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

        Poor Peter wanders slowly by;

        So pale is he, so dull and shy,

        The very neighbors in the street

        Turn round to gaze, when him they meet.

        The maids speak low: "He looks, I ween,

        As though the grave his bed had been."

        Ah no, good maids, ye should have said

        "The grave will soon become his bed."

        He lost his sweetheart—so, may be,

        The grave is best for such as he;

        There he may sleep the years away,

        And rest until the Judgment-day.

        To France were traveling two grenadiers,

          From prison in Russia returning,

        And when they came to the German frontiers,

          They hung down their heads in mourning.

        There came the heart-breaking news to their ears

          That France was by fortune forsaken;

        Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers,

          And Napoleon, Napoleon was taken.

        Then wept together those two grenadiers

          O'er their country's departed glory;

        "Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears,

          "My old wound—how it burns at the story!"

        The other said: "The end has come,

          What avails any longer living

        Yet have I a wife and child at home,

          For an absent father grieving.

        "Who cares for wife? Who cares for child?

          Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken;

        Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild,

          For Napoleon, Napoleon is taken!

        "Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer,

          When death my eyes is closing:

        Take me to France, and bury me there;

          In France be my ashes reposing.

        "This cross of the Legion of Honor bright,

          Let it lie near my heart, upon me;

        Give me my musket in my hand,

          And gird my sabre on me.

        "So will I lie, and arise no more,

          My watch like a sentinel keeping,

        Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar,

          And the squadrons above me sweeping.

        "Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave,

          With their eagles o'er him bending,

        And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave,

          Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"

        To midnight now the night drew on;

        In slumber deep lay Babylon.

        The King's house only was all aflare,

        For the King's wild crew were at revel there.

        Up there in the King's own banquet hall,

        Belshazzar held royal festival.

        The satraps were marshaled in glittering line

        And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.

        The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras

        in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.

        The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed,

        The wine made swell his heart with pride.

        Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred,

        And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,

        And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd

        Of servile courtiers applauding loud.

        The King commanded with haughty stare;

        The slave was gone, and again was there.

        Much wealth of gold on his head bare he;

        'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.

        And the King took hold of a sacred cup

        With his impious hand, and they filled it up;

        And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught,

        And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:

        "Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon;

        I am the King of Babylon!"

        But scarce had the awful words been said

        When the King's heart withered with secret dread.

        The boisterous laughter was stifled all,

        And corpselike still did wax the hall;

        Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came

        The likeness of a man's hand in flame,

        And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,

        And wrote and vanished, and no more came.

        The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,

        With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,

        The satraps' blood ran cold—none stirred;

        They sat like statues, without a word.

        The Magians came; but none of them all

        Could read those letters of flame on the wall.

        But in that same night of his vaunting vain

        By