Part 62 (1/2)

Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws-- Charged with a thousand crimes--for warlike deeds Renowned--and placed under the Empire's ban By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church; Reprobate, isolated, cursed--yet still Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; The bitter foe of the Count Palatine And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned For sixty years the ladder which the Empire Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he Shelters the brave--the flaunting rich man strips-- Of master makes a slave? That here, above All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors--in the eyes Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey, He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance, A signal of appeal to the crushed people, A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue, Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath, So that kings quiver as the jades at whips?

Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year-- And that, defying fate, in face of heaven, On his invincible peak, no force of war Uprooting other holds--nor powerful Caesar-- Nor Rome--nor age, that bows the pride of man-- Nor aught on earth--hath vanquished, or subdued, Or bent this ancient t.i.tan of the Rhine, The excommunicated Job?

_Democratic Review_.

THE SON IN OLD AGE.

_(”Ma Regina, cette n.o.ble figure.”)_

[LES BURGRAVES, Part II.]

Thy n.o.ble face, Regina, calls to mind My poor lost little one, my latest born.

He was a gift from G.o.d--a sign of pardon-- That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!

I to his little cradle went, and went, And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.

For when one's very old, one is a child!

Then took it up and placed it on my knees, And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair-- Thou wert not born then--and he would stammer Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!

And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.

He recognized me--nay, knew me right well, And in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh, Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.

I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, And named him George. One day--oh, bitter thought!

The child played in the fields. When thou art mother, Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!

The gypsies took him from me--oh, for what?

Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.

I weep!--now, after twenty years--I weep As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!

I used to call him ”my own little king!”

I was intoxicated with my joy When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, Thrilling me all through.

_Foreign Quarterly Review._