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The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07
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He hurled the king's heart down.
Each made the cross with his left thumb,
The right hand held the lance,
No fear had they though fiends had come
To check their bold advance.
A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
And mad death raging around—
But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light
From the desert there came no sound.
For the pride of the east was there laid low
In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
And the sand so red in the afterglow
Would never be white again.
Of all the heathen, by God's good grace
Not one had escaped that harm,
Short patience have men of the Scottish race
And ever a long sword-arm!
But where had been the fellest strife,
There lay in the moonlight clear
The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
By a hellish heathen spear.
All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
And finished his mortal smart.
Yet under his shield he clasped once more
King Robert Bruce's heart.
* * * * *
GEORG HERWEGH
THE STIRRUP-CUP[49 - Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.] (1840)
The anxious night is gone at last,
Silent and mute we gallop past
And ride to our destiny.
How keen the morning breezes blow!
Hostess, one glass more ere we go,
We go to die!
Thou soft young grass, why now so green?
Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen,
My blood thee red shall dye.
The first quick sip with sword in hand
I drink, a toast to our native land,
For our native land to die.
Now for the next, the time is short,
The next to Freedom, the queen we court,—
The fiery cup drain dry!
These dregs—to whom shall we dedicate?
To thee, Imperial German State,
For the German State to die!
My sweetheart!—But there's no more wine—
The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine—
To her the glass where the fragments lie!
Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray!
O horseman's joy, at the break of day,
At the break of day to die!
* * * * *
EMANUEL GEIBEL
THE WATCHMAN'S SONG[50 - Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.] (1840)
Wake—awake! The cry rings out;
From the high watch-tower comes the shout.
Awake, imperial German land—
Ye by distant Danube dwelling,
And where the infant Rhine is swelling,
And where the bleak dunes pile their sand!
For hearth and home keep watch,
Sword from its scabbard snatch;
Every hour
For bitter fight
Prepare aright—
The day of combat is in sight!
Hear in the East the ominous cry
That tells a greedy foe draws nigh—
The vulture, thirsting for the strife.
Hear in the west the serpent's hiss
Whose siren-fangs are set for this,
To poison all your virtuous life.
Near is the vulture's swoop;
The serpent coils to stoop
For the stroke;
Then watch and pray
Until the day—
Your swords be sharpened for the fray!
Pure in life, in faith as strong,
Let no man do your courage wrong;
Each made the cross with his left thumb,
The right hand held the lance,
No fear had they though fiends had come
To check their bold advance.
A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
And mad death raging around—
But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light
From the desert there came no sound.
For the pride of the east was there laid low
In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
And the sand so red in the afterglow
Would never be white again.
Of all the heathen, by God's good grace
Not one had escaped that harm,
Short patience have men of the Scottish race
And ever a long sword-arm!
But where had been the fellest strife,
There lay in the moonlight clear
The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
By a hellish heathen spear.
All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
And finished his mortal smart.
Yet under his shield he clasped once more
King Robert Bruce's heart.
* * * * *
GEORG HERWEGH
THE STIRRUP-CUP[49 - Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.] (1840)
The anxious night is gone at last,
Silent and mute we gallop past
And ride to our destiny.
How keen the morning breezes blow!
Hostess, one glass more ere we go,
We go to die!
Thou soft young grass, why now so green?
Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen,
My blood thee red shall dye.
The first quick sip with sword in hand
I drink, a toast to our native land,
For our native land to die.
Now for the next, the time is short,
The next to Freedom, the queen we court,—
The fiery cup drain dry!
These dregs—to whom shall we dedicate?
To thee, Imperial German State,
For the German State to die!
My sweetheart!—But there's no more wine—
The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine—
To her the glass where the fragments lie!
Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray!
O horseman's joy, at the break of day,
At the break of day to die!
* * * * *
EMANUEL GEIBEL
THE WATCHMAN'S SONG[50 - Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.] (1840)
Wake—awake! The cry rings out;
From the high watch-tower comes the shout.
Awake, imperial German land—
Ye by distant Danube dwelling,
And where the infant Rhine is swelling,
And where the bleak dunes pile their sand!
For hearth and home keep watch,
Sword from its scabbard snatch;
Every hour
For bitter fight
Prepare aright—
The day of combat is in sight!
Hear in the East the ominous cry
That tells a greedy foe draws nigh—
The vulture, thirsting for the strife.
Hear in the west the serpent's hiss
Whose siren-fangs are set for this,
To poison all your virtuous life.
Near is the vulture's swoop;
The serpent coils to stoop
For the stroke;
Then watch and pray
Until the day—
Your swords be sharpened for the fray!
Pure in life, in faith as strong,
Let no man do your courage wrong;
