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

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING45 (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!  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 God;  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 clashing 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!      Hurrah! Germania!  Down sickle then and wreath of wheat    Amidst the corn were cast,  And, starting fiercely to thy feet,    Thy heart beat loud and fast;  Then with a shout I heard thee call:    "Well, since you will, you may!  Up, up, my children, one and all,    On to the Rhine! Away!"      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!      Hurrah! Germania!  From port to port the summons flew,    Rang o'er our German wave;  The Oder on her harness drew,    The Elbe girt on her glaive;  Neckar and Weser swell the tide,    Main flashes to the sun,  Old feuds, old hates are dash'd aside,    All German men are one!      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!      Hurrah! Germania!  Suabian and Prussian, hand in hand,    North, South, one host, one vow!  "What is the German's Fatherland?"    Who asks that question now?  One soul, one arm, one close-knit frame,    One will are we today;  Hurrah, Germania! thou proud dame,    Oh, glorious time, hurrah!      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!      Hurrah! Germania!  Germania now, let come what may,    Will stand unshook through all;  This is our country's festal day;    Now woe betide thee, Gaul!  Woe worth the hour a robber thrust    Thy sword into thy hand!  A curse upon him that we must    Unsheathe our German brand!      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!      Hurrah! Germania!  For home and hearth, for wife and child,    For all loved things that we  Are bound to keep all undefiled    From foreign ruffianry!  For German right, for German speech,    For German household ways,  For German homesteads, all and each,    Strike home through battle's blaze!      Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!      Hurrah! Germania!  Up, Germans, up, with God! The die    Clicks loud—we wait the throw!  Oh, who may think without a sigh    What blood is doom'd to flow?  Yet, look thou up, with fearless heart!    Thou must, thou shalt prevail!  Great, glorious, free as ne'er thou wert,    All hail, Germania, hail!      Hurrah! Victoria!      Hurrah! Germania!* * * * *

THE TRUMPET OF GRAVELOTTE47 (Aug. 16, 1870)

  Death and Destruction they belched forth in vain,    We grimly defied their thunder;  Two columns of foot and batteries twain,    We rode and cleft them asunder.  With brandished sabres, with reins all slack,    Raised standards, and low-couched lances,  Thus we Uhlans and Cuirassiers wildly drove back,    And hotly repelled their advances.  But the ride was a ride of death and of blood;    With our thrusts we forced them to sever;  But of two whole regiments, lusty and good,    Out of two men, one rose never.  With breast shot through, with brow gaping wide,    They lay pale and cold in the valley,  Snatched away in their youth, in their manhood's pride—    Now, Trumpeter, sound to the rally!  And he took the trumpet, whose angry thrill    Urged us on to the glorious battle,  And he blew a blast—but all silent and still    Was the trump, save a dull hoarse rattle,  Save a voiceless wail, save a cry of woe,    That burst forth in fitful throbbing—  A bullet had pierced its metal through,    For the Dead the wounded was sobbing!  For the faithful, the brave, for our brethren all,    For the Watch on the Rhine, true-hearted!  Oh, the sound cut into our inmost soul!—    It brokenly wailed the Departed!  And now fell the night, and we galloped past,    Watch-fires were flaring and flying,  Our chargers snorted, the rain poured fast—    And we thought of the Dead and the Dying!* * * * *

MORITZ GRAF VON STRACHWITZ

DOUGLAS OF THE BLEEDING HEART48 (1842)

