“To this day the bust of my Klopstock stands “On that chest of drawers, but though on it, “For many a year it has only served “As a block for holding my bonnet. “Thou’rt my favourite now, and thy likeness hangs “At the head of my bed in due order; “And see, a fresh laurel now surrounds “The cherish’d portrait’s border. “Yet thy attacks on my sons, I confess, “Repeated by thee so often, “Have sometimes caused me the greatest pain; “Thy language thou must soften. “I trust that time has cured thee now “Of rudeness so cold-hearted, “And somewhat greater tolerance “For even the fools imparted. “But say how thou camest to travel north “At such an unclement season? “The weather already is winterly quite,-- “I fain would know the reason.” “O worthy goddess!” I said in reply, “In the bosom’s inmost recesses “Are slumbering thoughts which often awake “At a time which rather distresses. “Externally things went on pretty well, “But within I was weigh’d down with anguish, “Which every day grew worse and worse,-- “For home I ceased not to languish. “The air of France, so usually light, “Began to be oppressive; “I long’d to breathe some German air, “To relieve this burden excessive. “I yearn’d for German tobacco-smoke, “And the smell of German peat too; “My foot impatiently quiver’d, the ground “Of Germany to beat too. “I sigh’d all night, and I long’d and long’d “Yet once again to view her, “The old woman who close to the Dammthor lives, “And Lotte, who lives close to her. “The thought of that old and worthy man “Who always freely reproved me, “And then his protection over me threw, “To many a sigh now moved me. “I fain would hear again from his mouth “The words ‘young stupid!’ repeated, “Which always in my younger days “My heart like music greeted. “I yearn’d for the blue smoke that high in the air “From German chimneys reaches, “For the Lower-Saxony nightingales, “For the silent groves of beeches. “I yearn’d for all the sorrowful spots, “The places where once I resorted, “Where once I trail’d my youthful cross, “And my crown of thorns supported. “I fain would weep where I formerly wept “Those tears so bitter and burning; “The love of fatherland methinks “They call this foolish yearning. “I love not to talk of it; ’tis nought else “But a whim of the’ imagination; “Shamefaced by nature, I hide my wounds “From public observation. “O how I detest the trumpery set “Who, to stir men’s passion heated, “Of patriotism make a show “With all its ulcers fetid.