MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

       Table of Contents

      Let me sing Germania’s glory!

       Hearken to my noblest strains!

       While my spirit tells the story,

       Thrilling bliss runs through my veins.

      Time’s book is before me lying,

       All things that have happened here,

       Good with Evil ever vying—

       All before my gaze stands clear.

      From the Frenchman’s distant nation

       Hell approach’d, with impious hand,

       Bringing shame and desecration

       On our much-loved German land.

      All our faith and virtue soiling,

       All our heavenly yearnings fled,

       All we deemed of worth, despoiling—

       Giving sin and pain instead.

      German shame to gild refusing,

       Dark the German sun soon grew,

       And a mournful voice accusing

       Pierced the German oak trees through.

      Now the sun once more is glancing,

       And the oak trees roar with joy;

       The avengers are advancing,

       Shame and sorrow to destroy.

      And deceit’s proud altars hateful

       Totter, fall with hideous sound;

       Every German heart is grateful,

       Free is German holy ground.

      See’st the glare yon mount illuming?

       Say, what can that wild flame be?

       Yes! that fire proclaims the blooming

       Image pure of Germany.

      From the night of sin emerging

       Germany uninjured stands;

       Wildly is the spot still surging,

       Where that fair form burst her bands.

      On the old oak’s stems in splendour

       Glorious blossoms fast unfold;

       Foreign blossoms fall, and tender

       Breezes greet us as of old.

      All that’s virtuous is returning,

       All that’s good appears once more

       And the German, fondly yearning,

       Is exulting as of yore.

      Ancient manners, ancient German

       Virtues, and heroic deeds!

       Valiantly each son of Hermann[3] Waves his sword and proudly bleeds.

      Heroes never doves engender,

       Lionlike is Hermann’s race;

       Yet may love’s religion tender

       Well near valour take its place.

      Germans through their sorrows lonely

       Learnt Christ’s gentle word to prize;

       Their land ’genders brethren only,

       And humanity is wise.

      Once again returns the glorious

       Noble love of minstrel’s song,

       Well becoming the victorious

       Breasts of German heroes strong,

      As they to the war are going

       With the Frank to cross the sword,

       To take signal vengeance glowing

       For their perfidy abhorr’d.

      And at home, no labour heeding,

       Woman plies her gentle hand,

       Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding

       In defence of fatherland.

      In her black dress robed, entrancing

       Looks the beauteous German dame,

       Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing,

       Diamond-girded, too, her frame.

      But a nobler, prouder feeling

       Through me at her vision thrills,

       When, beside the sick-bed kneeling,

       Acts of mercy she fulfils.

      Heavenly angels she resembles

       When the last draught she supplies

       To the wounded man, who trembles,

       Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies.

      He to whom to die ’tis given

       On the battle-field, is blest;

       But a foretaste ’tis of heaven,

       Dying on a woman’s breast.

      Poor, poor sons of France! Fate ever

       Unto you unkind has been;

       On the Seine’s banks, beauty never

Save in search of gold is seen.

      German women! German women!

       What a charm the