  Earl Douglas, don thy helm so bright,    And buckle thy sword with speed,  Bind on thy sharpest spurs to-night    And saddle thy swiftest steed!  "The death watch ticks in the hall of Scone,    All Scotland hears its warning,  King Robert in pains of death does groan,    He'll never see the morning."  For nigh on forty miles they sped    And spoke of words not four,  And horse and spur with blood were red    When they came to the palace door.  King Robert lay at the north tower's turn;    With death he'd begun to battle:  "I hear the sword of Bannockburn    On the stairway clatter and rattle.  "Ha! Welcome in God's name, gallant lord!    My end cometh presently,  And thou shalt harken my latest word    And write down my will for me:  "'Twas on the day of Bannockburn,    When Scotland's star rose high,  'Twas on the day of Bannockburn    That a vow to God vowed I;  "I vowed that, should He defend my right    And give me the victory there,  With a thousand lances I'd go to fight    For His holy sepulchre.  "I'm perjured, for still my heart doth stand,    'Twas broken with care and strife;  The man who would rule o'er the Scottish land    May scarce lead a pilgrim's life.  "But thou, when my voice has sunk to rest,    When grief and glory depart,  Shalt straightway cut from out my breast    My battle-o'erwearied heart.  "Then thou shalt wrap the samite red    And lock it in yellow gold,  And when o'er my bier the mass is said,    Let the flag of the cross be unrolled.  "Take a thousand steeds at thy command    And a thousand knights also,  And carry my heart to the Savior's land    That peace my soul may know."* * * * *  "Make ready, gallants, for the start,    Let plume from helmet sway!  The Douglas bears the Bruce's heart,    And who shall bar his way?  "Now cut the ropes, ye seamen brave    And hoist the sail so free!  The king must to his dark, dark grave,    And we to the dark-blue sea."  Then into the east they sailed away    Full ninety days and nine,  And at the dawn of the hundredth day    They landed in Palestine.  Across the yellow desert they wound    As a shining river might flow,  The sun it pierced through their helmets' round    Like an arrow shot from a bow.  The desert was still, there breathed no gust,    All limply the flags were streaming,  When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust    Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.  The desert was thronged, the din grew loud,    The dust was on every side.  And thick as rain from each bursting cloud    Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.  Ten thousand lances glittered to right,    Ten thousand sparkled to left,  "Allah il Allah!" they shouted to right,    "Il Allah!" they echoed to left.  The Douglas drew his bridle rein,    And still stood earl and knight;  "By the cross on which our Lord was slain    'Twill be a deadly fight!"  A noble chain his neck embraced    In golden windings three.  The locket to his lips he placed    And kissed it fervently:  "Since thou hast ever gone before,    O heart, by night and day,  E'en so today do thou once more    Precede me in the fray.  "And now may God this boon bestow,    As I to thee have been true,  That I may strike a Christian blow    Against this heathen crew."  He threw his shield o'er his left side,    Bound on his helm so proud,  And as to battle he did ride,    He rose and called aloud:  "Who brings this locket back to me    Be his the day's renown!"  Then 'mid the paynims mightily    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-CUP49 (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 SONG50 (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;  Be one, what time the trump shall sound.  Cleanse your souls by fervent prayer,  That so the Lord may find them fair  When He shall make His questioning round,    The Cross be still your pride,    Your banner and your guide      In the battle!    Who in the field    Their fealty yield  To God, victorious weapons wield.  Look Thou down from heaven above,  Thou Whom the angels praise and love—  Be gracious to our German land!  Speak from the clouds with thunder-voice;  Princes and people of Thy choice,  Unite them with a mighty hand.    Be Thou our fortress-tower,    Bring us through danger's hour.      Hallelujah!    Thine is today    And shall alway  Kingdom, and power, and glory stay!* * * * *

THE CALL OF THE ROAD51 (1841)

  Sweet May it is come, and the trees are in bloom—  Who wills may sit listless with sorrow at home!  As the clouds go a-roving up there in the sky,  So away for a life of adventure am I!  Kind father, dear mother, God be with you now!  Who knows what my fortune is waiting to show?  There is many a road that I never have gone,  There is many a wine that I never have known.  Then up with the sun, and away where it leads,  High over the mountains and down through the meads!  The brooks they are singing, the trees hear the call;  My heart's like a lark and sings out with them all.  And at night, when I come to a cozy old nest,  "Mine host, now a bottle—and make it your best!  And you, merry fiddler, tune up for a song,  A song of my sweetheart—I'll help it along!"  If I come to no inn, then my slumber I'll snatch  'Neath the kindly blue sky, with the stars to keep watch.  The trees with their rustling will lull me to sleep;  Dawn's kisses will wake me, and up I shall leap.  Then ho! for the road, and the life that I love,  And God's pure air to cool your hot brow as you rove.  The heart sings for joy in the sun's merry beams—  All, wherefore so lovely, wide world of my dreams?* * * * *

