That the angels, though, are real I have never held in doubt; Spotless, and of grace ideal, On this earth they move about.
Still I doubt if such a being Wing’d is, it must be confess’d; I have recently been seeing Wingless angels, I protest.
With their dear and loving glances With their loving hands so white Men they guard, and all advances Of misfortune put to flight.
Every one can comfort borrow From their favour and regard; Most of all that child of sorrow Whom the people call a bard.
Quick, beat the drum, and be not afraid, The suttler-maiden lovingly kiss; This is the whole of knowledge, in truth, The deepest book-learning lies in this.
Quick, drum the people out of their sleep, And drum the réveille with the ardour of youth, And as you march, continue to drum-- This is the whole of knowledge, in truth.
All Hegel’s philosophy here is found, The deepest book-learning lies in this; I’ve found it out, because I’m no fool, And also because I drum not amiss.
Gendarmes of heaven with flaming swords Thou sent’st in cruel fashion, And drov’st me out of Paradise Without the least compassion.
In search of another country, I And my wife from Eden hasted; Thou canst not alter the fact that there The tree of knowledge I tasted.
Thou canst not alter the fact that I know Thy weakness and many blunders, However mighty thou seemest to be When wielding death and thunders.
O heavens, how pitiful is this Consilium abeundi! I call it a Magnificus Of earth, a Lumen Mundi.
I shall not miss the spacious realms Of Paradise one minute. It is no genuine Paradise When trees forbidden are in it.
I claim my full unfetter’d rights! The slightest limitation Changes my Paradise at once To hell and desolation.
Worthy friend, ’twill be perdition Books like this to think of printing! Wouldst thou money earn or honour Thou must bend in meek submission.
Never in this manner flighty Shouldest thou before the public Thus have spoken of the parsons And of monarchs high and mighty!
Friend, thou’lt be by all forsaken! Princes have long arms, the parsons Have long tongues, and then the public Have long ears, or I’m mistaken!
Hast thou, then, superior risen To the chilly dream of glory Which great Weimar’s poet hoary Wove around thee, like a prison?