And turned and passed to other feats,
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe,
While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.
So lie: and let the children play
And sit like flowers upon thy grave
And crown with flowers,—that hardly have
A briefer blooming-tide than they;—
By hurrying years urged on to rest,
As thou within the Mother's breast.
FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.
* * * * *
HERMANN AND THUSNELDA.
Ha! there comes he, with sweat, with blood of Romans,
And dust of the fight all stained! Oh, never
Saw I Hermann so lovely!
Never such fire in his eyes!
Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the Eagle
And the red dripping sword! come, breathe, and rest thee;
Rest thee here in my bosom;
Rest from the terrible fight!
Rest thee, while from thy brow I wipe the big drops,
And the blood from thy cheek!—that cheek, how glowing!
Hermann! Hermann! Thusnelda
Never so loved thee before!
No, not then, when thou first in old oak shadows,
With that manly brown arm didst wildly grasp me!
Spell-bound I read in thy look
That immortality then
Which thou now hast won. Tell to the forests,
Great Augustus, with trembling, amidst his gods now,
Drinks his nectar; for Hermann,
Hermann immortal is found!