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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843
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2018
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Yet Eberhard's worth, ye bragging carles!
Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles—
A thunder-storm in war.
And Ulrick, too, his noble son,
Ha, ha! his might ye know;
Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son,
Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run,
How stout soe'er the foe!
The Reutling lads with envy saw
Our glories, day by day;
The Reutling lads shall give the law—
The Reutling lads the sword shall draw—
O Lord—how hot were they!
Out Ulrick went and beat them not—
To Eberhard back he came—
A lowering look young Ulrick got—
Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot—
He hung his head for shame.
"Ho—ho"—thought he—"ye rogues beware,
Nor you nor I forget—
For by my father's beard I swear
Your blood shall wash the blot I bear,
And Ulrick pay you yet!"
Soon came the hour! with steeds and men
The battle-field was gay;
Steel closed in steel at Duffingen—
And joyous was our stripling then,
And joyous the hurra!
"The battle lost" our battle-cry;
The foe once more advances:
As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,
We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,
Amidst a night of lances!
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps—
Bright shines his hero-glaive—
Her chase before him Fury keeps,
Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,
And round him—is the Grave!
Woe—woe! it gleams—the sabre-blow—
Swift-sheering down it sped—
Around, brave hearts the buckler throw—
Alas! our boast in dust is low!
Count Eberhard's boy is dead!
Grief checks the rushing Victor-van—
Fierce eyes strange moisture know—
On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan,
"My son is like another man—
March, children, on the Foe!"
And fiery lances whirr'd around,
Revenge, at least, undying—
Above the blood-red clay we bound—
Hurrah! the burghers break their ground,
Through vale and woodland flying!
Back to the camp, behold us throng,
Flags stream, and bugles play—
Woman and child with choral song,
And men, with dance and wine, prolong
The warrior's holyday.
And our old Count—and what doth he?
Before him lies his son,
Within his lone tent, lonelily,
The old man sits with eyes that see
Through one dim tear—his son!
So heart and soul, a loyal band,
Count Eberhard's band, we are!
His front the tower that guards the land,
A thunderbolt his red right hand—
His eye a guiding star!
Then take ye heed—Aha! take heed,
Ye knaves both South and North!
For many a man, both bold in deed
And wise in peace, the land to lead,
Old Swabia has brought forth!
TO A MORALIST
Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms,
And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing,
All Olympus embraced in your arms—
All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles—
A thunder-storm in war.
And Ulrick, too, his noble son,
Ha, ha! his might ye know;
Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son,
Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run,
How stout soe'er the foe!
The Reutling lads with envy saw
Our glories, day by day;
The Reutling lads shall give the law—
The Reutling lads the sword shall draw—
O Lord—how hot were they!
Out Ulrick went and beat them not—
To Eberhard back he came—
A lowering look young Ulrick got—
Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot—
He hung his head for shame.
"Ho—ho"—thought he—"ye rogues beware,
Nor you nor I forget—
For by my father's beard I swear
Your blood shall wash the blot I bear,
And Ulrick pay you yet!"
Soon came the hour! with steeds and men
The battle-field was gay;
Steel closed in steel at Duffingen—
And joyous was our stripling then,
And joyous the hurra!
"The battle lost" our battle-cry;
The foe once more advances:
As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,
We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,
Amidst a night of lances!
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps—
Bright shines his hero-glaive—
Her chase before him Fury keeps,
Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,
And round him—is the Grave!
Woe—woe! it gleams—the sabre-blow—
Swift-sheering down it sped—
Around, brave hearts the buckler throw—
Alas! our boast in dust is low!
Count Eberhard's boy is dead!
Grief checks the rushing Victor-van—
Fierce eyes strange moisture know—
On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan,
"My son is like another man—
March, children, on the Foe!"
And fiery lances whirr'd around,
Revenge, at least, undying—
Above the blood-red clay we bound—
Hurrah! the burghers break their ground,
Through vale and woodland flying!
Back to the camp, behold us throng,
Flags stream, and bugles play—
Woman and child with choral song,
And men, with dance and wine, prolong
The warrior's holyday.
And our old Count—and what doth he?
Before him lies his son,
Within his lone tent, lonelily,
The old man sits with eyes that see
Through one dim tear—his son!
So heart and soul, a loyal band,
Count Eberhard's band, we are!
His front the tower that guards the land,
A thunderbolt his red right hand—
His eye a guiding star!
Then take ye heed—Aha! take heed,
Ye knaves both South and North!
For many a man, both bold in deed
And wise in peace, the land to lead,
Old Swabia has brought forth!
TO A MORALIST
Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms,
And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing,
All Olympus embraced in your arms—
All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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