Caput 7
I returned to my inn, and slept as if rocked
To the music of angel-numbers.
One sleeps so soundly on German beds,
On the feathers so softly slumbers.
Of the national bolsters and pillows light
How often I've thought with yearning
When, an exile lone, upon mattresses hard
Through the long night-watches turning.
One sleeps so well on our German beds—
On none can a man dream better.
The German soul feels untrammelled and free
From every mortal fetter.
Untrammelled and free, to the heights of heaven
It wings in lofty soaring.
O German soul, how proud thy flight
When the German body is snoring!
The gods grow pale when they see thee come,
And many a star of even
By the rush and flap of thy mighty wings
Is quenched where it shone in heaven.
To France and Russia the land belongs,
The Britons own the water,
But lords of the realm of dreams are we:
We won it without slaughter.
In the sky we practise hegemony proud:
Develop till none would know us;
Less favoured nations can only evolve
On the flat, dull earth below us.
I fell asleep, and thought in a dream
That up and down I wandered
Once more through the moonlit, echoing streets
Of the holy town and pondered.
Again my attendant, muffled and black,
Strode after, to escort me.
Still on we went, till I grew so tired
That my knees could scarce support me.
And lo! the heart within my breast
Was cut, and gaped asunder.
I felt the red blood streaming down
From the open wound, with wonder.
And often, myself, I know not why,
As we passed a house, I'd linger
To smear the post with the blood of my wound,
In which I dipped my finger.
And every time I marked a house
I heard dread echoes rolling;
With melancholy note afar
Some passing bell was tolling.
The golden moon grew wan and sad,
And shone more pale in heaven;
Across her face, like sable steeds,
The tempest-clouds were driven.
And, following at my back, there came
That muffled form and eerie,
With the axe beneath his mantle hid.
I went till I was weary.
I walked till we reached the Cathedral square,
And lo! before I knew it,
I had paused where the door was standing wide,
And, having paused, passed through it.
Silence and death and darkness reigned
In the minster's vasty spaces,
While, to show the gloom, some hanging lamps
Burned low in their dusky places.
I wandered along the pillared aisles;
No sound save, ringing hollow,
The tread of my faithful friend behind!
I could hear his footsteps follow.
We came at last to a place that shone,
In the taper's glimmer, golden
And bright with gems; of the Holy Three Kings
'Twas the chapel rich and olden.
But the Holy Three Kings who used to lie
So still in their jewelled prison
Were seated on their sarcophagus,
From their ancient sleep uprisen.
Three skeletons lean in fantastic array,
Their poor yellow skulls still wearing
Their royal crowns, and a sceptre proud
Their bony fingers bearing!
They jerked and moved their long dead bones
Like puppets, stiffly, slowly;
They smelt of decay and rotten dust,
Mingled with incense holy.
And one of them even opened his mouth
And made me a speech, a long one;
He expounded to me his claims to respect:
Thought each of his points a strong one.
The first of the reasons was that he was dead;
That a king he was, the second;
The third that he was a saint; the whole
Of but little account I reckoned.
I answered him merrily, “Vainly you strive
To convince a man who so sage is
That at once he seizes the vital point—
You belong to vanished ages.
“Begone! The deep, forgotten grave
Is the proper place for you now.
Your chapel's treasures belong to life,
And the living claim their due now.
“This sacred roof, in the days to come,
Is decreed by Fate for a stable,
And, should you resist, we'll eject you with clubs
As an obsolete, foolish fable.”
Having spoken thus, I turned about,
And saw behind me shining
My dumb companion's dreadful axe.
My wishes straight divining,
He advanced with his fearful axe and smote—
They might have been brick and mortar—
Those skeletons three of a false belief—
He showed them little quarter.
With awful groans the vaulted roof
Re-echoed his axe's thunder;
The streams of blood from my bosom ran,
And I woke with a start of wonder.
To the music of angel-numbers.
One sleeps so soundly on German beds,
On the feathers so softly slumbers.
Of the national bolsters and pillows light
How often I've thought with yearning
When, an exile lone, upon mattresses hard
Through the long night-watches turning.
One sleeps so well on our German beds—
On none can a man dream better.
The German soul feels untrammelled and free
From every mortal fetter.
Untrammelled and free, to the heights of heaven
It wings in lofty soaring.
O German soul, how proud thy flight
When the German body is snoring!
The gods grow pale when they see thee come,
And many a star of even
By the rush and flap of thy mighty wings
Is quenched where it shone in heaven.
To France and Russia the land belongs,
The Britons own the water,
But lords of the realm of dreams are we:
We won it without slaughter.
In the sky we practise hegemony proud:
Develop till none would know us;
Less favoured nations can only evolve
On the flat, dull earth below us.
I fell asleep, and thought in a dream
That up and down I wandered
Once more through the moonlit, echoing streets
Of the holy town and pondered.
Again my attendant, muffled and black,
Strode after, to escort me.
Still on we went, till I grew so tired
That my knees could scarce support me.
And lo! the heart within my breast
Was cut, and gaped asunder.
I felt the red blood streaming down
From the open wound, with wonder.
And often, myself, I know not why,
As we passed a house, I'd linger
To smear the post with the blood of my wound,
In which I dipped my finger.
And every time I marked a house
I heard dread echoes rolling;
With melancholy note afar
Some passing bell was tolling.
The golden moon grew wan and sad,
And shone more pale in heaven;
Across her face, like sable steeds,
The tempest-clouds were driven.
And, following at my back, there came
That muffled form and eerie,
With the axe beneath his mantle hid.
I went till I was weary.
I walked till we reached the Cathedral square,
And lo! before I knew it,
I had paused where the door was standing wide,
And, having paused, passed through it.
Silence and death and darkness reigned
In the minster's vasty spaces,
While, to show the gloom, some hanging lamps
Burned low in their dusky places.
I wandered along the pillared aisles;
No sound save, ringing hollow,
The tread of my faithful friend behind!
I could hear his footsteps follow.
We came at last to a place that shone,
In the taper's glimmer, golden
And bright with gems; of the Holy Three Kings
'Twas the chapel rich and olden.
But the Holy Three Kings who used to lie
So still in their jewelled prison
Were seated on their sarcophagus,
From their ancient sleep uprisen.
Three skeletons lean in fantastic array,
Their poor yellow skulls still wearing
Their royal crowns, and a sceptre proud
Their bony fingers bearing!
They jerked and moved their long dead bones
Like puppets, stiffly, slowly;
They smelt of decay and rotten dust,
Mingled with incense holy.
And one of them even opened his mouth
And made me a speech, a long one;
He expounded to me his claims to respect:
Thought each of his points a strong one.
The first of the reasons was that he was dead;
That a king he was, the second;
The third that he was a saint; the whole
Of but little account I reckoned.
I answered him merrily, “Vainly you strive
To convince a man who so sage is
That at once he seizes the vital point—
You belong to vanished ages.
“Begone! The deep, forgotten grave
Is the proper place for you now.
Your chapel's treasures belong to life,
And the living claim their due now.
“This sacred roof, in the days to come,
Is decreed by Fate for a stable,
And, should you resist, we'll eject you with clubs
As an obsolete, foolish fable.”
Having spoken thus, I turned about,
And saw behind me shining
My dumb companion's dreadful axe.
My wishes straight divining,
He advanced with his fearful axe and smote—
They might have been brick and mortar—
Those skeletons three of a false belief—
He showed them little quarter.
With awful groans the vaulted roof
Re-echoed his axe's thunder;
The streams of blood from my bosom ran,
And I woke with a start of wonder.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.