Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia Part 3

Revenge! revenge! a gory shroud To tyrants, and the slaves that yield'

Eternal honor calls aloud For courage in the battle-field.

Who loves or fears a conquered land That bows beneath the despot's hand?

And whither flee? Where Winkelried And Tell and Ruyter bravely broke Oppression's power--their country freed-- All--all beneath the usurper's yoke!

From Alpine fountains to the sea The patriot dead alone are free.

My people! in this sorrowing night, The clanking of your chains may be The sign of vengeance, and the fight Of former times the world may see, When Hermann in that storied day As a wild torrent cleft his way.

No idle song, O youth! thy boast.

In self-born virtue be as one Who is himself a mighty host By whose sole arm is victory won.

No blazoned monument so grand As death for the dear Fatherland.

To die! how welcome to the brave!

The tomb awakes no coward fear Save to the wretched, trembling slave Who for his country sheds no tear.

To crown me with a fadeless wreath Be thine, O happy, sacred death!

Come, s.h.i.+ning sword! avenge my dead!

Alone canst thou remove this shame.

Proud ornament! with slaughter red Restore my native land its fame.

By night, by day, in sun or shade, Be girt around me, trusty blade.

The trumpet on the morning gale!

Arm! forward to the b.l.o.o.d.y strife!

From loftiest mountain to the vale Asks dying Freedom for her life.

Our standard raise, to glory given, And higher still our hearts to Heaven.[4]

[Footnote 4: This is one of Arndt's soul-stirring, patriotic hymns, published in 1806. It is difficult to render into readable English this species of German heroic verse so as to preserve its rhythm. All the thought of the original is however expressed in the translation. The only change of any importance is the transposition of the seventh stanza.]

Keine Thrane, Hermann, fur dein Volk?

Keine Thrane, und die Schande brennet, Und der Feind gebietet, we die Freien Siegten und fielen?

Keine Stimme laut, wo Luther sprach?

Alle Donner, die der Himmel sendet, Sollten rufen: Volk erwache! feiges; Greife zum Schwerte.

Rache! Rache! heissen, blut'gen Tod Sklavenfursten und dem Knecht der fliehet!

Mannerwort gefurchtet und gepriesen, Mannliche Tugend!

Ach wohin? wo Winkelried erlag, Wilhelm schlug, und Ruyter tapfer siegte; Auf den hochsten Alpen, in den tiefsten Sumpfen ist Knechtschaft.

Auch du, Hermann's, auch du, kuhnes Volk?

Auf! Erwache! Schuttle deine Ketten, Da.s.s die Schmach die Welt vernehme, bald auch Blutige Rache!

Lieder helfen hier and Maler nicht.

Maler? Tief im Herzen sei das Denkmal, An dem Thurm der selbstgebornen Tugend Hebe dich, Jungling!

Und voran geworfen kuhn die Brust, Und empor das Auge zu dem Himmel, Hoch die Fahne! Hoch zum Himmel! Hoher Flammende Herzen.

Tod, du susser, fur das Vaterland, Susser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes, Sei mir willkommen!

Was das Lied nicht loset, lost das Schwert, Blinkend Heil, umgurte meine Huften!

Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten, Zierde der Tapfern!

Just when the youth had sung the last verse in a ringing voice, he had reached the bush. And now there arose above it two pale heads, wrapped in white, blood-stained handkerchiefs, and sang in enthusiastic tone the last verse of the song they had heard:

Was das Lied nicht loset, lost das Schwert!

Blinkend Heil, umgurte meine Huften!

Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten, Zierde der Tapfern!

CHAPTER III.

THE OATH OF VENGEANCE.

Speechless with surprise, the youth had listened to the song, and fixed his large eyes steadfastly on the two officers, whose uniforms and wounds revealed to him the melancholy fate that had befallen them during the last few days.

When the two were silent, he approached them with an air of profound respect.

"Bravo, officers of Auerstadt or Jena," he said, with a voice trembling with emotion, "permit a poor young wanderer to present his respects to you, and to thank you, in the name of the German fatherland, for the wounds on your foreheads. Such wounds are also an 'ornament of the brave.'" [An allusion to the last line of the original song.]

"And such words are an ornament of a n.o.ble heart," exclaimed Schill, offering his hand to the youth.

He took it with a joyful gesture, and, quickly kneeling down, imprinted a glowing kiss on the feverish hand of the wounded officer.

"My G.o.d!" exclaimed Schill, surprised, "what are you doing? How can a man kiss another's hand and kneel before him? Rise!"

"I am no man," said the youth, deeply moved. "I am but a poor boy, who has not yet done any thing for his country, and, perhaps, never will be able to do any thing for it, but who feels the most profound respect for those who were more fortunate than he. I, therefore, kiss your hand as Catholics kiss the hands of their saints and martyrs. For are you not at the present hour a martyr of German liberty? Hence, sir, give me your hand, too. Let me press my poor lips on it, also. It is the only way for me to manifest my profound respect for you."

"No," said Count Puckler, feelingly, "you shall not kiss my hand, but my cheeks and my lips. Let me embrace you, young man, let me embrace you for the boon you have conferred on us by your words. Come, sir!"

The young man uttered a joyous cry, and, rising quickly, threw himself with youthful impetuosity into the count's arms.

"I will and must have my share in the embrace," exclaimed Schill, smiling; "did not you before expressly request me, comrade, to lend you my left arm for every embrace? Well, then, here it is."

He quickly wound his left arm around the necks of the others, and pressed them firmly to his heart. When they withdrew their arms again, tears were glistening in the eyes of the officers as well as in those of the youth.

"Grief and adversity cause men easily to fraternize," said Schill, "and therefore we shall be brethren henceforward."

"You will be my brethren?" exclaimed the young man, joyfully. "You will permit the poor boy to call two heroes brethren?"

"Heroes!" said Puckler, sighing. "Then you do not know, my friends, that we were disgracefully defeated and trampled under foot in yesterday's battle?"

"I know that, but know also that the _luck_ of battles is not the true standard for the bravery of warriors. _You_ at least did not run, and, like true heroes, you bear your wounds on your foreheads; your mothers, therefore, will proudly bid you welcome; your betrothed or your wives will embrace you with rapturous tears, and your friends will be proud of your valor."

"Does it not seem almost as though he had heard our mournful and despondent words, and wished to comfort us?" asked Schill, turning to the count. "His blue eyes apparently do not behold only our physical wounds, but also those which cause our hearts to bleed, and he wishes to apply a balm to them by his sweet, flattering words."

"He wishes to console the poor defeated, and reconcile them to their fate," said Puckler, nodding kindly to the youth.