Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot! 
Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be? 
Behind the stove repose thee in quiet! 
My softest cushion I give to thee. 
As thou, up yonder, with running and leaping
Amused us hast, on the mountain’s crest,

So now I take thee into my keeping,
A welcome, but also a silent, guest.

     Ah, when, within our narrow chamber
     The lamp with friendly lustre glows,
     Flames in the breast each faded ember,
     And in the heart, itself that knows. 
     Then Hope again lends sweet assistance,
     And Reason then resumes her speech: 
     One yearns, the rivers of existence,
     The very founts of Life, to reach.

Snarl not, poodle!  To the sound that rises,
The sacred tones that my soul embrace,
This bestial noise is out of place. 
We are used to see, that Man despises
What he never comprehends,
And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends,
Finding them often hard to measure: 
Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure?

But ah!  I feel, though will thereto be stronger,
Contentment flows from out my breast no longer. 
Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us,
And burning thirst again assail us? 
Therein I’ve borne so much probation! 
And yet, this want may be supplied us;
We call the Supernatural to guide us;
We pine and thirst for Revelation,
Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent,
Than here, in our New Testament. 
I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,—­
With honest purpose, once for all,
The hallowed Original
To change to my beloved German.

(He opens a volume, and commences.)
’Tis written:  “In the Beginning was the Word.” 
Here am I balked:  who, now can help afford? 
The Word?—­impossible so high to rate it;
And otherwise must I translate it. 
If by the Spirit I am truly taught. 
Then thus:  “In the Beginning was the Thought”
This first line let me weigh completely,
Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly. 
Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed? 
“In the Beginning was the Power," I read. 
Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested,
That I the sense may not have fairly tested. 
The Spirit aids me:  now I see the light! 
“In the Beginning was the Act,” I write.

If I must share my chamber with thee,
Poodle, stop that howling, prithee! 
Cease to bark and bellow! 
Such a noisy, disturbing fellow
I’ll no longer suffer near me. 
One of us, dost hear me! 
Must leave, I fear me. 
No longer guest-right I bestow;
The door is open, art free to go. 
But what do I see in the creature? 
Is that in the course of nature? 
Is’t actual fact? or Fancy’s shows? 
How long and broad my poodle grows! 
He rises mightily: 
A canine form that cannot be! 
What a spectre I’ve harbored thus! 
He resembles a hippopotamus,
With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see: 
O, now am I sure of thee! 
For all of thy half-hellish brood
The Key of Solomon is good.