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Translated by J. O. Sargent
“A GOLDEN crown on the worn-out head is a heavy load for me,— | |
| My strong son, Max, the burden will be easier for thee! | |
| The sceptre I wield tremblingly will rest firm in thy hand,”— | |
| The old Emperor was thinking so, and so thought all the land. | |
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| ’T is Max’s coronation. At Aix, in the minster’s nave, | 5 |
| Flash the mitres and the helmets, the silks and velvets wave; | |
| On his brow the holy ointment inaugurates his reign, | |
| And with steady grasp he handles the sword of Charlemagne. | |
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| Behold Cologne’s gray bishop before the altar stand, | |
| Like a true friend and cordial, Old Age now shakes his hand, | 10 |
| Yet firmly and without trembling he places the jewelled crown, | |
| He knows that on a better head priest never set it down. | |
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| The organ has ceased its pealing. There follows a collation, | |
| Where sit the lords and princes,—to crown the coronation! | |
| From urns of silver gurgle streams of refreshing wine, | 15 |
| And blue clouds are curling upwards where the golden platters shine. | |
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| The Palatine swung the goblet, and rose to a taunting toast: | |
| “To old father Rhine, a bumper! for who, my lords, will boast | |
| That he can show a jewel, in all his broad domain, | |
| Which, like my purple vintage, can fire the heart and brain?” | 20 |
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| Then the princes in succession praise the kingdom and the throne, | |
| The old Emperor praises Austria, and each one lands his own; | |
| To the Bishop his great minster the world’s great marvel seems; | |
| And Louis of Bavaria lauds her meadows and blue streams. | |
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| From Saxony, Sir Albert says, “In sooth, my treasures shine | 25 |
| As ores of gold and iron, in the dark shafts of the mine; | |
| The gold our women teaches to be refined and pure, | |
| The iron makes our manhood reliable and sure.” | |
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| Then spake the Wurtemberger, Count Everhard of the Beard, | |
| “Such jewels in my country have never yet appeared; | 30 |
| But there ’s not in all its borders a wilderness so deep, | |
| That, on a subject’s pillow there, I could not safely sleep.” | |
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| Max once in such a contest would have had a word to say; | |
| But now the dark earth buries all the brightness of his day: | |
| In melancholy silence a moment lost he stands. | 35 |
| In his own, then, gently presses the Wurtemberger’s hands. | |
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