LIKE lordliest Day, that to each crannied rafter

Of Life's great hall would pierce, was Goethe's Muse.

Like emerald twilight, when no heavenly dews

Assuage its bosom, Heine shimmered after

Heine, who flung himself with antic laughter,

In elfin armour of chameleon hues,

Full on Philistia's never conquered thews,

The gates of Gaza, and the sons of Caphtur!

Then did unstarry night succeed to that

Rich-tinted dusk ; and no large, mastering strain,

No nightingale's incomparable pain,

Goldenly stormed the silence; but there sat

Nietzsche the loveless, like a vampire bat,

Malign on the broad breast of Allemaine.