Against my shoulder she lean’d her head, And rather tumbled her bonnet Or mural crown, and gently she spake, While I reflected upon it:
“I often have thought with much alarm “That in Paris, that wicked city, “With the frivolous French thou’rt living still,-- “’Tis really a very great pity.
“Without an object thou’rt passing thy time, “And hast not even beside thee “Some faithful German publisher who “As a Mentor might warn and guide thee.
“And then the temptations there are so great, “So many a sylph amuses, “Whose health is bad, and one’s peace of mind “One far too easily loses.
“Return not again, but stop with us, “Here modesty reigns still, and morals; “And here thou may’st gather, e’en in our midst, “In silence many fair laurels.
“In Germany stay, and thou’lt relish things more “Than thou wert formerly able; “We’re fast advancing, and thou must have seen “Our progress so rapid and stable.
“The censorship even less rigorous is, “Friend Hoffmann is milder and older; “His youthful passion for cutting up “Thy _Reisebilder_ is colder.
“Thou too art older and milder now, “And many things quietly takest, “And in a better spirit than once, “Past times thou now awakest.
“That matters in Germany used to go ill “Is a great exaggeration; “One could always escape, like the Romans of old, “From serfdom, by self-immolation.
“The people enjoy’d full freedom of thought, “For the masses it never was stinted; “Restrictions affected nobody, save “The limited number who printed.
“No lawless despotism then reign’d, “The worst of demagogues never “Were deprived of their rights of citizenship, “Till condemn’d for some wicked endeavour.
“Things never in Germany went so ill, “Whatever disputes may have risen; “Believe me, no mortal was e’er starved to death “Inside a German prison.
“In those long vanish’d days there bloom’d “Full many a fair apparition “Of simple faith and kindliness too,-- “Now all is doubt and sedition.
“The practical freedom that’s all outside “Will soon destroy the Ideal “That we bore in our bosoms,--as fair as a dream “Of lilies, and not more real!
“Our beautiful poetry’s fading fast, “Already ’tis somewhat faded; “The _Moorish King_ of Freiligrath, “Like the rest of the kings, is degraded.