Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown, And Hungary to death is bleeding-- Francis, our Knight, escaped alone, His sword a quiet life at home is leading. Francis still lives; when old and gray Of the Hungarian war devoutly He’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay, “And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!” Hearing the name of Hungary, My German waistcoat grows too narrow; Beneath it foams a raging sea, The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow. Once more across my memory throng The hero-legend’s strains enthralling, The wild and iron martial song, The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling. ’Tis still the same heroic lot, ’Tis still the same old noble stories; The names are changed, the natures not,-- ’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories. And the same issue ’tis once more; However proudly flaunts the banner, The hero, as in days of yore, Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner. This time the oxen and the bear In firm alliance are united; Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair, Still more have all _our_ German hopes been blighted. While very decent beasts are they Who have in fight become thy masters, We have, alas! become the prey Of wolves, swine, dogs,--so great are our disasters. They howl, grunt, bark,--the victor’s smell Is such, I fain would do without it;-- But, Poet, hush!--it were as well, Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it. 17. EVIL DREAMS. In vision once more young and happy, paced I Near the old country house that used to stand Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I, Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand. How graceful was her figure! She enchanted With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes; On her small feet how firmly was she planted, A form where elegance with vigour vies! Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding! Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see; Wisdom her every word is ever guiding, Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be. It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me, I wander not, my reason’s in command; Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand. When I a lily from the stem had broken, I gave it her, and then these words address’d: “Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token, “That I may be as good as thee, and blest.” The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never, For presently I woke,--and now lie here In my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever-- As I have hopeless lain for many a year. 18. IT GOES OUT.