Classic Poem

Ne'er clothed with shame shall minstrels hence depart,
Tho' warlike hosts advance their weapons' sheen;
Not yet the bard's is deemed a sordid art,
He dares by sword and lance fresh honours glean.
That Northern storm doth awful lightnings dart,
Yet makes him for the strife more fresh and keen.
Wouldst thou thro' hostile camps, O harper, stray,
Thou still — with sword in hand — mayst force thy way!
When " Freedom! " " Fatherland! " around him ring,
No sound falls sweeter on the brave man's ear;
Where Freedom's holy flag is fluttering,
Fresh life and strength within the minstrel peer.
Did Æschylus, who of Vict'ry loved to sing,
Or Dante e'er this glorious hazard fear?
Cervantes, of his right hand's use bereft,
Could yet indite Don Quixote with his left.

They too our German Poet-fane that throng,
Have shewn what warlike fire within them reigned;
Full oft are heard these joyous sons of song,
And many a one a ruddy wreath hath gained;
Thou, Wehrman Leo, thou, Black Huntsman strong,
Have both a warrior's glorious death obtained;
And, Fouque, how thy name my heart doth thrill!
Thou'st dared and fought — yet liv'st and singest still!

As Spring returns, we hear the whirlwinds blow,
Earth quakes as marching hosts pursue their way;
And, as swoln streams beyond their confines flow,
So — far from home — our country's warriors stray.
On through terrific scenes the bard doth go,
And storms and waves alike inspire his lay.
Soon Spring shall bloom and Peace bring golden days
With milder breezes and more tender lays.