The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

And ships 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 lasses,
Alone for hours I gathered flowers
And bound them together with grasses.
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?

* * * * *

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45 - Pall Mall Gazette, London. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.] (July, 1848)

The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow,
You raised us on the bloody 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 shine,
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 bloody 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 bloody 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 apron's folds? Out with it, fierce and bold!
The second, final war with all who Freedom would withhold!