Good German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear, Collect subscribers with the utmost speed, The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed To build a monument to Goethe here. “At fair time” (think they) “this will make it clear “To foreign traders that we’re of his breed, “That ’twas our soil that nurtured such fair seed, “And then in trade they’ll trust us without fear.” O touch the bard’s bright wreath of laurel never, And keep your money in your pockets too; ’Tis Goethe’s, his own monument to raise. He dwelt amongst you in his infant days, But half a world now severs him from you, Whom a stream doth from Sachsenhausen[4] sever! 10. DRESDEN POETRY. At Dresden on the Elbe, that handsome city, Where straw hats, verses, and cigars are made, They’ve built (it well may make us feel afraid) A music-club and music warehouse pretty. There meet the gentlemen and ladies witty, Herr Kuhn,[5] Miss Nostitz[5a]--adepts at the trade,-- Spout verses, calling action to their aid. How grand! Avaunt, ye critics!--more’s the pity! Next day the paper tells us all the facts, Bright’s[6] brightness flies, Child’s[6a] childishness is childlike, The critic’s supplement is mean yet wildlike. Arnoldi[5b] takes the cash, as salesman acts; Then Böttiger[5c] appears, with noise infernal-- ’Tis a true oracle, that Evening Journal! 11. BREADLESS ART. How soon my poverty would ended be, Could I the pencil use, and paint away, The walls of castles proud and churches gay Adorning with my pictures merrily! How soon would wealth replace my penury, Could I the fiddle, flute, and piano play. And with such elegance perform each day, That lords and ladies all applauded me! But ah! in Mammon’s smiles I ne’er had part, For I have follow’d thee alone, alas! Thee, Poetry, most thankless, breadless art! When others (how I’m blushing, now I’ve said it!) Drink their champagne from out a brimming glass, I needs must go without, or drink on credit! BOOK OF SONGS. _PREFACE._ This is the olden fairy wood! The linden blossoms smell sweetly, The strange mysterious light of the moon Enchants my senses completely. I onward went, and as I went, A voice above me was ringing;-- ’Tis surely the nightingale’s notes that I hear Of love and love’s sorrows she’s singing. She sings of love and love’s sorrows as well, She sings of smiling and aching, She sadly exults, she joyfully sobs, Forgotten visions awaking. I onward went, and as I went, I saw before me lying, On open ground, a castle vast, With gables in loftiness vying. The windows were closed, and all things appear’d To stillness and sadness converted; It seem’d as though silent death had his home Within those walls deserted.