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Translated by J. C. Mangan
WHAT riotous din is ringing? | |
| What wassailers throng the house? | |
| The Student of Prague is singing | |
| The praise of his wild carouse. | |
| With bloodshot eyes and glowing, | 5 |
| He shouts like one possessed, | |
| His goblet overflowing, | |
| His head on his leman’s breast. | |
| |
| As pallid as alabaster, | |
| The servant ventures in: | 10 |
| “’T is midnight, O my master! | |
| Cease now, at least, from sin!” | |
| “Avaunt, thou croaking booby! | |
| I brook no babble from thee; | |
| As long as the wine looks ruby | 15 |
| Right jovial I swear to be!” | |
| |
| He drinks from his goblet faster; | |
| Within lies a coiléd worm: | |
| “God gives thee a sign, my master, | |
| It saith, Repent! Reform!” | 20 |
| “Truce, dolt, to thy coffin-faces! | |
| Go, preach to the fools that will hear; | |
| Thus locked in my leman’s embraces, | |
| What accident have I to fear?” | |
| |
| He plays with her night-black tresses; | 25 |
| She breaks from his arms by force; | |
| Her hand on her heart she presses; | |
| She shrieks, and drops down a corse! | |
| Then steps the servant past her, | |
| And falls upon his knee: | 30 |
| “God shows thee a sign, O master, | |
| A fearful sign to thee!” | |
| |
| “Away, thou hound, to the Devil! | |
| Red gold have I still in store | |
| To win me wherewith to revel, | 35 |
| And fairer lemans a score. | |
| So long as my dotard father | |
| Takes care of this purse of mine, | |
| So long, by hell, will I gather | |
| The roses of love and wine.” | 40 |
| |
| The servant, shuddering, fetches | |
| Away the accusing dead; | |
| And the wild young student stretches | |
| His wasted limbs in bed. | |
| The lurid lamp is shooting | 45 |
| A bluer glare anon; | |
| The owls without are hooting; | |
| The hollow bell tolls “One!” | |
| |
| When lo! a charnel vapor | |
| Pervades the student’s room; | 50 |
| Then dies the darkening taper, | |
| And, shimmering through the gloom, | |
| A shadow with look of sorrow | |
| Bends over the reckless boy, | |
| Who dreams of new pleasures to-morrow, | 55 |
| And laughs his libertine joy. | |
| |
| The pitying phantom raises | |
| Its warning hand on high; | |
| The student starts; he gazes; | |
| He grasps his bed-sword nigh; | 60 |
| He strikes at what resembles | |
| His father’s features pale, | |
| And the stricken phantom trembles, | |
| And vanishes with a wail. | |
| |
| The wintry morn is dawning | 65 |
| In ashy-gray and red; | |
| The servant undraws the awning | |
| That screens his master’s bed; | |
| And a black-edged letter, weeping, | |
| He gives the startled youth; | 70 |
| And the student’s flesh is creeping, | |
| For he fears the dreadful truth. | |
| |
| “From thy mother, broken-hearted, | |
| And widowed now by thee, | |
| Thy father has departed | 75 |
| This life in agony. | |
| Whole nights I saw him languish; | |
| And still he called in wild | |
| And ceaseless tones of anguish | |
| For thee, his ruined child. | 80 |
| |
| “At last he lay as trancéd; | |
| His struggles appeared to cease, | |
| And I fondly hoped and fancied | |
| His spirit was now at peace; | |
| But soon I heard him crying, | 85 |
| ‘He strikes me with his sword!’ | |
| And his bitter curse in dying | |
| On his hardened son was poured.” | |
| |
| The parricide student ponders, | |
| But word he utters not; | 90 |
| He leaves the house and wanders | |
| To a lone and desolate spot. | |
| With scissors he there divests his | |
| Proud head of its clustering hair, | |
| And low on his hands he rests his | 95 |
| Shorn skull and temples bare. | |
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| And now what chant funereal, | |
| What feasters, fill the house? | |
| Their chant is a dirge of burial, | |
| Their feast a death-carouse. | 100 |
| They drain the funeral-bowl off, | |
| And chorus in accents vague | |
| A hymn to the rest of the soul of | |
| The penitent Student of Prague. | |
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