For their prudent Master planted In their hair some magic springs, And it seem’d, as if enchanted, To be full of living things. Apropos! The arch-notorious Priest, as Dollingerius known,-- That’s, I think, his name inglorious,-- Has he from the Isar flown? In Good Friday’s sad procession I beheld him in his place; ’Mongst the men of his profession He had far the gloomiest face. On Monácho Monachorum Now-a-days the cap doth fit Of virorum obscurorum, Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81] At his name thy dull eye flashes; Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be! There the cowls are, here the lash is,-- Strike away as formerly! Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly, As at sight of every cowl Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly, And they fearfully did howl. Old Erasmus could not master His loud laughter at the joke; And this fortunate disaster His tormenting ulcer broke. Old and young laugh,--all the city In the general shout concur, And they sing the well-known ditty: “Gaudeamur igitur!” When those dirty monks we’re catching, We are overwhelm’d with fleas; Hutten thus was always scratching, And was never at his ease. “Alea jacta est!” however Was the brave knight’s battle shout, Smiting down, with deathstroke clever, Both the priests and rabble rout. Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser! Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow? Wake to action on the Isar, And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow. Call thy long legs transcendental Into full and active play; Vulgar be the monks or gentle, If they’re monks, then strike away! He however sigh’d, and wringing Both his hands he thus replied: My long legs, so apt at springing, Are with Europe stupified. And my corns are twitching sadly, Tight the German shoes I’ve on; Where the shoe is pinching badly Know I now,--so pray begone! MYTHOLOGY. Yes! Europa must knock under,-- Who could stand against a bull? Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder Golden rain made her a fool! Sem’le was a victim real, For she innocently thought That a heavenly cloud ideal Could not injure her in aught. But poor Leda’s tale notorious Really stirs up all our spleen; Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious, What a goose must she have been! IN MATILDA’S ALBUM. On these mill’d rags--a change mysterious!-- I with a goose-quill must rehearse Partly in jest, and partly serious, Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse. I, who am wont my thoughts to utter Upon thy rosy lips so fair With kisses that like bright flames splutter Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!