One single Nero we now should have had,
’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;
Our veins should we have open’d, and so
Defied the bailiffs of slavery.
Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away,
A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;
Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,
And we remain’d still Germans!
We Germans remain, and German we speak,
As we before times have spoken;
An ass is an ass, not asinus,
The Swabian line is unbroken.
Friend Raumer remain’d a German scamp
In our northern German climate;
And Freiligrath no Horace became,
But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.
Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes,
Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,
And drinks no nasty turpentine
Like those lovely Roman charmers.
O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee!
So at Dettmoldt[56] thy friends and extollers
A monument proud of late have design’d,
And towards it I gave a few dollars.
CAPUT XII.
Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on,
When a crash took place, sudden and frightful—
A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,
An occurrence by no means delightful.
The postilion dismounted, and made all haste
To the village for help, and I found me
At midnight alone in the darksome wood,
While a howling I heard all around me.
The wolves it was, who wildly howl’d
With half-starv’d voices all wiry;
Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’d
Their eyes so fierce and fiery.