“And even when years have pass’d away, “I rest not, nor suffer distraction, “Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts; “Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.
“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I, “And, like a servant obedient, “The judgments execute pleasing to thee, “Whether right or inexpedient.
“Before the Consul they carried an axe “In Rome of old, let me remind thee “And thou hast also thy lictor, but he “Now carries the axe behind thee.
“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind, “And carry in all its splendour “The polish’d executioner’s axe-- “I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
I homeward went, and as soundly I slept As if by the angels tended; In German beds one cosily rests, For they are all featherbeds splendid.
How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet repose Of my own native country’s pillows, While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night, In my exile far over the billows!
One sleeps so well, and one dreams so well In our featherbeds delicious; The German spirit here feels itself free From all earth’s fetters pernicious.
It feels itself free, and upward soars To the highest regions Elysian; O German Spirit, how proud is the flight Thou takest in nightly vision!
The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh; When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions, Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star, With the strokes of thine eager pinions.
The land belongs to the Russians and French, In the British the ocean is vested, But we in dream’s airy regions possess The mastery uncontested.
The art of ruling practise we here, And here we are never dissever’d, While other nations on earth’s flat face To develop themselves have endeavour’d.--
And as I slumber’d, methought in my dream I was once more sauntering slowly In the moonlight clear through the echoing streets Of Cologne’s ancient city so holy.
Behind me once again my black And mask’d attendant speeded; I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke, Yet on, still on, we proceeded.
We onward went. My heart in my breast Gaped open, and parted in sunder, And the red drops glided out of the wound In my heart,--a sight of wonder.
I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein, And often the fancy came o’er me To streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d, Each doorpost lying before me.