Classic Poem

O Germany, so far, so dear,
Thy memory dims mine eye with woe!
This merry France seems sad and drear,
Her lightsome folk a burden grow.

'Tis reason only, cold and bare,
In witty Paris that is crowned—
O foolish bells! O bells of prayer!
Yonder at home how sweet ye sound!

These men how mannerly! And yet
Their courteous bow I take amiss.—
The rudeness that of old I met
Where I was born, was joy, to this.

These smiling women! For their lives
They chatter like a turning mill!
Give me the silent German wives,
That go to bed demure and still.

Here round and round in frantic chase
Things whirl as in a dream, and move!
There all seems nailed into its place,
And glides along the ancient groove.

The watchman's horn, I hear it blow:
Familiar, faint, from far it hails;
The watchman's song, I hear it grow
And mingle with the nightingale's.

Those were the poet's golden times,
'Neath Schilda's oaks of shadowy boon;
Where once I wove my tender rhymes
From the violet's breath and the light o' the moon.