I hardly remember having ever seen my father, and I came to know him chiefly through his poetry. He belonged to the post-Goethe period, though Goethe (died 1832) survived him. He was born in 1794, and died in 1827, and yet in that short time he established a lasting reputation not only as a scholar, but as a most popular poet. His best known poems are the “Griechenlieder,” the Greek songs which he wrote during the Greek war of independence. Alas! in those days battles were won by bravery and the sword, now by discipline and repeating guns. These Greek songs, in which his love of the ancient Greeks is mingled with his admiration for heroes such as Kanaris, Mark Bozzaris, and others who helped to shake off the Turkish yoke, produced a deep impression all over Germany, perhaps because they breathed the spirit of freedom and patriotism, which was then systematically repressed in Germany itself. The Greeks never forgot the services rendered by him in Germany, as by Lord Byron in England, in rousing a feeling of indignation against the Turk, and as the marble for Lord Byron’s monument in London was sent by some Greek admirers of the great poet, the Greek Parliament voted a shipload of Pentelican marble for the national monument erected to my father in Dessau. My father’s lyrical poems also are well known all over Germany, particularly the cycles of the “Schöne Müllerin” and the “Winterreise,” both so marvellously set to music by Schubert and others. He certainly had caught the true tone of the poetry of the German people, and many of his poems have become national property, being sung by thousands who do not even know whose poems they are singing. As a specimen showing the highest point reached by his poetry, I like to quote his poem on _Vineta_, the old town overwhelmed by the sea on the Baltic coast. The English translation was made for me by my old, now departed, friend, J. A. Froude:— VINETA. I. I. Aus des Meeres tiefem, tiefem From the sea’s deep hollow faintly Grunde pealing, Klingen Abendglocken dumpf und Far-off evening bells come sad and matt, slow; Uns zu geben wunderbare Kunde Faintly rise, the wondrous tale revealing Von der schönen alten Wunderstadt. Of the old enchanted town below. II. II. In der Fluthen Schoss hinabgesunken On the bosom of the flood reclining Bleiben unten ihre Trümmer stehn, Ruined arch and broken spire, Ihre Zinnen lassen goldne Funken Down beneath the watery mirror shining Wiederscheinend auf dem Spiegel Gleam and flash in flakes of golden sehn. fire. III. III.