Song of One Eleven Years in Prison

WHENE’ER with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I ’m rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds:] Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in— Alas, Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.] Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languished at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in! My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wert the daughter of my tu- tor, law-professor at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall I see the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]