Classic Poem

So red were the cheeks of the goddess, I thought
The wine to her crown had mounted.
“I am growing old,” she said with a sigh,
“Oh, many's the year I've counted.

“I was born on the day they began to build
This town; I am the daughter
Of the queen of the haddocks who then held sway
At the mouth of the Elbe's fair water.

“My father, too, was a monarch proud
Called Carolus Magnus, a Kaiser
As renowned as the Prussian Frederick the Great,
Nay, mightier even and wiser.

“The chair that they crowned him in, stands in state
At Aix-la-Chapelle; the other
That was less ceremonially used of a night,
Was left to my widowed mother.

“She bequeathed it to me. To look at it none
From a common old chair could tell it;
But were Rothschild to offer me all his gold,
I should flatly refuse to sell it.

“You can see the old thing in the corner there,
The leather all torn and battered;
The stuffing, too, I am sorry to say,
Is sadly moth-eaten and tattered.

“But if you will cross to it now, and lift
The cushion from off the settle,
You will find a circular hole beneath,
And below that again, a kettle.

“'Tis the kettle enchanted, in which are brewed
The powers of magic; put your
Head into the circular hole and you'll see
The face of the hidden future.

“Yes, Germany's future before your gaze
Will roll in waves phantasmal;
But shudder not, should the brew emit
Effluvia miasmal.”

As she spoke she laughed a peculiar laugh,
But, caution completely scorning,
I stuck my head in the horrible hole,
Too eager to heed her warning.

The vision vouchsafed I must never disclose:
'Twere by honour's code unlawful:
I'm afraid I must really hold my tongue,
But, my God! the stench was awful!—

It turns me sick to this very day,
And wofully under the weather,
To recall that mixture of rotten greens
And fetid Russia leather.

And the smells that continued to rise, ye heavens!
They were such as might come from the rifling
Of thirty-six cesspools, and blending the filth
In one malodour stifling. …

The commission of public safety was told
By Saint-Just, he is wrong who supposes
That deadly diseases can ever be cured
By musk and oil of roses.

But that smell of the future awaiting our land—
I don't care who may blame me—
My nose had not dreamed that such filth could be—
And at last it overcame me.

I fainted away, and when I awoke
I was still by the goddess, and found me
With my head reclined on her ample breast;
And her ample arms around me.

Her eyes were blazing, her mouth was aglow,
Her nostrils quivered, and clinging
To the bard, like a wild bacchante she burst
Into frenzied ecstatic singing:

“There's a king in Thule who treasures a cup
As the dearest thing in his keeping,
And every time he drinks from that cup
The king commences weeping.

“And then he remembers all the wrongs
He has not yet requited.
Why, you yourself to prison, my child,
Might be forcibly invited.

“Beware of that king in Thule, avoid
The North and its lurking dangers;
Police, gendarmes, whole historic school—
You and they are better strangers.

“I love you, so tarry in Hamburg town;
I love you. Oh, stay and revel
On the oysters and wine of the hour that is;
Let the future go to the devil!

“Quick, on with the lid! The smell is beneath,
But we'll try to forget we know it.
I love you. Ah, never woman yet
So loved a German poet!

“I kiss you, and feel the burning breath
Of your genius thrill and inspire me.
Its surging flames envelop my soul;
They conquer and inspire me.

“I seem to hear, in the street without,
The sound of watchmen singing.
Sweet heart's beloved, a wedding song
Their bridal music's ringing.

“The mounted attendants come riding up
In a torch-light dance decorous,
With their gallant torches flickering bright;
They foot it and sway before us.

“The high and worshipful Senate next,
And the elders, join the ovation.
The burgomaster is clearing his throat
To deliver a civic oration.

“And now 'tis the diplomatic corps
In uniform gay and sprightly,
With congratulations from neighbouring states,
Couched formally and politely.

“A religious deputation comes
Of Rabbis and pastors pious;
Then our Hoffmann, alas! with his censor's shears—
Already he's all too nigh us!

“The shears in his hand are clattering loud;
The terrible fellow's attacking
Your body itself. At a vital part
His murderous shears are hacking.”