Heines Grave

Henri Heine, , tis here!     The black tombstone, the name     Carved there, no more! and the smooth,     Swarded alleys, the limes     Touchd with yellow by hot     Summer, but under them still     In Septembers bright afternoon     Shadow, and verdure, and cool!     Trim Montmartre! the faint     Murmur of Paris outside;     Crisp everlasting-flowers,     Yellow and black, on the graves.     Half blind, palsied, in pain,     Hither to come, from the streets     Uproar, surely not loath     Wast thou, Heine!, to lie     Quiet! to ask for closed     Shutters, and darkend room,     And cool drinks, and an eased     Posture, and opium, no more!     Hither to come, and to sleep     Under the wings of Renown.     Ah! not little, when pain     Is most quelling, and man     Easily quelld, and the fine     Temper of genius alive     Quickest to ill, is the praise     Not to have yielded to pain!     No small boast, for a weak     Son of mankind, to the earth     Pinnd by the thunder, to rear     His bolt-scathed front to the stars;     And, undaunted, retort     Gainst thick-crashing, insane,     Tyrannous tempests of bale,     Arrowy lightnings of soul!     Hark! through the alley resounds     Mocking laughter! A film     Creeps oer the sunshine; a breeze     Ruffles the warm afternoon,     Saddens my soul with its chill.     Gibing of spirits in scorn     Shakes every leaf of the grove,     Mars the benignant repose     Of this amiable home of the dead.     Bitter spirits! ye claim     Heine?, Alas, he is yours!     Only a moment I longd     Here in the quiet to snatch     From such mates the outworn     Poet, and steep him in calm.     Only a moment! I knew     Whose he was who is here     Buried, I knew he was yours!     Ah, I knew that I saw     Here no sepulchre built     In the laurelld rock, oer the blue     Naples bay, for a sweet     Tender Virgil! no tomb     On Ravenna sands, in the shade     Of Ravenna pines, for a high     Austere Dante! no grave     By the Avon side, in the bright     Stratford meadows, for thee,     Shakespeare! loveliest of souls,     Peerless in radiance, in joy.     What so harsh and malign,     Heine! distils from thy life,     Poisons the peace of thy grave?     I chide with thee not, that thy sharp     Upbraidings often assaild     England, my country; for we,     Fearful and sad, for her sons,     Long since, deep in our hearts,     Echo the blame of her foes.     We, too, sigh that she flags;     We, too, say that she now,     Scarce comprehending the voice     Of her greatest, golden-mouthd sons     Of a former age any more,     Stupidly travels her round     Of mechanic business, and lets     Slow die out of her life     Glory, and genius, and joy.     So thou arraignst her, her foe;     So we arraign her, her sons.     Yes, we arraign her! but she,     The weary Titan! with deaf     Ears, and labour-dimmd eyes,     Regarding neither to right     Nor left, goes passively by,     Staggering on to her goal;     Bearing on shoulders immense,     Atlanten, the load,     Wellnigh not to be borne,     Of the too vast orb of her fate.     But was it thou, I think     Surely it was, that bard     Unnamed, who, Goethe said,     Had every other gift, but wanted love;     Love, without which the tongue     Even of angels sounds amiss?     Charm is the glory which makes     Song of the poet divine;     Love is the fountain of charm.     How without charm wilt thou draw,     Poet! the world to thy way?     Not by the lightnings of wit!     Not by the thunder of scorn!     These to the world, too, are given;     Wit it possesses, and scorn,     Charm is the poets alone.     Hollow and dull are the great,     And artists envious, and the mob profane.     We know all this, we know!     Camst thou from heaven, O child     Of light! but this to declare?     Alas! to Help us forget     Such barren knowledge awhile,     God gave the poet his song.     Therefore a secret unrest     Tortured thee, brilliant and bold!     Therefore triumph itself     Tasted amiss to thy soul.     Therefore, with blood of thy foes,     Trickled in silence thine own.     Therefore the victors heart     Broke on the field of his fame.     Ah! as of old, from the pomp     Of Italian Milan, the fair     Flower of marble of white     Southern palaces, steps     Borderd by statues, and walks     Terraced, and orange bowers     Heavy with fragrance, the blond     German Kaiser full oft     Longd himself back to the fields,     Rivers, and high-roofd towns     Of his native Germany; so,     So, how often! from hot     Paris drawing-rooms. and lamps     Blazing, and brilliant crowds,     Starrd and jewelld, of men     Famous, of women the queens     Of dazzling converse, and fumes     Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain     That mount, that madden!, how oft     Heines spirit outworn     Longd itself out of the din     Back to the tranquil, the cool     Far German home of his youth!     See! in the May afternoon,     Oer the fresh short turf of the Hartz,     A youth, with the foot of youth,     Heine! thou climbest again.     Up, through the tall dark firs     Warming their heads in the sun,     Chequering the grass with their shade,     Up, by the stream with its huge     Moss-hung boulders and thin     Musical water half-hid,     Up, oer the rock-strewn slope,     With the sinking sun, and the air     Chill, and the shadows now     Long on the grey hill-side,     To the stone-roofd hut at the top.     Or, yet later, in watch     On the roof of the Brocken tower     Thou standest, gazing! to see     The broad red sun, over field     Forest and city and spire     And mist-trackd stream of the wide     Wide German land, going down     In a bank of vapours, , again     Standest! at nightfall, alone.     Or, next morning, with limbs     Rested by slumber, and heart     Freshend and light with the May,     Oer the gracious spurs coming down     Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks,     And beechen coverts, and copse     Of hazels green in whose depth     Ilse, the fairy transformd,     In a thousand water-breaks light     Pours her petulant youth,     Climbing the rock which juts     Oer the valley, the dizzily perchd     Rock! to its Iron Cross     Once more thou clingst; to the Cross     Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh.     Goethe, too, had been there.     In the long-past winter he came     To the frozen Hartz, with his soul     Passionate, eager, his youth     All in ferment;, but he     Destined to work and to live     Left it, and thou, alas!     Only to laugh and to die.     But something prompts me: Not thus     Take leave of Heine, not thus     Speak the last word at his grave!     Not in pity and not     With half censure, with awe     Hail, as it passes from earth     Scattering lightnings, that soul!     The spirit of the world     Beholding the absurdity of men,     Their vaunts, their feats, let a sardonic smile     For one short moment wander oer his lips.     That smile was Heine! for its earthly hour     The strange guest sparkled; now tis passd away.     That was Heine! and we,     Myriads who live, who have lived,     What are we all, but a mood,     A single mood, of the life     Of the Being in whom we exist,     Who alone is all things in one.     Spirit, who fillest us all!     Spirit who utterest in each     New-coming son of mankind     Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!     O thou, one of whose moods,     Bitter and strange, was the life     Of Heine, his strange, alas!     His bitter life, may a life     Other and milder be mine!     Mayst thou a mood more serene,     Happier, have utterd in mine!     Mayst thou the rapture of peace     Deep have embreathed at its core!     Made it a ray of thy thought!     Made it a beat of thy joy!