Caput 3
Carolus Magnus at Aix-la-Chapelle
Lies entombed in the minster hoary.
You must not confound him with Charles Mayer,
Of poetic and Swabian glory.
Oh, sooner than lie in the minster at Aix,
A Kaiser dead for ever,
The poorest of poets at Stukkert I'd live,
Beside the Neckar river.
At Aix the very dogs are sick
Of the general air of inaction.
“Come, tramp on us, stranger,” they seem to say,
“'Twould serve as a slight distraction.”
I strolled for an hour in this wearisome hole,
And managed to bore myself greatly;
Had a look at the Prussian soldiers again:
They have altered but little lately.
They are wearing still the old grey cloak;
The high red collar I noted.
(The red betokens the blood of France—
Körner's the poet quoted.)
They're the same old wooden pedantic folk,
With none of your airy graces;
Rectangular, rigid at every turn,
With frozen, gloomy faces.
Decked out, and stiff on the same old stilts,
And bolt upright, you meet them;
Exactly as if they had swallowed the cane
That once was used to beat them.
The ferule has never quite passed away;
They carry it now inside them;
The “thou” of the present recalls the “he,”
When their masters used to chide them.
Their moustache is also but one of the modes
Which time, while it keeps, transposes:
The pigtail which formerly hung at their back
Now hangs in front from their noses.
The cavalry uniform credit reflects
On the man of taste who designed it;
The helmet struck me as specially good,
With the steel peak rising behind it.
It recalls, with its air of chivalry,
Mediæval lays romantic,
Mistress Joanna of Montfaucon,
Baron Fouqué, Uhland, Tieck.
It recalls the mediæval squires
Whom poetry harps so much on;
Who carried undying faith in their hearts,
And on their backs a scutcheon.
It reminds one of tourneys and crusades,
Of love and service lowly;
Of an age when newspapers were not yet—
An age unprinted, holy.
Yes, yes, the helmet is all I could ask—
'Tis a fancy exceedingly pretty;
A kingly conception in every way—
Full of point with its peak—quite witty!
I am only afraid when the thunder rolls,
And the sky is ablaze with levin,
Your romantic heads will be apt to attract
The up-to-date lightning of heaven.
And in war time, too, you must buy for your wear
Something lighter; those helmets might hamper
Your heads with their mediæval weight,
When you take to your heels and scamper.
At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the post-house sign,
I saw once more, indignant,
The bird I detest; from its poisonous eye
It threw me a glance malignant.
O horrible bird! If into my hands
You fell for any reason,
I would pluck out your feathers and hack off your claws,
And a fig for the bogey treason!
I would stick you up on an airy perch
Where the winds were blowing cold, then,
And summon sharpshooters in haste from the Rhine
To the shooting-match I'd hold, then.
Oh, a sceptre and crown I would give the man
Who that bird to earth should bring, then.
A fanfare of trumpets we'd lustily blow,
And shout “Long live the king!” then.
Lies entombed in the minster hoary.
You must not confound him with Charles Mayer,
Of poetic and Swabian glory.
Oh, sooner than lie in the minster at Aix,
A Kaiser dead for ever,
The poorest of poets at Stukkert I'd live,
Beside the Neckar river.
At Aix the very dogs are sick
Of the general air of inaction.
“Come, tramp on us, stranger,” they seem to say,
“'Twould serve as a slight distraction.”
I strolled for an hour in this wearisome hole,
And managed to bore myself greatly;
Had a look at the Prussian soldiers again:
They have altered but little lately.
They are wearing still the old grey cloak;
The high red collar I noted.
(The red betokens the blood of France—
Körner's the poet quoted.)
They're the same old wooden pedantic folk,
With none of your airy graces;
Rectangular, rigid at every turn,
With frozen, gloomy faces.
Decked out, and stiff on the same old stilts,
And bolt upright, you meet them;
Exactly as if they had swallowed the cane
That once was used to beat them.
The ferule has never quite passed away;
They carry it now inside them;
The “thou” of the present recalls the “he,”
When their masters used to chide them.
Their moustache is also but one of the modes
Which time, while it keeps, transposes:
The pigtail which formerly hung at their back
Now hangs in front from their noses.
The cavalry uniform credit reflects
On the man of taste who designed it;
The helmet struck me as specially good,
With the steel peak rising behind it.
It recalls, with its air of chivalry,
Mediæval lays romantic,
Mistress Joanna of Montfaucon,
Baron Fouqué, Uhland, Tieck.
It recalls the mediæval squires
Whom poetry harps so much on;
Who carried undying faith in their hearts,
And on their backs a scutcheon.
It reminds one of tourneys and crusades,
Of love and service lowly;
Of an age when newspapers were not yet—
An age unprinted, holy.
Yes, yes, the helmet is all I could ask—
'Tis a fancy exceedingly pretty;
A kingly conception in every way—
Full of point with its peak—quite witty!
I am only afraid when the thunder rolls,
And the sky is ablaze with levin,
Your romantic heads will be apt to attract
The up-to-date lightning of heaven.
And in war time, too, you must buy for your wear
Something lighter; those helmets might hamper
Your heads with their mediæval weight,
When you take to your heels and scamper.
At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the post-house sign,
I saw once more, indignant,
The bird I detest; from its poisonous eye
It threw me a glance malignant.
O horrible bird! If into my hands
You fell for any reason,
I would pluck out your feathers and hack off your claws,
And a fig for the bogey treason!
I would stick you up on an airy perch
Where the winds were blowing cold, then,
And summon sharpshooters in haste from the Rhine
To the shooting-match I'd hold, then.
Oh, a sceptre and crown I would give the man
Who that bird to earth should bring, then.
A fanfare of trumpets we'd lustily blow,
And shout “Long live the king!” then.
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