He will not entrust to any Mercenary fist the duty Of correcting them, but do it With his own right hand henceforward.-- Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego, For the castle Seneschal Now approach’d us, and politely Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?-- THE EX-LIVING ONE. Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be, The watchman, the crier nightly, Who once on the banks of the Seine with thee Used to ramble in converse sprightly? Ye often were wont to gaze up on high, Where the darksome clouds were scudding; A far darker cloud were the thoughts, by-the-by, That in your bosoms were budding. Say, Brutus, where can thy Cassius be? No longer he thinks of destroying; By the Neckar he dwells, where his talents is he As a reader to tyrants employing. But Brutus replied: “A fool, friend, art thou, “Shortsighted as every poet; “To a tyrant my Cassius now reads, I allow, “But his object’s to kill him,--I know it. “So Matzerath’s[78] poems he reads him each day “A dagger is each line in it; “And so the poor tyrant, I’m sorry to say, “May die of ennui any minute.” THE EX-WATCHMAN. From the Neckar he departed, With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d, And as play-director started In fair Munich’s city next. All that country’s very pretty, And they in perfection here, In this fancy-stirring city, Brew the very best of beer. But ’tis said the poor Director Rambles, like a Dante, glum, Melancholy as a spectre, Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb. Comedies no longer heeds he, Nor the very worst of rhyme; Wretched tragedies oft reads he, Not once smiling all the time. Oft herself some fair one flatters She will cheer his sorrowing heart; But his coat of mail soon shatters Every love-directed dart. All in vain his friends endeavour To enliven him and sing: “In thy life rejoice thee ever, “While thy lamp’s still glimmering!” Is there nought can raise thy spirits In this fair and charming town, Which, among its many merits, Boasts such men of great renown? It is true, that it has lately Lost full many a man of worth Whom we miss and valued greatly, Chorus-leaders and so forth. Would that Massmann left us never! He would surely have some day By his antics strange but clever Driven all thy cares away. Schelling’s[79] loss is very serious, And can never be replaced, A philosopher mysterious, And a mimic highly graced. That the founder of Walhalla Went away, and left behind All his manuscripts,--by Allah! That was really too unkind! With Cornelius[80] also perish’d All his pupils whatsoe’er; They shaved off their tresses cherish’d, And their strength was in their hair