Live in the whole, and when long thou shalt have gone, 'twill remain!

JEREMIADS.

All, both in prose and in verse, in Germany fast is decaying; Far behind us, alas, lieth the golden age now!

For by philosophers spoiled is our language--our logic by poets, And no more common sense governs our pa.s.sage through life.

From the aesthetic, to which she belongs, now virtue is driven, And into politics forced, where she's a troublesome guest.

Where are we hastening now? If natural, dull we are voted, And if we put on constraint, then the world calls us absurd.

Oh, thou joyous artlessness 'mongst the poor maidens of Leipzig, Witty simplicity come,--come, then, to glad us again!

Comedy, oh repeat thy weekly visits so precious, Sigismund, lover so sweet,--Mascarill, valet jocose!

Tragedy, full of salt and pungency epigrammatic,-- And thou, minuet-step of our old buskin preserved!

Philosophic romance, thou mannikin waiting with patience, When, 'gainst the pruner's attack, Nature defendeth herself!

Ancient prose, oh return,--so n.o.bly and boldly expressing All that thou thinkest and hast thought,--and what the reader thinks too All, both in prose and in verse, in Germany fast is decaying; Far behind us, alas, lieth the golden age now!

SHAKESPEARE'S GHOST.

A PARODY.

I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,-- Saw his shade. He himself was not, alas, to be seen.

Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians, And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.

There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended, And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.

"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture, Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"-- "'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?"

"If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them."

"Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured, Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count."

"What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then, Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?"-- "There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad."

"Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations, And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black."-- "Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren, But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist."

"But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia, Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"-- "Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral; And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain."

"What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now, Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?"

"No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce, Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse."

"But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with That can be truly called great?--what that is great can they do?"

"What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed."

"Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic, Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"-- "All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also, And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here."

"But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,-- Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?"

"Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question; Ever is destiny blind,--ever is righteous the bard."

"Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature, While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?"

"There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning; And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!"

THE RIVERS.

RHINE.

True, as becometh a Switzer, I watch over Germany's borders; But the light-footed Gaul jumps o'er the suffering stream.

RHINE AND MOSELLE.

Many a year have I clasped in my arms the Lorrainian maiden; But our union as yet ne'er has been blest with a son.

DANUBE IN ----

Round me are dwelling the falcon-eyed race, the Phaeacian people; Sunday with them never ends; ceaselessly moves round the spit.

MAIN.

Ay, it is true that my castles are crumbling; yet, to my comfort, Have I for centuries past seen my old race still endure.

SAALE.

Short is my course, during which I salute many princes and nations; Yet the princes are good--ay! and the nations are free.

ILM.

Poor are my banks, it is true; but yet my soft-flowing waters Many immortal lays here, borne by the current along.

PLEISSE.

Flat is my sh.o.r.e and shallow my current; alas, all my writers, Both in prose and in verse, drink far too deep of its stream!

ELBE.

All ye others speak only a jargon; 'mongst Germany's rivers None speak German but me; I but in Misnia alone.

SPREE.

Ramler once gave me language,--my Caesar a subject; and therefore I had my mouth then stuffed full; but I've been silent since that.

WESER.

Nothing, alas, can be said about me; I really can't furnish Matter enough to the Muse e'en for an epigram, small.

MINERAL WATERS AT ----.