Der ein solches Kleinod weiss.
Mir ist wohl bei tiefstem Schmerz
Denn ich weiss ein treues Herz.
To call a faithful heart thine own
That’s life’s true and only pleasure,
And happy is the man alone
To whom was given such a treasure.
The deepest anguish does not smart
For I know a faithful heart.”
This poem was written at the time, when the tempests of the Thirty Years’ War swept over Germany, ruining that country beyond recognition. Hundreds of cities and villages were burned by Spanish, Italian, Hungarian, Dutch and Swedish soldiers, who made the unfortunate country their battleground. Of the seventeen million inhabitants thirteen millions were killed or swept away by starvation and the pest. Agriculture, commerce, industries and arts were annihilated. Of many villages nothing remained but their names. According to the chronicles of these times, one could wander for many miles without seeing a living creature except wolves and raven. All joy and happiness, in which the German people had been so rich, were extinguished. To women the cup of sorrow would never become empty, as hate, revenge, cruelty, and the lowest passions combined to fill their lives with endless mental and physical agonies.