Meanwhile the ship 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 noble apes Haughtily strut in negligent attire, And esteem themselves better than all other Priggish heavy-footed, horned cattle. May thine assemblies 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.
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-glass. And how the waving microcosm Pours sunnily down into the thirsty heart! I see everything in the glass,-- 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 belovèd, The little angel-head against the golden background of Rhine-wine.
Oh how beautiful! how beautiful thou art, belovèd! Thou art like a rose. Not like the Rose of Shiraz, 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.