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Hollow and dull are the great,
And artists envious, and the mob pro-

We know all this, we know!
Cam'st thou from heaven, O child
Of light! but this to declare?
Alas, to help us forget
Such barren knowledge awhile,
God gave the poet his song!

Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold!
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor's heart
Broke on the field of his fame.

Ah! as of old, from the pomp
Of Italian Milan, the fair
Flower of marble of white
Southern palaces-steps
Border'd by statues, and walks
Terraced, and orange-bowers
Heavy with fragrance-the blond
German Kaiser full oft

Long'd himself back to the fields,
Rivers, and high-roof'd towns
Of his native Germany; so,
So, how often! from hot
Paris drawing-rooms, and 'lamps
Blazing, and brilliant crowds,
Starr'd and jewell'd, of men
Famous, of women the queens
Of dazzling converse-from fumes

Of praise, hot, heavy fumes, to the poor brain

That mount, that madden-how oft
Heine's spirit outworn

Long'd itself out of the din,

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With the sinking sun, and the air
Chill, and the shadows now
Long on the grey hill-side-
To the stone-roof'd hut at the top!

Or, yet later, in watch

On the roof of the Brocken-tower
Thou standest, gazing!-to see
The broad red sun, over field,
Forest, and city, and spire,
And mist-track'd stream of the wide,
Wide German land, going down
In a bank of vapours-again
Standest, at nightfall, alone!

Or, next morning, with Imbs
Rested by slumber, and heart
Freshen'd and light with the May,
O'er the gracious spurs coming down
Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks,
And beechen coverts, and copse
Of hazels green in whose depth
Ilse the fairy transformed,
In a thousand water-breaks light
Pours her petulant youth-
Climbing the rock which juts
O'er the valley, the dizzily perch'd
Rock-to its iron cross

Once more thou cling'st; to the Cross
Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh!

Goethe, too, had been there.

In the long-past winter he came
To the frozen Hartz, with his soul
Passionate, eager-his youth

All in ferment!--but he
Destined to work and to live

Left it, and thou, alas!
Only to laugh and to die.
But something prompts me:

Not thus

Take leave of Heine! not thus
Speak the last word at his grave!
Not in pity, and not

With half censure-with awe

Hail, as it passes from earth
Scattering lightnings, that soul!

The Spirit of the world,

Beholding the absurdity of men-
Their vaunts, their feats-let a sardonic

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That was Heine! and we,
Myriads who live, who have lived,
What are we all, but a. mood,
A single mood, of the life
Of the Spirit in whom we exist,
Who alone is all things in one?
Spirit, who fillest us all!
Spirit, who utterest in each
New-coming son of mankind
Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!
O thou, one of whose moods,
Bitter and strange, was the life
Of Heine-his strange, alas,
His bitter life!-may a life
Other and milder be mine!
May'st thou a mood more serene,
Happier, have utter'd in mine!
May'st thou the rapture of peace
Deep have embreathed at its core;
Made it a rav of the thought,
Made it a beat of thy joy!

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888).


(Professor Herter's Heine Fountain, received by the City of New York. after it had been refused by well-nigh every important German community, has twice been injured; once by malice and once through accident. Finally it was proposed to remove it from its present site to make room for a useless street.)

NOR life nor death had any peace for thee,

Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a


To wind and water, till we bade thee stay

And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea. But now it seems that on thine effigy

Thy very host an impious hand would lay:

Go then and wander, praising on thy


The proud Republic's hospitality!

Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong,

The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir

Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear

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Uncomforted, with an unceasing cry: "Come, come, ye wandering ones! A nation's hearth-stone waits the sacred fire!"

But, quenching their desire, "Mother, not yet," they sigh, "Not yet; the silver trumpets have not blown,

Nor eastward moves in heaven the column-cloud.

Haply, with faint host strengthened, by-and-by,

With psalms, with shawms, with ring
of cymbals loud,

Shall Israel return unto his own;
Not yet-alas, not yet!
"To-day his face is set

Westward: for there the Foster mother stands,

Young, forceful, mild, with frank,
front-beaming light,

And large, warm-welcoming hands.
Lo, in her spacious lands

The arm of Israel shall gather


This was her home-aye, hers, whose noble pride

Had that dear name denied

To soil whereon her brothers suffered


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But doubt she had forbidden, who deeply know

The vigor of that stem whence life she drew,

The sure succession, the unfailing fruit!


O faithful Israèl, that keep'st aflame The Lamp perpetual with remembrance due

Of the undying dead! Be this her fame

The source of steadfast purpose, tireless borne.

If, in some dazzling morn

That breaks on e'en the blank eyes of the blind,

The flag of Judah shall indeed un


The hero-Ezra on his arm shall bind
No lordlier band, no subtler amulet
Than her linked songs of pearl,
And rubies passion-red, as with rare
life-blood wet!

We, too, we, too, have claim
On this uniting name!

We of the West may bow where Israel weeps.

Beneath our clear stars, never veiled in shame,

She woke to life, and now, alas, she sleeps,

(Proud May-time, heap her painless rest with flowers!) Under no skies but ours!



ARMED Soul that ridest through a land of peace,

Her borders filled with finest of the wheat.

Her children reaping, where with weary feet

Sad sowers trod who taste not the in


We hear thy trump, whose echo shall

not cease,

In hush of night resounding, while we meet

Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet

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