“O couldst thou be silent, I soon would unseal “The book of fate, free from all error, “And suffer thee future ages to see “Within my magic mirror.
“That which to mortal man I ne’er show’d, “To thee would I gladly discover: “The future of thy fatherland,-- “Thou wouldst tell it, though, all the world over!”
“Good heavens, dear goddess!” I cried with delight. “It would give me most exquisite pleasure; “O let me the future of Germany see, “I know how a secret to treasure.
“I’m ready to swear whatever oath “Thou soonest would have me swallow, “As a pledge to thee of my secrecy; “So say what form I shall follow.”
But she rejoin’d: “Thou must swear to me “As by Father Abraham’s order “His servant Eliezer swore, “When starting to cross the border.
“Lift up my dress and place thy hand “Upon my thigh below it, “And swear that in speaking, the secret thou’lt keep, “And in thy works as a poet!”
The moment was solemn. I felt as though fann’d By the breath of ages long perish’d, When I swore the oath in the manner ordain’d By Abraham, our forefather cherish’d.
I lifted up the goddess’s dress, And placed on her thigh below it My hand, vowing secrecy both in my words And in my works as a poet.
The cheeks of the goddess glow’d all-red (I think that the rum had ascended Up into her head) and she spoke in a tone In which sorrow was painfully blended:
“I’m fast getting old; I was born on the day “Of Hamburg’s first foundation; “My mother was a mermaid, who had “At the mouth of the Elbe her station.
“My father was a monarch renown’d, “Called Charlemagne the glorious; “He was still more wise than Frederick the Great, “And also still more victorious.
“At Aix-la-Chapelle is the seat where he sat “On the day of his coronation: “The seat where he sat at night devolved “On my mother, as nearest relation.
“My mother left it to me in her turn, “A common-looking article; “And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold “I wouldn’t surrender one particle.
“Behold, in yon corner stands a chair, “Both old and weather-beaten; “The leather that covers its arms is torn, “And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.
“Approach it now, and gently lift “The cushion from the settle; “Thou’lt see an oval opening then, “And under it a kettle.