Snatches at light in his dismantled brain,
And gropes for cadences, but on a sudden,
They slink away like sullen, sneering lackeys,
Pillage the palace, setting it aflame,
Abandon it and leave their master crazed
And in a fearful bankruptcy of mind
Stretched headlong in some room upon the floor. . .
O master, in this deathless song of thine
There is no trace of gibing at the dogs
Who dragged thee in their crassness and abasement
Setting a felon seal upon thy ruin,—
It does not rail at them who welcomed thee
From Göteborg with craven buffetings,—
O master in this deathless song of thine,
The dreadful end of thy benighted brain
That dashed itself against a madhouse wall.
The ending of the end is lacking yet,
'Tis lacking there, 'tis lacking there, O master,
My master, pardon, but 'tis lacking there. . .
4. TO THEODOR MOMMSEN.
To you, who have treacherously assailed my nation, covetous dotard,
Brutish, overweening! To you, on the brink of the grave,
Arrogant bastard of Roman emperors and conquering Germania;
