And at home, no labour heeding, Woman plies her gentle hand, Tends the sacred wounds all bleeding In defence of fatherland. In her black dress robed, entrancing Looks the beauteous German dame, Deck’d with flow’rs and jewels glancing, Diamond-girded, too, her frame. But a nobler, prouder feeling Through me at her vision thrills, When, beside the sick-bed kneeling, Acts of mercy she fulfils. Heavenly angels she resembles When the last draught she supplies To the wounded man, who trembles, Smiles his grateful thanks, and dies. He to whom to die ’tis given On the battle-field, is blest; But a foretaste ’tis of heaven, Dying on a woman’s breast. Poor, poor sons of France! Fate ever Unto you unkind has been; On the Seine’s banks, beauty never Save in search of gold is seen. German women! German women! What a charm the words convey! German women! German women! Flourish on for many a day! All our daughters like Louisa, All our sons like Frederick be! Hear me in the grave, Louisa! Ever flourish Germany! DREAM. 1816. Son of folly, dream thou ever, When thy thoughts within thee burn; But in life thy visions never To reality will turn. Once in happier days chance bore me To a high mount on the Rhine; Smiling lay the land before me, Gloriously the sun did shine. Far below, the waves were singing Wild and magic melodies; In my inmost heart were ringing Blissful strains in wondrous wise. Now, when gazing from that station On the land--how sad its doom! I but see a pigmy nation Crawling on a giant’s tomb. So-call’d men wear silken raiment, Deem themselves the nation’s flower; Honours now are gain’d by payment, Rogues possess both wealth and power. Of descent they boast, not merit, ’Tis their dress that makes them men; Old coats now alone the spirit Of old times bring back again; When respect and virtue holy Modestly went hand in hand; When the youth with deference lowly By the aged took his stand; When a hand-shake was more valid Than an oath or written sheet; When men, iron-clad, forth sallied, And a heart inside them beat. Our fair garden borders nourish Many a thousand flow’rets fair; In the fostering soil they flourish, While the sun smiles on them there. But the flower most fair, most golden, In our gardens ne’er is known,-- That one which, in days now olden, On each rocky height was grown; Which, in cold hill-fortress dwelling, Men endued with iron frame Deem’d the flower all flowers excelling,-- Hospitality its name.