The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06. Коллектив авторов

        Germany's still a little child,

          But he's nursed by the sun, though tender;

        He is not suckled on soothing milk,

          But on flames of burning splendor.

        One grows apace on such a diet;

          It fires the blood from languor.

        Ye neighbors' children, have a care

          This urchin how ye anger!

        He is an awkward infant giant;

          The oak by the roots uptearing,

        He'll beat you till your backs are sore,

          And crack your crowns for daring.

        He is like Siegfried, the noble child,

          That song-and-saga wonder;

        Who, when his fabled sword was forged,

          His anvil cleft in sunder!

        To you, who will our Dragon slay,

          Shall Siegfried's strength be given.

        Hurrah! how joyfully your nurse

          Will laugh on you from heaven!

        The Dragon's hoard of royal gems

          You'll win, with none to share it.

        Hurrah! how bright the golden crown

          Will sparkle when you wear it!

        In Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years" and more,

          A lonely outpost have I held—in vain!

        With no triumphant hope or prize in store,

          Without a thought to see my home again.

        I watched both day and night; I could not sleep

          Like my well-tented comrades far behind,

        Though near enough to let their snoring keep

          A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined.

        And thus, when solitude my spirits shook,

          Or fear—for all but fools know fear sometimes—

        To rouse myself and them, I piped and took

          A gay revenge in all my wanton rhymes.

        Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready,

          And when some sneaking rascal showed his head,

        My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady,

          And gave his brains an extra dose of lead.

        But war and justice have far different laws,

          And worthless acts are often done right well;

        The rascals' shots were better than their cause,

          And I was hit—and hit again, and fell!

        That outpost is abandoned; while the one

          Lies in the dust, the rest in troops depart;

        Unconquered—I have done what could be done,

          With sword unbroken, and with broken heart.

        Deeply the Abbot of Waltham sighed

          When he heard the news of woe:

        How King Harold had come to a pitiful end,

          And on Hastings field lay low.

        Asgod and Ailrik, two of his monks,

          On the mission drear he sped

        To search for the corse on the battle-plain

          Among the bloody dead.

        The monks arose and went sadly forth,

          And returned as heavy-hearted.

        "O Father, the world's a bitter world,

          And evil days have started.

        "For fallen, alack! is the better man;

          The Bastard has won, and knaves

        And scutcheoned thieves divide the land,

          And make the freemen slaves.

        "The veriest rascals from Normandy,

          In Britain are lords and sirs.

        I saw a tailor from Bayeux ride

          With a pair of golden spurs.

        "O woe to all who are Saxon born!

          Ye Saxon saints, beware!

        For high in heaven though ye dwell,

          Shame yet may be your share.

        "Ah, now we know what the comet meant

          That rode, blood-red and dire,

        Across the midnight firmament

          This year on a broom of fire.

        "'Twas an evil star, and Hastings' field

          Has fulfilled the omen dread.

        We went upon the battle-plain,

          And sought among the dead.

        "While still there lingered any hope

          We sought, but sought in vain;

        King Harold's corse we could not find

          Among the bloody slain."

        Asgod and Ailrik spake and ceased.

          The Abbot wrung his hands.

        Awhile he pondered, then he sighed,

          "Now mark ye my commands.

        "By the stone of the bard at Grendelfield,

          Just midway through the wood,

        One, Edith of the Swan's Neck, dwells

          In a hovel poor