Chapter 5

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? O my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,-- Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,-- Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh![A]

[Footnote A: Ireland my darling, Ireland forever!]

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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AFTER DEATH.

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story? When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee,

Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee? Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all poets' mouths shall sing thee?

Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom's burning.

Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them 'mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow-- Crying, "O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow.

"Let me join with you the jubilant procession; let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!"

FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL.

* * * * *

CANADA NOT LAST.

AT VENICE.

Lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song, Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and strange: I am the Witch of Cities! glide along My silver streets that never wear by change Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong, And ever sorrow reigning men among. Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee To my illusions. Old and siren strong, I smile immortal, while the mortals flee Who whiten on to death in wooing me.

AT FLORENCE.

Say, what more fair by Arno's bridgèd gleam Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato's slope At eventide, when west along the stream The last of day reflects a silver hope!-- Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:-- The city's mass blent in one hazy cream, The brown Dome 'midst it, and the Lily tower, And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power On this side greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower.

AT ROME.

End of desire to stray I feel would come Though Italy were all fair skies to me, Though France's fields went mad with flowery foam And Blanc put on a special majesty, Not all could match the growing thought of home Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on Rome-- This ancient, modern, mediæval queen-- Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome, Imperial ruin and villa's princely scene Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene.

REFLECTION.

Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint, They reign in robes of magic round me here; But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! I see the fields, I see the autumn hand Of God upon the maples! Answer Him With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! I see the sun break over you: the mist On hills that lift from iron bases grand Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land.

WILLIAM DOUW SCHUYLER-LIGHTHALL.

* * * * *

CANADA.

O child of Nations, giant-limbed, Who stand'st among the nations now, Unheeded, unadored, unhymned, With unanointed brow:

How long the ignoble sloth, how long The trust in greatness not thine own? Surely the lion's brood is strong To front the world alone!

How long the indolence, ere thou dare Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame; Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear A nation's franchise, nation's name?

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire, These are thy manhood's heritage! Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher The place of race and age.

I see to every wind unfurled The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath; Thy swift keels furrow round the world Its blood-red folds beneath;

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas; Thy white sails swell with alien gales; To stream on each remotest breeze The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

O Falterer, let thy past convince Thy future: all the growth, the gain, The fame since Cartier knew thee, since Thy shores beheld Champlain!

Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm! Quebec, thy storied citadel Attest in burning song and psalm How here thy heroes fell!

O Thou that bor'st the battle's brunt At Queenstown, and at Lundy's Lane: On whose scant ranks but iron front The battle broke in vain!

Whose was the danger, whose the day, From whose triumphant throats the cheers, At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauguay, Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?

On soft Pacific slopes,--beside Strange floods that northward rave and fall, Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide,-- Thy sons await thy call.

They wait; but some in exile, some With strangers housed, in stranger lands; And some Canadian lips are dumb Beneath Egyptian sands.

O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields Before us; thy most ancient dreams Are mixed with far Canadian fields And murmur of Canadian streams.

But thou, my Country, dream not thou! Wake, and behold how night is done,-- How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow, Bursts the uprising sun!

CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS.

* * * * *

WHAT IS THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND?

What is the German's fatherland? Is it Prussia, or the Swabian's land? Is it where the grape glows on the Rhine? Where sea-gulls skim the Baltic's brine? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Bavaria, or the Styrian's land? Is it where the Master's cattle graze? Is it the Mark where forges blaze? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Westphalia? Pomerania's strand? Where the sand drifts along the shore? Or where the Danube's surges roar? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name for me that mighty land! Is it Switzerland? or Tyrols, tell;-- The land and people pleased me well! Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name for me that mighty land! Ah! Austria surely it must be, So rich in fame and victory. Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Tell me the name of that great land! Is it the land which princely hate Tore from the Emperor and the State? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name at last that mighty land! "Where'er resounds the German tongue, Where'er its hymns to God are sung!" That is the land, Brave German, that thy fatherland!

That is the German's fatherland! Where binds like oak the claspèd hand, Where truth shines clearly from the eyes, And in the heart affection lies. Be this the land, Brave German, this thy fatherland!

That is the German's fatherland! Where scorn shall foreign trifles brand, Where all are foes whose deeds offend, Where every noble soul's a friend: Be this the land, All Germany shall be the land!

All Germany that land shall be: Watch o'er it, God, and grant that we, With German hearts, in deed and thought, May love it truly as we ought. Be this the land, All Germany shall be the land!

From the German of ERNST MORITZ ARNDT.

* * * * *

PATRIOTIC SONG.

God, who gave iron, purposed ne'er That man should be a slave: Therefore the sabre, sword, and spear In his right hand He gave. Therefore He gave him fiery mood, Fierce speech, and free-born breath, That he might fearlessly the feud Maintain through life and death.

