WRITTEN IN GERMANY
ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY
A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the
side of my Sister, in our lodgings at a draper's house in the
romantic imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest.
In this town the German emperors of the Franconian line were
accustomed to keep their court, and it retains vestiges of ancient
splendour. So severe was the cold of this winter, that when we
passed out of the parlour warmed by the stove, our cheeks were
struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a room over a
passage which was not ceiled. The people of the house used to say,
rather unfeelingly, that they expected I should be frozen to death
some night; but, with the protection of a pelisse lined with fur,
and a dog's-skin bonnet, such as was worn by the peasants, I
walked daily on the ramparts, or in a sort of public ground or
garden, in which was a pond. Here, I had no companion but a
kingfisher, a beautiful creature, that used to glance by me. I
consequently became much attached to it. During these walks I
composed the poem that follows.
The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves in North-Germany
generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this
being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
See that Fly,--a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the north;
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.
No brother, no mate has he near him--while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,
And back to the forests again!