Ueber mein Bett erhebt sich ein Baum,
    Drin singt die junge Nachtigall;
    Sie singt von lauter Liebe,
    Ich hoer’ es sogar im Traum.

Lenau’s lyrics have shown that much Weltschmerz may grow out of unsatisfied love; Heine’s demonstrate that mere love sickness is not Weltschmerz.  The fact is that Heine frequently destroys what would have been a certain impression of Weltschmerz by forcing upon us the immediate cause of his distemper,—­it may be a real injury, or merely a passing annoyance.  What a strange mixture of acrimonious, sarcastic protest and Weltschmerz elements we find in the poem “Ruhelechzend"[214] of which a few stanzas will serve to illustrate.  Again he strikes a full minor chord: 

    Las bluten deine Wunden, lass
    Die Thraenen fliessen unaufhaltsam;
    Geheime Wollust schwelgt im Schmerz,
    Und Weinen ist ein suesser Balsam.

This in practice rather than in theory is what we observe in Lenau,—­his melancholy satisfaction in nursing his grief,—­and we have promise of a poem of genuine Weltschmerz.  Even through the second and third stanzas this feeling is not destroyed, although the terms “Schelm” and “Toelpel” gently arouse our suspicion: 

    Des Tages Laerm verhallt, es steigt
    Die Nacht herab mit langen Floehren. 
    In ihrem Schosse wird kein Schelm,
    Kein Toelpel deine Ruhe stoeren.

But the very next stanza brings the transition from the sublime to the ridiculous: 

    Hier bist du sicher vor Musik,
    Vor des Pianofortes Folter,
    Und vor der grossen Oper Pracht
    Und schrecklichem Bravourgepolter.

* * * * *

    O Grab, du bist das Paradies
    Fuer poebelscheue, zarte Ohren—­
    Der Tod ist gut, doch besser waer’s,
    Die Mutter haett’ uns nie geboren.

It is scarcely necessary to point out that the specific cause which the poet confides to us of his “wounds, tears and pains” is ridiculously unimportant as compared with the conclusion which he draws in the last two lines.

Evidently then, he does not wish us to take him seriously, nor could we, if he did.  Thus in their very attitude toward the ills and vexations of life, there appears a most essential difference between Lenau and Heine.  Auerbach aptly remarks:  “Spott und Satire verkleinern, Zorn und Hass vergroessern das Object."[215] And Lenau knew no satire; where Heine scoffed and ridiculed, he hated and scorned, with a hatred that only contributed to his own undoing.  With Heine the satire’s the thing, whether of himself or of others, and to this he willingly sacrifices the lofty sentiments of which he is capable.  Indeed he frequently introduces these for no other purpose than to make the laugh or grimace all the more striking.  And with reference to his love affair with Amalie, while the question as to the reality and depth of his feelings may be left entirely out of discussion,