Therefore will we what God did say, With honest truth maintain, And ne'er a fellow-creature slay, A tyrant's pay to gain! But he shall fall by stroke of brand Who fights for sin and shame, And not inherit German land With men of German name.

O Germany, bright fatherland! O German love, so true! Thou sacred land, thou beauteous land, We swear to thee anew! Outlawed, each knave and coward shall The crow and raven feed; But we will to the battle all-- Revenge shall be our meed.

Flash forth, flash forth, whatever can, To bright and flaming life! Now all ye Germans, man for man, Forth to the holy strife! Your hands lift upward to the sky-- Your heart shall upward soar-- And man for man, let each one cry, Our slavery is o'er!

Let sound, let sound, whatever can, Trumpet and fife and drum, This day our sabres, man for man, To stain with blood we come; With hangman's and with Frenchmen's blood, O glorious day of ire, That to all Germans soundeth good-- Day of our great desire!

Let wave, let wave, whatever can, Standard and banner wave! Here will we purpose, man for man, To grace a hero's grave. Advance, ye brave ranks, hardily-- Your banners wave on high; We'll gain us freedom's victory, Or freedom's death we'll die!

From the German of ERNST MORITZ ARNDT.

* * * * *

MEN AND BOYS

The storm is out; the land is roused; Where is the coward who sits well housed? Fie on thee, boy, disguised in curls, Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls! A graceless, worthless wight thou must be; No German maid desires thee, No German song inspires thee, No German Rhine-wine fires thee. Forth in the van, Man by man, Swing the battle-sword who can!

When we stand watching, the livelong night, Through piping storms, till morning light, Thou to thy downy bed canst creep, And there in dreams of rapture sleep. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast. Like the thunder of God, makes our heart beat fast, Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear, Where trills and quavers tickle the ear. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When the glare of noonday scorches the brain, When our parched lips seek water in vain, Thou canst make champagne corks fly At the groaning tables of luxury. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, Send home to our true-loves a long "Good-night," Thou canst hie thee where love is sold, And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When lance and bullet come whistling by, And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh, Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill King, queen, and knave with thy spadille. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

If on the red field our bell should toll, Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul! Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom, And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb. A pitiful exit thine shall be; No German maid shall weep for thee, No German song shall they sing for thee, No German goblets shall ring for thee. Forth in the van, Man for man, Swing the battle-sword who can!

From the German of KARL THEODOR KÖRNER. Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.

* * * * *

THE WATCH ON THE RHINE[A]

[Footnote A: Written by a manufacturer of Wurtemburg in 1840, when France was threatening the left bank of the Rhine. It was set to music by Carl Wilhelm, and during the Franco-Prussian war of 1871 was adopted as the national folk-hymn and rallying cry of the army.]

A voice resounds like thunder-peal, 'Mid dashing waves and clang of steel:-- "The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine! Who guards to-day my stream divine?"

_Chorus.

Dear Fatherland, no danger thine: Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine_!

They stand, a hundred thousand strong, Quick to avenge their country's wrong; With filial love their bosoms swell, They'll guard the sacred landmark well!

The dead of a heroic race From heaven look down and meet their gaze; They swear with dauntless heart, "O Rhine, Be German as this breast of mine!"

While flows one drop of German blood, Or sword remains to guard thy flood, While rifle rests in patriot hand,-- No foe shall tread thy sacred strand!

Our oath resounds, the river flows, In golden light our banner glows; Our hearts will guard thy stream divine: The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!

_Dear Fatherland, no danger thine: Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine_!

From the German of MAX SCHNECKENBURGER.

* * * * *

PROEM.

FROM "THE KALEVALA" (_Land of heroes_), THE NATIONAL EPIC OF FINLAND.[A]

[Footnote A: Aside from its national significance "The Kalevala" is interesting from the fact of its having been taken as the model in rhythm and style for Longfellow's "Hiawatha," the epic of the American Indian.]

