My mother’s ever in my mind; Twelve long long years are left behind, Twelve years have follow’d on each other Since to my heart I clasp’d my mother. For ages Germany will stand; Sound to the core is that dear land! Its oaks and lindens I shall ever Find just the same, they alter never. For Germany I less should care If my dear mother were not there; My fatherland will never perish But _she_ may die, whom most I cherish. Since I my native land saw last, Into the tomb have many pass’d Whom I so loved--When of them thinking How sadly bleeds my spirit sinking! I needs must count them,--as I count My sorrows higher, higher mount; I feel as though each corpse were lying Upon my breast--Thank God, they’re flying! Thank God! for through the window-pane France’s clear daylight breaks again; My fair wife enters, sweetly smiling, And all my German cares beguiling! _NEW SPRING._ PROLOGUE. Sometimes when o’er pictures turning You have seen the man perchance, Who is for the battle yearning, Well-equipp’d with shield and lance. Yet young loves are hov’ring round him, Stealing lance and sword away; They with flow’ry chains have bound him Though he struggle in dismay. I, too, in such charming fetters, Bind myself with sad delight, And I leave it to my betters In time’s mighty fight to fight. 1. ’Neath the white tree sitting sadly, Thou dost hear the far winds wailing, Seëst how the mute clouds o’er thee Are their forms in mist fast veiling; See’st how all beneath seems perish’d, Wood and plain, how shorn and dreary; Round thee winter, in thee winter, Frozen is thy heart and weary. Sudden downward fall upon thee Flakes all white, and with vexation Thou dost think the tree is show’ring Snow-dust from that elevation. Soon with joyful start thou findest ’Tis no snow-dust cold and freezing; Fragrant blossoms ’tis of springtime Cov’ring thee and fondly teasing. What a shudd’ring-sweet enchantment! Into May is winter turning, Snow hath changed itself to blossoms, And thy heart with love is yearning. 2. In the wood, the verdure’s shooting, Joy-oppress’d, like some fair maiden; Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward: “Welcome, young spring, rapture-laden!” Nightingale! I hear thee also, Piping, blissful-sad and lonely, Sobbing tones and long-protracted, And thy song of love is only! 3. The beauteous eyes of the spring’s fair night With comfort are downward gazing: If love hath made thee so small in our sight, Yet love hath the power of raising. Sweet Philomel sits on the linden green, Her notes melodiously blending; And as to my soul her song pierceth e’en, My soul once more is distending. 4.