The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vi Part 7

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 n.o.ble 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 h.o.a.rd of royal gems You'll win, with none to share it.

Hurrah! how bright the golden crown Will sparkle when you wear it!

ENFANT PERDU[45] (1851)

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. .h.i.t--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.

THE BATTLEFIELD OF HASTINGS[46] (1855)

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.

AsG.o.d and Ailrik, two of his monks, On the mission drear he sped To search for the corse on the battle-plain Among the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y slain."

AsG.o.d 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 and rude.

"They named her thus, because her neck Was once as slim and white As any swan's--when, long ago, She was the king's delight.

"He loved and kissed, forsook, forgot, For such is the way of men.

Time runs his course with a rapid foot; It is sixteen years since then.

"To this woman, brethren, ye shall go, And she will follow you fain To the battle-field; the woman's eye Will not seek the king in vain.

"Thereafter to Waltham Abbey here His body ye shall bring, That Christian burial he may have, While for his soul we sing."

The messengers reached the hut in the wood At the hour of midnight drear.

"Wake, Edith of the Swan's Neck, rise And follow without fear.

"The Duke of Normandy has won The battle, to our bane.

On the field of Hastings, where he fought, The king is lying slain.

"Arise and come with us; we seek His body among the dead.

To Waltham Abbey it shall be borne.

'Twas thus our Abbot said."

The woman arose and girded her gown, And silently went behind The hurrying monks. Her grizzly hair Streamed wildly on the wind.

Barefoot through bog and bush and briar She followed and did not stay, Till Hastings and the cliffs of chalk They saw at dawn of day.

The mist, that like a sheet of white The field of battle cloaked, Melted anon; with hideous din The daws flew up and croaked.

In thousands on the b.l.o.o.d.y plain Lay strewn the piteous corses, Wounded and torn and maimed and stripped, Among the fallen horses.

The woman stopped not for the blood; She waded barefoot through, And from her fixed and staring eyes The arrowy glances flew.

Long, with the panting monks behind, And pausing but to scare The greedy ravens from their food, She searched with eager care.

She searched and toiled the livelong day, Until the night was nigh; Then sudden from her breast there burst A shrill and awful cry.

For on the battle-field at last His body she had found.

She kissed, without a tear or word, The wan face on the ground.