AUTUMN DAYS52 (1845)

  Sunny days of the autumn,    Days that shall make me whole,  When a balm for wounds that were bleeding    Drops silently on the soul!  Now seem the hours to be brooding    In still, beneficent rest,  And with a quieter motion    Heaves now the laboring breast.  To rest from the world's endeavor,    To build on the soul's deep base—  That is my only craving,    In the stillness of love to gaze.  O'er the hills, through the dales I wander,    Where the shy sweet streamlets call,  Following each clear sunbeam,    Whether scorching or kind it fall.  There where the leaves are turning,    I harken with reverent ear;  All that is growing or dying,    Fading or blooming, I hear.  Blissful I learn my lesson—    How through the world's wide sweep  Matter and spirit together    Their concord eternal keep.  What blows in the rustling forest,    Takes life from the sun and rain,  Is a symbol of truth immortal    To the soul that can read it plain.  Each tiniest plant that blossoms    With the perfume of its birth  Holds in its cup the secret    Of the whole mysterious earth.  It looks down from the cliffs in silence,    Speaks in the waves' long swell—  But all its wonderful meaning    The poet alone can tell.* * * * *

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS53 (1856?)

  On Cape Misenum shone a palace fair  Among the laurels by the summer sea;  Long colonnades, and wondrous artistry,  And all that should a gorgeous feast prepare.  Oft saw it scenes of midnight revelry  Where moved soft boys, their brows with ivy crowned,  And silver-footed damsels, capering round,  The thyrsus swung; with merry shouts of glee  And rippling laughter, and the lyre's soft tone,  It rang till fell the dew, and night was gone.  Tonight, how still! But here and there is traced  A lighted window; in the shadowy space  About the doors, slaves throng with awestruck face.  Litters draw nigh, and men spring out in haste;  And as each comes, a question runs its round  Through all the quivering circle of the spies  "What says the leech? How goes it?" Hush—no sound!  The end is near—the fierce old tiger dies!  Up there on purple cushion, in the light  Of flickering lamps, pale Cæsar waits for morn;  His sallow face, by hideous ulcers torn,  Looks ghastlier than was e'er its wont tonight;  Hollow the eyes; the fire of fell disease  And burning fever runs through every limb;  None but the aged leech abides with him,  And Macro, trusted bearer of the keys.  And now, with stifled cry, by fears oppressed,  The sick man feebly throws his coverings off  "Let me, O Greek, a cooling potion quaff!  Ice—ice! Vesuvius burns within my breast.  Gods! how it flames! Yet in my anguished brain  The torturing thoughts burn fiercer far, and worse …  A thousand times their tireless strength I curse,  Yet cannot find refreshment. 'Tis in vain  I cry for Lethe; where the frankincense  Sends up its smoke, from all the ancient wars  The victims lift their faces, seamed with scars,  In grim reproachful gaze to call me hence.  Germanicus—Sejanus—Drusus rise …  Who brought you hither? Has the grave no bars?  Ah, 'tis past bearing, how with corpse-cold eyes  Ye suck the life-blood from me pitilessly!  I know I slew you—but it had to be.  Was it my fault ye threw the losing dice?  Away! Alas—when ends my misery?"  The grave physician held the cup; he drank  Its cooling at a draught, then feebly sank  Among the pillows, still with wandering eye  About the chamber, from his forehead dank  Wiping the dews: "They're gone? No more they try  To fright me? Ah, perchance 'twas but the mist …  Yet often have they come, by night—in what dread guise  None knows but I … Come, sit thee near me … hist!  And let me tell of dim old memories.  "I too was young once, trusted in my star,  Had faith in men; but all the glamour of youth  Vanished too soon—and, piercing to the truth,  I found some evil each fair show to mar.  