The poems of Heine; Complete. Heinrich Heine
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by Heine “Princess Sabbath,” “Jehuda ben Halevy,” a poem itself in three parts, and “Disputation.” The Jewish descent and Jewish sympathies of the poet are plainly discernible in these Melodies, the most interesting of which, and probably the best of the whole collection contained in the “Romancero,” is that which sets forth the life of Jehuda ben Halevy, the great Hebrew poet of the middle ages. Some critics rank this poem amongst Heine’s very best productions. The concluding piece, “Disputation,” is in Heine’s wildest style, and seems written for the express purpose of destroying the pleasure excited by the one that precedes it. In none of his works is his mocking spirit more plainly discernible. “It is the most Voltairian scene ever imagined by the sceptical demon of his mind.” No one can read this polemical poem without seeing how little Heine himself cared for any received form of religion—for the Christian faith as professed by him, or the Jewish faith into which he was born. The piece terminates in Heine’s favourite manner, namely, with an unexpected joke in the last line.
The collection entitled “Latest Poems” was written three years afterwards. Its name shows that the end was now not far off. The hand of a master is still visible in all these poems, the most interesting of which is perhaps the “Slave Ship,” one of the most powerful productions of Heine’s pen. In the year 1855, he published a French translation of his “New Spring” in the Revue des deux Mondes. And now the end really arrived.
On the 17th February, 1856, Henry Heine was at length released from his sufferings in his house in the Avenue Matignon, No. 3, as appears from the obituary notice. The smallness of the attendance at his funeral would seem to show that there was some truth in the saying that he had many admirers but few friends. The only names of note that are recorded as having been present on the occasion are Mignet, Gautier, and Dumas. And this was the man who was recognized as the successor of Goethe in the throne of poetry in Germany, and whose songs were already household words in all parts of that country! His humour did not leave him till the very last. A few days before his death Hector Berlioz called on him just as a tiresome German professor was leaving the room after wearying him with his uninteresting conversation. “I am afraid you will find me very stupid, my dear fellow! The fact is, I have just been exchanging thoughts with Dr. ——” was his remark. Only a day or two before he expired, he sent back to the printer the last proofs of a new edition of the “Reisebilder.”
Heine left a singular will behind him, in which he begged that all religious solemnities should be dispensed with at his funeral, and that, although he called himself a Lutheran, no Lutheran minister should officiate on the occasion. He added that this was not a mere freak of a freethinker, for that he had for the last four years dismissed all the pride with which philosophy had filled him, and felt once more the power of religious truth. He also begged for forgiveness for any offence which, in his ignorance, he might have given to good manners and morals.
When the private papers of Louis Philippe fell into the hands of the populace at the sack of the Tuileries in February, 1848, it was discovered that Heine had for many years enjoyed a pension of some 200l. a year on the Civil List. This discovery gave an opening to the republicans for violent attacks on him; but there does not appear to have been anything in the circumstances of the case to make this transaction discreditable to either the giver or the receiver of the pension.
Heine is described as having lived in the simplest manner, occupying three small rooms on the third floor, the ménage comprising, in addition to his wife and himself, no one but an old negress as a servant, and “Cocotte,” who has been already alluded to.
Heine is beyond question the greatest poet that has appeared in Germany since the death of Goethe. Enough has been said in the course of this brief sketch of his life to show the singular, the unprecedented character of his genius, and to illustrate that combination in his person of two separate natures that we have stated to exist. What more touching trait of character was ever heard of, than the simple fact that although the last eight years of his life were spent in a state of intolerable agony, he left his mother in ignorance of his sufferings to the very last! Yes, when stricken with total blindness, and when dying literally by inches, all his letters to the “old woman at the Dammthor” were written in the most cheerful, happy tone, and he made her believe that his only reason for employing an amanuensis instead of writing with his own hand was that he had a slight affection in his eyes, which would be cured with a little care!
The following appreciation of the character of Heine, written while he was still alive, but when the shades of darkness and death were slowly gathering round him, may serve as a fitting termination to these few pages:—“It may be said that Heine bears within him all the misery of a mighty literature that has fallen from his ideal. Let this be his excuse. But now his eyes are closing on this perishable world, whose contradictions and wretchedness provoked his painful gaiety; another world is opening on his mind. There, no more misery, no more irritating contrasts, no more revolting disenchantments; there, all problems are resolved, all struggles cease. If irony, in the case of a capricious and ardent intelligence, could be the faithful mirror of things below, there is no room save for confidence and respect in that spiritual world that his soul’s looks are fast discovering. He sought for serenity in that light raillery which enveloped the whole universe, and played his part in it with grace; but this serenity was incomplete and false, and often suffered his ill-cured sorrows to break forth. True serenity is a higher thing; it is to be found in the intelligence and adoration of that ideal which nothing can affect, that truth which no shadow can obscure.” And so with these words of kindly sympathy, Heinrich Heine—farewell!
EARLY POEMS.
SONGS OF LOVE.
1. LOVE’S SALUTATION.
Darling maiden, who can be
Ever found to equal thee?
To thy service joyfully
Shall my life be pledged by me.
Thy sweet eyes gleam tenderly,
Like soft moonbeams o’er the sea;
Lights of rosy harmony
O’er thy red cheeks wander free.
From thy small mouth, full of glee,
Rows of pearls peep charmingly;
But thy bosom’s drapery
Veils thy fairest jewelry.
Pure love only could it be
That so sweetly thrill’d through me,
When I whilome gazed on thee,
Darling maid, so fair to see.
2. LOVE’S LAMENT.
On night’s secrecy relying,
Silently I breathe my woes;
From the haunts of mortals flying,
Where the cup of pleasure flows.
Down my cheeks run tears all burning,
Silently, unceasingly;
But my bosom’s fiery yearning
Quench’ed by tears can never be.
When a laughing urchin, gaily
Many a merry game I play’d;
In life’s sunshine basking daily,
Knowing nought of grief or shade.
For a garden of enjoyment
Was the world I then lived in,