TO ENGLAND.
Ott! not when filial voices sung
Thy praises in our own sweet tongue,—
Not 'mid the stir of English life,
Where freedom reigns secure from strife,—
Not there I felt the power divine That links our several lives in thine ; That makes us thrill with keenest shame, At every deed that blots thy name ; And stirs each trembling sluggard's voice In thy true glories to rejoice.
But when with hearts new touched with flame The heroes of the German name Made haste their lives and worth to bring As offerings meet to land and King,— W hen clear there rang through tears and blood, This people's voice as voice of God, Though thee they mock'd as her who sold Her fame and truth for Frenchman's gold ; Yet then I knew each childish tongue That lisped the speech our Shakespeare sung, Each man who, bow'd with selfish toil, Yet owed his birth to English soil, Was dearer to this heart of mine More eloquent of love divine, Than all the noblest of the band Who died to save this German land.
Halle, 1870.
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