No thing I saw so high and free from blame  But worms were at its heart; each noble deed  Revealed self-seeking as its primal seed.  Love, honor, virtue—each was but a name!  Naught marked us off, vile creatures of the dust,  From ravening brutes, save on the smiling face  A honeyed falseness—in the heart so base  A craven weakness and a fiercer lust.  Where was a friend had not his friend betrayed  A brother guiltless of a brother's death,  A wife that hid no poisoned sting beneath  A fond embrace? Of one clay all were made!  Thus I became as they. Since only fear  Could tame that crew, I bade its form draw near.  It was a war I waged; I found a joy  Undreamed-of in their death-cries, and in blood  Full ankle-deep I waded—victor stood,  To find at last that horror too could cloy!  Now, grimly bearing what I may not mend,  Remorseless, unconsoled, I wait the end."  His dull voice sank to silence. Moaning low,  He met new pains: cold sweat stood on his brow.  In fearsome change his face the watchers saw  Grow like some hideous mask; till Macro came  Nearer the throne-like couch, and spoke a name  "Shall I thy nephew call—Caligula?  Thy sickness waxes—"                          Hissed the prince in scorn:  "My curse upon thee, viper! What to thee  Is Caius? Still I live! And he was born  To ape the others—lies, greed, roguery,  And aught but manhood. If he had, 'twere vain;  No hero now Rome's downfall may restrain.  If gods there were, upon this ruined soil  No god could bring forth fruit; but that weak lad!  Nay, nay, not him—the spirits stern and sad  That dog my steps and mock at all my coil,  The Furies of the abyss that drive me mad,  Them—them and chaos—leave I of my toil  The heritage. For them the sceptre!"                                       So  Up leaped he as he was, dire agony  Twisting his features, from the window high  Tore back the curtain, cast with frenzied throw  The wand of empire far into the night—  Then, senseless, crumbled.                              In the court below  A soldier stood at guard—a man of might,  Fair-haired and long of limb. Straight to his feet  It rolled, the rounded ivory, and upsprang  From off the polished marble with a clang  That seemed to say 'twas minded him to greet.  He took it up, unknowing what it meant;  And soon his thoughts pursued their former bent.  Of far-off, sombre German woods he dreamed;  He saw the waving tree-tops of the north,  He saw the comrades to their tryst go forth.  Each word true as their own sharp weapons seemed,  As much for friendship as for war their worth.  Then thought he of his wife; he saw her sit  In all the glory of her golden hair  Before their hut, whirling the spindle there  Send forth her thoughts across the leagues to flit  And reach him here. In that same woodland shrine  A merry boy was carving his first spear,  His blue eyes flashing boldly in scorn of fear,  As though he said—"A sword—the world is mine!"  Then swift he saw another vision come  Unbidden, hide the pictures of his home,  Press on his soul with irresistible might—  How once, far in the East, he stood to guard  The cross where hung a Man with visage marred—  And at His death the sun was plunged in night.  Long since, that day had faded in the West;  Yet could he ne'er the Sufferer's look forget—  The deep abyss of infinite sorrow, and yet  The fulness of all blessing it expressed.  Now (what could this portend?) to his old home  He saw that cross a conquering symbol come;  And lo, the assembled tribes of all his race  Innumerable moved, and o'er their host  On all their banners, as their proudest boast,  The same Man's image, a glory round His face …  Sudden he started; from the halls above  Came harsh, quick shouts—the lord of the world was dead!  Awe struck the soldier stared where dawn hung red,  And saw the Future's mighty curtain move.* * * * *