Concealed behind departed years, your eyes
Find roses now alone;
And, as the summer tempest quickly flies,
Your heavy sorrows, too, are flown.
From childish sports, to e'en the doctor's hood,
The book of life ye thumb,
And reckon o'er, in light and joyous mood,
Your toils in the gymnasium;
Ye count the oaths that Terence—may he ne'er,
Though buried, calmly slumber!—
Caused you, despite Minelli's notes, to swear,—
Count your wry faces without number.
How, when the dread examinations came,
The boy with terror shook!
How, when the rector had pronounced his name,
The sweat streamed down upon his book!
All this is now involved in mist forever,
The boy is now a man,
And Frederick, wiser grown, discloses never
What little Fritz once loved to plan.
At length—a doctor one's declared to be,—
A regimental one!
And then,—and not too soon,—discover we
That plans soap-bubbles are alone. [68]
Blow on! blow on! and let the bubbles rise,
If but this heart remain!
And if a German laurel as the prize
Of song, 'tis given me to gain!
THE WIRTEMBERGER.
The name of Wirtemberg they hold
To come from Wirth am berg [69], I'm told.
A Wirtemberger who ne'er drinks
No Wirtemberger is, methinks!