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. . .
"A Shattered Soul" (1896).
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;
