ngs of his pain rather than of its immediate
causes, and the result is an atmosphere of Weltschmerz.

Turning to Heine's later poems, especially to the "Romanzero," we find
that atmosphere much more perceptible. But even here the poet is for the
most part specific, and his method concrete. So for instance in "Der
Dichter Firdusi"[216] in which he tells a story to illustrate his belief
that merit is appreciated and rewarded only after the death of the one
who should have reaped the reward. So also in "Weltlauf,"[217] the first
stanza of which suggests a poetic rendering of Matth. 13:12, "For
whosoever hath, to him shall be given and he shall have more abundance;
but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he
hath,"--to which the poet adds a stanza of caustic ironical comment:

Wenn du aber gar nichts hast,
Ach, so lasse dich begraben--
Denn ein Recht zum Leben, Lump,
Haben nur, die etwas haben.

And again, the poem "Lumpentum"[218] presents an ironical eulogy of
flattery. His failure to realize the hopes of his youth is made the
subject of "Verlorne Wuensche"[219] which maintains throughout a strain
of seriousness quite unusual for Heine, and concludes:

Goldne Wuensche! Seifenblasen!
Sie zerrinnen wie mein Leben--
Ach ich liege jetzt am Boden,
Kann mich nimmermehr erheben.

Und Ade! sie sind zerronnen,
Goldne Wuensche, suesses Hoffen!
Ach, zu toetlich war der Faustschlag,
Der mich just ins Herz getroffen.

A number of these lyrics from the Romanzero show very strikingly Heine's
objective treatment of his poems of complaint. Such selections as "Sie
erlischt,"[220] in which he compares his soul to the last flicker of a
lamp in the darkened theater, or "Frau Sorge,"[221] which gives us the
personification of care, represented as a nurse watching by his bedside,
bring his objective method into marked contrast with Hoelderlin's
subjective Weltschmerz. The same may be said of his autobiography in
miniature, "Rueckschau,"[222] which catalogues the poet's experiences,
pleasant and adverse, with evident sincerity though of course with a
liberal admixture of witty irony. Needless to say there is no real
Weltschmerz discoverable in such a pot pourri as the following:

Die Glieder sind mir rheumatisch gelaehmt,
Und meine Seele ist tief beschaemt.

* * * * *

Ich ward getraenkt mit Bitternissen,
Und grausam