And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, "Ye may no more contend, -
There lies the happiest land!”

From the German. Tr. H. W. Longfellow.

YES,

GERMANY.

ES, Germany is Hamlet! Lo!
Upon her ramparts every night
There stalks in silence, grim and slow,
Her buried Freedom's steel-clad sprite,
Beckoning the warders watching there,

And to the shrinking doubter saying:
"They've dropt fell poison in mine ear,
Draw thou the sword! no more delaying!

He listens, and his blood runs cold;
The horrid truth, at length laid bare,
Drives him to be the avenger bold,
But will he ever really dare?
He ponders, dreams, but at his need.
No counsel comes, firm purpose granting,
Still for the prompt, courageous deed
The prompt, courageous soul is wanting.

It comes from loitering overmuch,

Lounging, and reading, tired to death; Sloth holds him in its iron clutch,

66

He's grown too fat and scant of breath."

His learning gives him little aid,
His boldest act is only thinking;
Too long in Wittenberg he stayed
Attending lectures, maybe, drinking.

And so his resolution fails,

Madness he feigns, thus gaining time, Soliloquizes too, and rails,

And curses "time and "spite" in rhyme. A pantomime must help him, too,

And when he does fight, somewhat later, Why, then, Polonius Kotzebue

Receives the stab, and not the traitor.

So he endures, thus dreamily,
With secret self-contempt, his pain :
He lets them send him o'er the sea,

And, sharp in speech, comes home again; Jeers right and left, his hints are dark, Talks of a "king of shreds and patches," But for a deed? God save the mark!

No deed from all his talk he hatches.

At last he gets the courage lacked,
He grasps the sword to keep his vow,
But ah! 't is in the final Act,

And only serves to lay him low.
With those his hate has overcome,
Scourging at last their black demerits,
He dies, and then with tuck of drum
Comes Fortinbras, and all inherits.

Thank God! we've not yet come to this,
The first four acts have been played through;
See, lest the parallel there is

Be in the Fifth Act borne out too.

Early and late we hope, and pray :

O hero, come, no more delaying, Gird up your loins, act while you may, The spectre's solemn call obeying.

O, seize the moment, strike to-day,
There still is time, fulfil your part
Ere with his poisoned rapier's play

A French Laertes find your heart.
Let not a Northern army clutch

Your rightful heritage beforehand. Beware! And yet I doubt me much

If next the foe will come from Norland.

Resolve, and put fresh courage on!

Enter the lists, make good your boast! Think on the oath that you have sworn; Avenge, avenge your father's ghost! Why thus forever dilly-dally?

Yet- - dare I scold?

I'm, after all, a piece of thee,"

Thou ever-loitering, lingering schemer!

Ferdinand Freiligrath. Tr. A. L. Wister.

BEFORE

MY NATIVE LAND.

all lands, in east or west,

I love my native land the best;
With God's best gifts 't is teeming ;
No gold or jewels here are found,
Yet men of noble soul abound,
And eyes of joy are gleaming.

Before all tongues, in east or west,
I love my native tongue the best;
Though not so smoothly spoken,
Nor woven with Italian art,

Yet when it speaks from heart to heart,
The word is never broken.

Before all people, east or west,
I love my countrymen the best,
A race of noble spirit.

A vigorous mind, a generous heart
To virtue bound, yet free from art,
They from their sires inherit.

To east and west I reach my hand;
My heart I give my native land;
I seek her good, her glory;

I honor every nation's name,

Respect their fortunes and their fame,

But I love the land that bore me.

Georg Philipp Schmidt. Tr. C. T. Brooks.

GERMANY.

Aix-la-Chapelle (Aachen).

MAXIMILIAN, ROMAN KING.

GOLDEN crown on the worn-out head is a heavy

"A load for me,

My strong son, Max, the burden will be easier for

thee!

The sceptre I wield tremblingly will rest firm in thy

hand,"

The old Emperor was thinking so, and so thought all the land.

"T is Max's coronation. At Aix, in the minster's nave, Flash the mitres and the helmets, the silks and velvets wave;

On his brow the holy ointment inaugurates his reign, And with steady grasp he handles the sword of Charlemagne.

Behold Cologne's gray bishop before the altar stand, Like a true friend and cordial, Old Age now shakes his hand,