Past Spasmodics Poem by Alexander Anderson

A life I thought had pass'd away,
With all its old, spasmodic thinking,
When I read Schiller's 'Robber' play,
Came back upon me swift as winking;
And I was Karl again, and lived
Through all my dreams and heats in plenty;
From such sweet crimes let me be shrived,
For I was something short of twenty.


Then grew the world to deeper gloom,
And took all hues to suit my frenzy,
Even Nature seem'd to find a tomb,
And droop, as with the influenza;
For I, the mighty Titan still
(For so I thought myself), was ready
To bend all things to suit my will,
And keep this cosmos rolling steady.


Then I became a robber bold,
A captain of a band, and dwelt in
A cavern, in whose vortex roll'd
Those gloomy colours Rembrandt dealt in.
From thence I waged against my kind
A series of bloodthirsty quarrels,
And at my leisure stored my mind
With 'might was right,' and such-like morals.


I had my own Amalia, too,
Who, when my fellow-kind deserted,
Was still as woman should be—true
To all my freaks, and tender-hearted;
And I—her swarthy worshipper—
Crown'd her with my most daring wishes:
Du liebest mich, I ask'd of her,
And I received for answer—blushes.


Then came another phase again,
And I, with deepest wisdom teeming,
Drew my lone self away from men,
To make them better with my dreaming;
They came in crowds each day to hear
My oracles of pith and rigour;
The Pythia, when her throat was clear,
Could scarce have match'd their point and vigour.


I tired of this, and next I took
The hero's sword and freedom's banner,
And wither'd tyrants with my look,
And slew them in a shocking manner;
I gave my country liberty,
And yet—for gratitude is scanty—
If I remember rightly, I
Was exiled, and I died like Dante.


But wherefore should I lengthen out
This rhyme with those unhealthy fancies
That came when through the glass of doubt
I look'd on life with yellow glances?
And such I thought had pass'd away,
To come no more to set me raving,
Till Schiller, with his nasty play,
Woke up their old and restless craving.


I never read Die Räuber now,
For fear my early youthful madness
Might come and stamp upon my brow
Its most prevailing type of sadness;
But Wilhelm Tell and Wallenstein
I read, and, reading, feel like magic
The old spasmodic fits decline,
And dream no more of being tragic.