The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Oh, land of tents and arrows flying!
Oh, desert people brave and wise!
Thou Arab on thy steed relying,-- A poem in fantastic guise!
Here in the dark I roam so blindly-- How cunning is the North, and cold!
Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly, To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!
WILD FLOWERS[44] (1840)
Alone I strode where the broad Rhine flowed, The hedge with roses was covered, And wondrous rare through all the air The scent of the vineyards hovered.
The cornflowers blue, the poppies too, Waved in the wheat so proudly!
From a cliff near-by the joyous cry Of a falcon echoed loudly.
Then I thought ere long of the old love song: Ah, would that I were a falcon!
With its melody as a falcon free, And daring, too, as a falcon.
As I sang, thought I: Toward the sun I'll fly, The very tune shall upbear me To her window small with a bolt in the wall, Where I'll beat till she shall hear me.
Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave, And s.h.i.+ps by the bank are lying, Two brown eyes dream o'er the lazy stream-- Oh, thither would I be flying!
With talons long and strange wild song I'd perch me at her feet then, Or bold I'd spread my wings o'er her head, And gladly we should greet then.
Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang, No pinions had I to aid me; I took my path through the corn in wrath-- So restless my love had made me.
Then branch and tree all ruthlessly I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn I sank down, weary and panting.
While I heard the sound from all around Of frolicking lads and la.s.ses, Alone for hours I gathered flowers And bound them together with gra.s.ses.
O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!-- Though many a girl despise it, Yet come there may the happy day When thou, my love, shalt prize it.
In fitting place it well might grace An honest farmer's dwelling These cornflowers mild and poppies wild, With others past my telling; The osier fine, the blossoming vine, The meadow-sweetening clover-- All vagrant stuff, and like enough To him, thy vagrant lover.
His dark eye beams, his visage gleams, His clenched hand--how it trembles!
His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns, His brow the storm resembles.
He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast-- His weeds and he rejected!
His flowers, oh, see!--shall they and he Lie here at thy door neglected?
[Ill.u.s.tration: DEATH ON THE BARRICADE ALFRED RETHEL]
THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45] (July, 1848)
The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow, You raised us on the b.l.o.o.d.y planks with wild and wrathful vow!
High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain Might be an endless curse to _him_, at whose word we were slain; That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight's s.h.i.+ne, Whether he turns his Bible's leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine; That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned, A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned; That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound, Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound; That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear; That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear-- Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown, Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on b.l.o.o.d.y scaffold down!
Thus, with the bullet in the breast, the gash upon the brow, You laid us at the altar's foot, with deep and solemn vow!
"Come down!" ye cried--he trembling came--even to our b.l.o.o.d.y bed; "Uncover!" and 'twas tamely done!--(like a mean puppet led, Sank he whose life had been a farce, with fear unwonted shaken).
Meanwhile his army fled the field, which, dying, we had taken!
Loudly in "_Jesus, thou my trust_!" the anthem'd voices peal; Why did the victor-crowds forget the sterner trust of steel?
That morning followed on the night when we together fell, And when ye made our burial, there was triumph in the knell!
Though crushed behind the barricades, and scarred in every limb, The pride of conscious Victory lay on our foreheads grim!
We thought: the price is dearly paid, but the treasures _must_ be true, And rested calmly in the graves we swore to fill for you!
Alas! for you--we were deceived! Four moons have scarcely run, Since cowardly you've forfeited what we so bravely won!
Squandered and cast to every wind the gain our death had brought!
Aye, all, we know--each word and deed our spirit-ears have caught!
Like waves came thundering every sound of wrong the country through: The foolish war with Denmark! Poland betrayed anew!
The vengeance of Vendean men in many a province stern!
The calling back of banished troops! The Prince's base return!
Wherever barricades were built, the lock on press and tongue!
On the free right of all debate, the daily-practised wrong!
The groaning clang of prison-doors in North and South afar!
For all who plead the People's right, Oppression's ancient bar!
The bond with Russia's Cossacks! The slander fierce and loud, Alas! that has become your share, instead of laurels proud-- Ye who have borne the hardest brunt, that Freedom might advance, Victorious in defeat and death--June-warriors of France!
Yes, wrong and treason everywhere, the Elbe and Rhine beside, And beat, oh German men! your hearts, with calm and sluggish tide?
_No war within your ap.r.o.n's folds_? Out with it, fierce and bold!
The second, final war with all who Freedom would withhold!
Shout: "The Republic!" till it drowns the chiming minster bells, Whose sound this swindle of your rights by crafty Austria tells!
In vain! 'Tis time your faltering hands should disentomb us yet, And lift us on the planks, begirt with many a bayonet; Not to the palace-court, as then, that _he_ may near us stand-- No; to the tent, the market-place, and through the wakening land!
Out through the broad land bear us--the dead Insurgents sent, To join, upon our ghastly biers, the German Parliament.
Oh solemn sight! there we should lie, the grave-earth on each brow, And faces sunken in decay--the proper Regents now!
There we should lie and say to you: "Ere we could waste away, Your Freedom-gift, ye archons brave, is rotting in decay!
The Corn is housed which burst the sod, when the March sun on us shone, But before all other harvests was Freedom's March-seed mown!
Chance poppies, which the sickle spared, among the stubbles stand; Oh, would that Wrath, the crimson Wrath, thus blossomed in the land!"
And yet, it _does_ remain; it springs behind the reaper's track; Too much had been already gained, too much been stolen back; Too much of scorn, too much of shame, heaped daily on your head-- Wrath and Revenge _must_ still be left, believe it, from the Dead!
It _does_ remain, and it awakes--it shall and must awake!
The Revolution, half complete, yet wholly forth will break.
It waits the hour to rise in power, like an up-rolling storm, With lifted arms and streaming hair--a wild and mighty form!
It grasps the rusted gun once more, and swings the battered blade, While the red banners flap the air from every barricade!
Those banners lead the German Guards--the armies of the Free-- Till Princes fly their blazing thrones and hasten towards the sea!
The boding eagles leave the land--the lion's claws are shorn-- The sovereign People, roused and bold, await the Future's morn!
Now, till the wakening hour shall strike, we keep our scorn and wrath For you, ye Living! who have dared to falter on your path!
Up, and prepare--_keep watch in arms!_ Oh, make the German sod, Above our stiffened forms, all free, and blest by Freedom's G.o.d; That this one bitter thought no more disturb us in our graves: "_They once were free--they fell--and now, forever they are Slaves!_"
HURRAH, GERMANIA![46] (July 25, 1870)
Hurrah! thou lady proud and fair, Hurrah! Germania mine!
What fire is in thine eye, as there Thou bendest o'er the Rhine!
How in July's full blaze dost thou Flash forth thy sword, and go, With heart elate and knitted brow, To strike the invader low!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah! Germania!
No thought hadst thou, so calm and light, Of war or battle plain, But on thy broad fields, waving bright, Didst mow the golden grain, With clas.h.i.+ng sickles, wreaths of corn, Thy sheaves didst garner in, When, hark! across the Rhine War's horn Breaks through the merry din!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
