DAY Kunersdorf. THE FIELD OF KUNERSDORF. AY is exiled from the Land of Twilight; Leaf and flower are drooping in the wood, And the stars, as in a dark-stained skylight, Glass their ancient glory in the flood. Let me here where night-winds through the yew sing, Where the moon is chary of her beams— Consecrate an hour to mournful musing Over man and man's delirious dreams. Let mine eye look down from hence on yonder Over Kunersdorf, that place of skulls! Dost thou reillume these wastes, O Summer? Here, within the houses of thy flowers? Since that dark day of redundant slaughter, When the blood of men flowed here like oil? Ah, yes! Nature, and thou, God of Nature, Here saw Frederick fall his bravest warriors; Dupe thy memory of that ghastly day! Could the Graces, could the Muses, render Smooth and bright a corse-o'ercovered way! No! the accusing blood-beads ever trickle Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown: Men fell here as corn before the sickle, Fell to aggrandize thy false renown! Here the veteran dropped beside the springald, Here sank strength, and symmetry in line, Here crushed hope and gasping valor mingled; And, destroyer, the wild work was thine! Whence is then this destiny funereal? What this tide of being's flow and ebb? Vainly ask me! Dim age calls to dim age! Storm-clouds lower and muster in the distance Time, upon the far shore of existence, Down-bowed by the all-worn, unworn yoke: Birth, life, death!— the silence, flash, and smoke! Here, then, Frederick, formidable sovereign ! Ere the sternness shall lay down, to darken, Of the slain who perished here through thee; Gathered from the baleful cypress-tree! Lofty souls disdain or dread the laurel; Ere the charnel-worms had shared his flesh ! Though the rill roll down from life's green mountain "All which is not pure shall melt and wither. And where man is, truth shall trace him thither, Kyffhäuser Mountains. FRIEDRICH ROTHBART. AR within the lone Kyffhäuser, FAR With a lamp red glimmering by Covered with a purple mantle, And in armor glancing bright, On his features, calm yet earnest, And his beard, so long and golden, Here, like brazen statues standing, Henry, he of Ofterdingen, Mid the silent ranks is there, By his side his harp reclineth, All is silent, save the moisture Till the eagle's mighty pinions. Round the mountain-summit play, At whose rush the swarming ravens, Quick affrighted, flee away. Comes a sound like far-off thunder, Rolling through the mountain then, And the emperor grasps his sword-hilt, And the knights awake again. |