Classic Poem

10. In Port.
Happy the man who has got into harbour,
And left far behind him the sea, and the tempests,
And now is seated, warm and tranquil,
In the jolly town-cellar at Bremen.

See how pleasant and lovely the world
Mirrors itself in the magic beaker;
And how the ripping microcosmus
Warmly streams into the thirsty heart!

All things see I in the glass,
Stories of ancient and modern nations,
Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans;
Lemon-groves, and parades of Guards.
Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg;
But before all things, the face of my dear one,
Her angel's head on the Rhine-wine-gold background.

Oh, how lovely, how lovely thou art, dear!
Thou art like a rose!
Not like the rose of Schiraz,
The nightingale's bride, whom Hafiz has sung!
Not like the rose of Sharon,
The sacred purple flower, renowned of the prophets!
Thou art like the Rose in the Bremen town-cellar!
That is the Rose of all roses!
The older she grows the more lovely blooms she,
And her heavenly perfume, it has entranced me,
It has inspired, and it has o'ercome me;
And had I not been held fast by the hair of my head,
By the town-cellar's master at Bremen,
I should have been done for!
Thou worthy man! We were sitting together,
And drinking like brothers;
We were speaking of high confidential concerns,
And we sighed as we sank in each other's arms;
And he made me a convert to Love's own religion;
I drank to the health of my bitterest foe,
And all the bad poets forgave I,
As I hope I one day may myself be forgiven;
And I wept from pure fervour; and lastly,
The gates of bliss opened before me,
Where the twelve Apostles, those casks full of sainthood
Preach, although silent, yet plain to the reason
Of every people.

There are men for you!
Their outside is plain, in their rough wooden doublets;
But within they are fairer and brighter
Than all the proud Temple Levites,
Than all the attendants and courtiers of Herod,
Tricked out with gold, and clothed in purple!
But have I not always said —
And that, not among quite common people —
No! in the very best society —
" May the King of Heaven live for ever! "

Hallelujah! how sweetly wave o'er me
The palm-trees of Bethel!
How balmy the myrtles of Hebron!
How the Jordan is roaring and reeling for joy;
My immortal soul too is reeling,
And I'm reeling with it, and reeling.
The worthy town-cellar's master of Bremen
Carries me up the steps into daylight;

Thou worthy town-cellar's master of Bremen,
Dost see, sitting there on the roofs of the houses,
The Angels, drinking and singing?
The glowing sun, up above there,
Is only a red grog-blossomed nose —
The nose of the Weltgeist —
And round the red nose of the Weltgeist,
The whole drunken world is a-spinning!