Classic Poem

How I got to the top of the narrow stair
Is beyond my power of recounting;
Invisible spirits with wafting wings
May have aided me in mounting.

There, in Hammonia's little room,
The pleasant hours flew fleetly.
That I always had had her sympathy
The goddess assured me sweetly.

“You see, “she said,” before your time
I accorded the highest glory
To the singer who tuned his saintly lyre
To the great Messiah-story.

“If you look at the chest of drawers, you will find
That Klopstock's bust's upon it;
But for many years it has only been
A block to support my bonnet.

“You're my favourite now; your portrait hangs
At the head of my bed, and round it
Is a chaplet of green laurel leaves;
You'll observe how I have crowned it.

“One thing alone to perfect love
Has proved a stone of stumbling;
You must cease annoying my other sons
With your girding and your grumbling.

“But I hope that time has cured you at last
Of that youthful misdemeanour,
And taught you to treat all men, even fools,
With a tolerance serener.

“But tell me, pray, what prompted you
To travel north at present.
At this time of year it is bitterly cold,
And the weather is far from pleasant.”

“Alas, my goddess!” I replied,
“I cannot give you reasons;
The thoughts that sleep in the depths of the heart
May wake at awkward seasons.

“On the surface I seemed to be fairly well.
But, within, my soul was troubled.
Home-sickness had seized me, and every day
The misery grew and doubled.

“The lightsome air of France became
So heavy, I dared not trifle.
I felt I must fill my lungs again
With German air, or stifle.

“I longed for the smell of German peat,
And rooms tobacco-sodden;
My quivering foot could not rest until
Its native soil was trodden.

“Awake at nights I would yearn and long
Once more to see and hear her—
The dear old woman who lives beside
The Dammthor, with Lotte near her.

“For the noble old man I also yearned
Who chid my youthful blindness,
Yet sheltered and shielded me. Many a sigh
Has since repaid his kindness!

“I wanted to hear his lips again
With their ‘foolish lad!’ reprove me;
The words used to echo through my heart,
And like sweetest music move me.

“I longed to see the blue smoke rise
From the chimneys, and hear the singing
Of the Lower-Saxony nightingales
In the quiet beech-woods ringing.

“I even longed for the spots made sad
By olden woes and losses,
Where once I wore my thorny crowns,
And dragged my youthful crosses.

“I wished to weep where I had wept
Youth's bitter tears so burning.
I think that love of Fatherland
They call this foolish yearning.

“I find it hard to talk of the thing;
'Tis an illness, there's no denying,
And I always hide with a curious shame
My wounds from public prying.

“I loathe the tatterdemalion crew—
I confess my pity freezes—
Who in public expose their patriotism,
With its ulcerous diseases.

“An impudent, scabby, beggarly lot,
They importune for charity.
For Menzel and his Swabian school,
A penn'orth of popularity!

“You have found me in a melting mood,
My goddess! 'Twill soon be over;
I am hardly myself, but I trust with care
Before long to recover.

“Yes, to-night I am certainly ailing a bit—
Am distinctly under the weather.
You could pick me up with a cup of tea—
And rum—they go well together.”