Mastered by desire impulsive, By a mighty inward urging, I am ready now for singing, Ready to begin the chanting Of our nation's ancient folk-song, Handed down from bygone ages. In my mouth the words are melting, From my lips the tones are gliding, From my tongue they wish to hasten; When my willing teeth are parted, When my ready mouth is opened, Songs of ancient wit and wisdom Hasten from me not unwilling. Golden friend, and dearest brother, Brother dear of mine in childhood, Come and sing with me the stories, Come and chant with me the legends, Legends of the times forgotten, Since we now are here together, Come together from our roamings. Seldom do we come for singing, Seldom to the one, the other, O'er this cold and cruel country, O'er the poor soil of the Northland. Let us clasp our hands together, That we thus may best remember. Join we now in merry singing, Chant we now the oldest folk-lore, That the dear ones all may hear them, That the well-inclined may hear them, Of this rising generation. These are words in childhood taught me, Songs preserved from distant ages; Legends they that once were taken From the belt of Wainamoinen, From the forge of Ilmarinen, From the sword of Kaukomieli, From the bow of Youkahainen, From the pastures of the Northland, From the meads of Kalevala. These my dear old father sang me When at work with knife and hatchet: These my tender mother taught me When she twirled the flying spindle, When a child upon the matting By her feet I rolled and tumbled. Incantations were not wanting Over Sampo and o'er Louhi, Sampo growing old in singing, Louhi ceasing her enchantment. In the songs died wise Wipunen, At the games died Lemminkainen. There are many other legends, Incantations that were taught me, That I found along the wayside, Gathered in the fragrant copses, Blown me from the forest branches, Culled among the plumes of pine-trees, Scented from the vines and flowers, Whispered to me as I followed Flocks in land of honeyed meadows, Over hillocks green and golden, After sable-haired Murikki, And the many-colored Kimmo. Many runes the cold has told me, Many lays the rain has brought me, Other songs the winds have sung me; Many birds from many forests, Oft have sung me lays in concord; Waves of sea, and ocean billows, Music from the many waters, Music from the whole creation, Oft have been my guide and master. Sentences the trees created, Rolled together into bundles, Moved them to my ancient dwelling, On the sledges to my cottage, Tied them to my garret rafters, Hung them on my dwelling-portals, Laid them in a chest of boxes, Boxes lined with shining copper. Long they lay within my dwelling Through the chilling winds of winter, In my dwelling-place for ages. Shall I bring these songs together? From the cold and frost collect them? Shall I bring this nest of boxes, Keepers of these golden legends, To the table in my cabin, Underneath the painted rafters, In this house renowned and ancient? Shall I now these boxes open, Boxes filled with wondrous stories? Shall I now the end unfasten Of this ball of ancient wisdom? These ancestral lays unravel? Let me sing an old-time legend, That shall echo forth the praises Of the beer that I have tasted, Of the sparkling beer of barley, Bring to me a foaming goblet Of the barley of my fathers, Lest my singing grow too weary, Singing from the water only. Bring me too a cup of strong beer; It will add to our enchantment, To the pleasure of the evening, Northland's long and dreary evening, For the beauty of the day-dawn, For the pleasures of the morning, The beginning of the new day.

From the FINNISH. Translation of JOHN MARTIN CRAWFORD.

* * * * *

PARTING LOVERS.

SIENNA.

I love thee, love thee, Giulio! Some call me cold, and some demure, And if thou hast ever guessed that so I love thee ... well;--the proof was poor, And no one could be sure.

Before thy song (with shifted rhymes To suit my name) did I undo The persian? If it moved sometimes, Thou hast not seen a hand push through A flower or two.

My mother listening to my sleep Heard nothing but a sigh at night,-- The short sigh rippling on the deep,-- When hearts run out of breath and sigh Of men, to God's clear light.

When others named thee,... thought thy brows Were straight, thy smile was tender,... "Here He comes between the vineyard-rows!"-- I said not "Ay,"--nor waited, Dear, To feel thee step too near.

I left such things to bolder girls, Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, When that Clotilda through her curls Held both thine eyes in hers one day, I marvelled, let me say.

I could not try the woman's trick: Between us straightway fell the blush Which kept me separate, blind, and sick. A wind came with thee in a flush, As blow through Horeb's bush.

But now that Italy invokes Her young men to go forth and chase The foe or perish,--nothing chokes My voice, or drives me from the place: I look thee in the face.

I love thee! it is understood, Confest: I do not shrink or start: No blushes: all my body's blood Has gone to greaten this poor heart, That, loving, we may part.

Our Italy invokes the youth To die if need be. Still there's room, Though earth is strained with dead, in truth. Since twice the lilies were in bloom They had not grudged a tomb.

And many a plighted maid and wife And mother, who can say since then "My country," cannot say through life "My son," "my spouse," "my flower of men," And not weep dumb again.

Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons. Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once!

But we,--we empty heart and home Of life's life, love! we bear to think You're gone,... to feel you may not come,... To hear the door-latch stir and clink Yet no more you,... nor sink.

Dear God! when Italy is one And perfected from bound to bound,... Suppose (for my share) earth's undone By one grave in't! as one small wound May kill a man, 'tis found!

What then? If love's delight must end, At least we'll clear its truth from flaws. I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend! Now take my sweetest without pause, To help the nation's cause.

And thus of noble Italy We'll both be worthy. Let her show The future how we made her free, Not sparing life, nor Giulio, Nor this ... this heart-break. Go!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

AMERICA

O mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step,--the wild deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide,-- How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;

What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the west; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams.

There's freedom at thy gates, and rest For earth's down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds, Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds.

O fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of thy skies, The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Before thine eye Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

* * * * *

COLUMBIA.

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies! Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; Let the crimes of the East ne'er encrimson thy name, Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire; Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; On Freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.