And guard thy lips and keep them still;
Too soon escapes an angry
word.
“O God! I did not mean it ill!”
But yet he sorrowed as he
heard.
Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet
thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou’lt mourn by silent
graves, alone.
Unheard, unheeded then, alas!
Kneeling, thou’lt hide
thy streaming eyes
Amid the long, damp, churchyard grass,
Where, cold and low, thy loved
one lies,
And murmur: “Oh, look down
on me,
Mourning my causeless anger
still;
Forgive my hasty word to thee—
O God! I did not mean
it ill!”
He hears not now thy voice to bless,
In vain thine arms are flung
to heaven!
And, hushed the loved lip’s fond
caress,
It answers not: “I
have forgiven!”
He did forgive—long,
long ago!
But many a burning tear he
shed
O’er thine unkindness—softly
now!
He slumbers with the silent
dead.
Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet
thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou’lt mourn by silent
graves—alone!
* * * * *
THE EMIGRANTS[40] (1832)
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.
[Illustration: J.P. HASENCLEVER FERDINAND FREILIGRATH]
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.
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.
Oh 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.