Rammed into earth and rotting, where a horseman
May tie his steed up. Then the broken kettle,
And the crack'd pot, still reeking with the odors,
Not fragrant, of the last long by-gone guests.
Its bearer looks suspicious, and the travellers
Rather lie down without, night-frozen, waiting
The morning, or fly hurrying by, impatient
To reach their journey's end, than tarry here.
But when the heaven is veil'd in threatening darkness,
And the fierce battle of the clouds begins,
And lightning, thundering, burst the furious storms,
And the winds rage, and down the torrents rush,
And all the plain becomes a sudden sea—
O, then we are less delicate—O, then
We seek not Farkas,[1] nor Arany-Sas,[2]
Vad-ember,[3] Hét Elector,[4]—satisfied
With something less than best. No quarrel then
With John the waiter, who has left the key
Behind him. No! a little room suffices,
And we judge not the architect. The love
Of gorgeous buildings is a vanity,
And it devours the land—till, ere too late,
They and the country totter. He who seeks
For peace and quiet, will condense his soul,
Narrow his circle, nor extend desire.
These marble church-high walls—these glass-clad pillars,[5]
- ↑ Farkas, the Wolf.
- ↑ Arany-Sas, the Golden Eagle.
- ↑ Vad-ember, the Wild-man.
- ↑ Hét Elector, the Electoral Prince. These are names of celebrated inns at Vienna and Pesth.
- ↑ Trümeauk.
