Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GERMANY; A WINTER TALE: CAPUT 8, by HEINRICH HEINE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GERMANY; A WINTER TALE: CAPUT 8, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: From cologne to hagen it costs to post
Last Line: "of ""vive l'empereur!"" repeated."
Subject(s): Freedom; Germany; Tears; Liberty; Germans


FROM Cologne to Hagen it costs to post
Five Prussian dollars, six groschen;
The diligence chanced to be full, so I came
In a chaise, though rough was the motion.

Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and grey
The coach in the mud groan'd sadly;
Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,
Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.

'Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheek
Could bear no other construction;
The very dirt in the highway itself
Is my fatherland's production!

The horses wagg'd their tails like old friends,
As they went along in a canter;
Their very dung appear'd to me fair
As the apples of Atalanta!

We pass'd through Muhlheim. The people are dull
And busy, the town far from dirty;
I last was there in the merry month
Of May, in the year one and thirty.

All things then stood in blooming attire,
And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;
The birds were singing their yearning song,
While the men were hoping and thinking.

Thus thought they: "The lanky order of knights
"Will depart from amongst us shortly;
"Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks
"Of iron, in fashion not courtly!

"And freedom shall come with sport and with dance,
"With the banner, the white-blue-red one;
"Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave
"E'en Bonaparte, even the dead one!"

Alas! the knights remain as before;
More than one of those fools so derided
Who enter'd the country as thin as a lath
Are now with fat bellies provided.

The pallid canaille, who used to look
The pictures of faith, hope, charity,
Have got red noses by tippling our wine
With the utmost regularity.

And Freedom has sprain'd her foot, and has lost
For springing and raving all power;
In Paris itself the tricolour flag
Looks mournfully down from each tower.

The Emperor truly arose again,
Yet the English, fearing a riot,
Converted him into a peaceable man,
And he let them inter him in quiet.

Yes, I myself his funeral saw,
The golden carriage so splendid,
And victory's golden goddesses,
Who the golden coffin attended.

Along the famous Champs Elysees,
Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,
Across the mist and over the snow
The procession wended sedately.

The music was painful and out of tune,
And frozen was every musician;
The eagles perch'd over the standards look'd down
Upon me in woeful condition.

In ghostly fashion the men all appear'd,
All lost in old recollections, --
The wondrous imperial dream revived,
Awakening olden affections.

I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes,
And down my cheeks fast fleeted,
When I heard the long-vanish'd loving shout
Of "Vive l'Empereur!" repeated.





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