Poems and Ballads of Heinrich Heine Part 25

The cruel, world-old riddle, Concerning which, already many a head hath been racked.

Heads in hieroglyphic-hats, Heads in turbans and in black caps, Periwigged heads, and a thousand other Poor, sweating human heads.

Tell me, what signifies man?

Whence does he come? whither does he go?

Who dwells yonder above the golden stars?"

The waves murmur their eternal murmur, The winds blow, the clouds flow past.

Cold and indifferent twinkle the stars, And a fool awaits an answer.

IX. SEA-SICKNESS.

The gray afternoon clouds Drop lower over the sea, Which darkly riseth to meet them, And between them both fares the s.h.i.+p.

Sea-sick I still sit by the mast And all by myself indulge in meditation, Those world-old ashen-gray meditations, Which erst our father Lot entertained, When he had enjoyed too much of a good thing, And afterward suffered such inconvenience.

Meanwhile I think also of old stories; How pilgrims with the cross on their breast in days of yore, On their stormy voyages, devoutly kissed The consoling image of the blessed Virgin.

How sick knights in such ocean-trials, Pressed to their lips with equal comfort The dear glove of their lady.

But I sit and chew in vexation An old herring, my salty comforter, Midst caterwauling and dogged tribulation.

Meanwhile the s.h.i.+p wrestles With the wild billowy tide.

Like a rearing war-horse she stands erect, Upon her stern, till the helm cracks.

Now crashes she headforemost downward once more Into the howling abyss of waters, Then again, as if recklessly love-languid, She tries to recline On the black bosom of the gigantic waves, Which powerfully seethe upward, And immediately a chaotic ocean-cataract Plunges down in crisp-curling whiteness, And covers me with foam.

This shaking and swinging and tossing Is unendurable!

Vainly mine eye peers forth and seeks The German coast. But alas! only water, And everywhere water--turbulent water!

Even as the traveller in winter, thirsts For a warm cordial cup of tea, So does my heart now thirst for thee My German fatherland.

May thy sweet soil ever be covered With lunacy, hussars and bad verses, And thin, lukewarm treatises.

May thy zebras ever be fattened On roses instead of thistles.

Ever may thy n.o.ble apes Haughtily strut in negligent attire, And esteem themselves better than all other Priggish heavy-footed, horned cattle.

May thine a.s.semblies of snails Ever deem themselves immortal Because they crawl forward so slowly; And may they daily convoke in full force, To discuss whether the cheesemould belongs to the cheese; And still longer may they convene To decide how best to honor the Egyptian sheep, So that its wool may improve And it may be shorn like others, With no difference.

Forever may folly and wrong Cover thee all over, oh Germany, Nevertheless I yearn towards thee-- For at least thou art dry land.

X. IN PORT.

Happy the man who has reached port, And left behind the sea and the tempest, And who now sits, quietly and warm, In the goodly town-cellar of Bremen.

How pleasantly and cordially The world is mirrored in the wine-gla.s.s.

And how the waving microcosm Pours sunnily down into the thirsty heart!

I see everything in the gla.s.s,-- Ancient and modern tribes, Turks and Greeks, Hegel and Gans, Citron groves and guard-parades, Berlin and Schilda, and Tunis and Hamburg.

Above all the image of my beloved, The little angel-head against the golden background of Rhine-wine.

Oh how beautiful! how beautiful thou art, beloved!

Thou art like a rose.

Not like the Rose of s.h.i.+raz, The Hafiz-besung bride of the nightingale.

Not like the Rose of Sharon, The sacred purple extolled by the prophet.

Thou art like the rose in the wine-cellar of Bremen.

That is the rose of roses, The older it grows the fairer it blooms, And its celestial perfume has inspired me.

And did not mine host of the town-cellar of Bremen Hold me fast, fast by my hair, I should tumble head over heels.

The worthy man! we sat together, And drank like brothers.

We spake of lofty, mysterious things, We sighed and sank in each other's arms.

And he led me back to the religion of love: I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy, And I forgave all bad poets, As I shall some day hope to be forgiven myself.

I wept with fervor of piety, and at last The portals of salvation were opened to me, Where the twelve Apostles, the holy wine-b.u.t.ts, Preach in silence and yet so intelligibly Unto all people.

Those are men!

Without, unseemly in their wooden garb, Within, they are more beautiful and brilliant Than all the haughty Levites of the Temple, And the guards and courtiers of Herod, Decked with gold and arrayed in purple.

But I have always averred That not amidst quite common folk-- No, in the very best society, Perpetually abides the King of Heaven.

Hallelujah! How lovely around me Wave the palms of Beth-El!

How fragrant are the myrrh-trees of Hebron!

How the Jordan rustles and reels with joy!

And my immortal soul also reels, And I reel with her, and, reeling, The worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen Leads me up-stairs into the light of day.

Thou worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen, Seest thou on the roofs of the houses, Sit the angels, and they are drunk and they sing.

The glowing sun up yonder Is naught but a red drunken nose.

The nose of the spirit of the universe, And around the red nose of the spirit of the universe Reels the whole tipsy world.

XI. EPILOGUE.

Like the stalks of wheat in the fields, So flourish and wave in the mind of man His thoughts.

But the delicate fancies of love Are like gay little intermingled blossoms Of red and blue flowers.

Red and blue flowers!

The surly reaper rejects you as useless.

The wooden flail scornfully thrashes you, Even the luckless traveler, Whom your aspect delights and refreshes, Shakes his head, And calls you beautiful weeds.

But the rustic maiden, The wearer of garlands, Honors you, and plucks you, And adorns with you her fair locks.

And thus decorated she hastens to the dancing-green Where the flutes and fiddles sweetly resound; Or to the quiet bushes Where the voice of her beloved soundeth sweeter still Than fiddles or flutes.