’Tis still the same heroic lot,
’Tis still the same old noble stories;
The names are changed, the natures not,—
’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.
And the same issue ’tis once more;
However proudly flaunts the banner,
The hero, as in days of yore,
Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.
This time the oxen and the bear
In firm alliance are united;
Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,
Still more have all our German hopes been blighted.
While very decent beasts are they
Who have in fight become thy masters,
We have, alas! become the prey
Of wolves, swine, dogs,—so great are our disasters.
They howl, grunt, bark,—the victor’s smell
Is such, I fain would do without it;—
But, Poet, hush!—it were as well,
Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.
17. EVIL DREAMS.
In vision once more young and happy, paced I
Near the old country house that used to stand
Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,
Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.
How graceful was her figure! She enchanted
With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;
On her small feet how firmly was she planted,
A form where elegance with vigour vies!
Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!
Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;
Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,
Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.
It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,
I wander not, my reason’s in command;
Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me
She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.