procession wended sedately.