In 1867 the Swiss bank with which Freiligrath was connected closed its London branch, and the poet again faced an uncertain future. His friends on the Rhine, hearing of his difficulties, raised a generous subscription, and taking advantage of a general amnesty, he returned to the fatherland and became associated with the Stuttgart Illustrated Magazine. In 1870 appeared a complete collection of his poems; in 1876, 'New Poems'; and in the latter year, on March 18th, he died at Cannstatt in Wuertemburg. The question which Freiligrath asks the emigrants in his early poem of that name,--'O say, why seek ye other lands?'--was destined to find frequent and bitter answer in his own checkered career; but he never swerved from the liberal principles which he had publicly announced. His political poems were among the most powerful influences of his time, and they have a permanent value as the expression of the spirit of freedom. His translations are marvels of fidelity and beauty. His 'Hiawatha' and 'The Ancient Mariner,' together with his versions of Victor Hugo, are perhaps the best examples of his surpassing skill. His own works have been for the most part excellently translated into English. His daughter published during her father's lifetime a volume of his poems, in which were collected all the best English translations then available. The exotic subjects of his early poems make them seem the most original, as for example 'Der Mohrenfuerst' (The Moorish Prince) and 'Der Blumen Rache' (The Revenge of the Flowers); the unusual rhymes hold the attention, and the sonorous melody of the verse delights the ear: but it is in a few of his superb love lyrics that he touches the highest point of his genius, although his fame continues to rest upon his impassioned songs of freedom and his name to be associated with the rich imagery of the Orient. THE EMIGRANTS I cannot take my eyes away From you, ye busy, bustling band, Your little all to see you lay Each in the waiting boatman's hand. Ye men, that from your necks set down Your heavy baskets on the earth, Of bread, from German corn baked brown By German wives on German hearth,-- And you, with braided tresses neat, Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown, How careful on the sloop's green seat You set your pails and pitchers down! Ah! oft have home's cool shady tanks Those pails and pitchers filled for you; By far Missouri's silent banks Shall these the scenes of home renew,-- The stone-rimmed fount in village street Where oft ye stooped to chat and draw,-- The hearth, and each familiar seat,-- The pictured tiles your childhood saw. Soon, in the far and wooded West Shall log-house walls therewith be graced; Soon many a tired tawny guest Shall sweet refreshment from them taste.