From them shall drink the Cherokee, Faint with the hot and dusty chase; No more from German vintage, ye Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace. O say, why seek ye other lands? The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn; Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands; In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn. Ah, in strange forests you will yearn For the green mountains of your home,-- To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn,-- In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam. How will the form of days grown pale In golden dreams float softly by, Like some old legendary tale, Before fond memory's moistened eye! The boatman calls,--go hence in peace! God bless you,--wife, and child, and sire! Bless all your fields with rich increase, And crown each faithful heart's desire! Translation of C.T. Brooks. THE LION'S RIDE What! wilt thou bind him fast with a chain? Wilt bind the king of the cloudy sands? Idiot fool! he has burst from thy hands and bands, And speeds like Storm through his far domain. See! he crouches down in the sedge, By the water's edge, Making the startled sycamore boughs to quiver! Gazelle and giraffe, I think, will shun that river. Not so! The curtain of evening falls, And the Caffre, mooring his light canoe To the shore, glides down through the hushed karroo, And the watch-fires burn in the Hottentot kraals, And the antelope seeks a bed in the bush Till dawn shall blush, And the zebra stretches his limbs by the tinkling fountain, And the changeful signals fade from the Table Mountain. Now look through the dusk! What seest thou now? Seest such a tall giraffe! She stalks, All majesty, through the desert walks,-- In search of water to cool her tongue and brow. From tract to tract of the limitless waste Behold her haste! Till, bowing her long neck down, she buries her face in The reeds, and kneeling, drinks from the river's basin. But look again! look! see once more Those globe-eyes glare! The gigantic reeds Lie cloven and trampled like puniest weeds,-- The lion leaps on the drinker's neck with a roar! Oh, what a racer! Can any behold, 'Mid the housings of gold In the stables of kings, dyes half so splendid As those on the brindled hide of yon wild animal blended? Greedily fleshes the lion his teeth In the breast of his writhing prey; around Her neck his loose brown mane is wound. Hark, that hollow cry! She springs up from beneath And in agony flies over plains and heights. See, how she unites, Even under such monstrous and torturing trammel, With the grace of the leopard, the speed of the camel!