Then I thought ere long of the old love song: 
    Ah, would that I were a falcon! 
  With its melody as a falcon free,
    And daring, too, as a falcon. 
  As I sang, thought I:  Toward the sun I’ll fly,
    The very tune shall upbear me
  To her window small with a bolt in the wall,
    Where I’ll beat till she shall hear me.

  Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave,
    And ships by the bank are lying,
  Two brown eyes dream o’er the lazy stream—­
    Oh, thither would I be flying!

  With talons long and strange wild song
    I’d perch me at her feet then,
  Or bold I’d spread my wings o’er her head,
    And gladly we should greet then.

  Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang,
    No pinions had I to aid me;
  I took my path through the corn in wrath—­
    So restless my love had made me. 
  Then branch and tree all ruthlessly
    I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting
  Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn
    I sank down, weary and panting.

  While I heard the sound from all around
    Of frolicking lads and lasses,
  Alone for hours I gathered flowers
    And bound them together with grasses. 
  O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!—­
    Though many a girl despise it,
  Yet come there may the happy day
    When thou, my love, shalt prize it.

  In fitting place it well might grace
    An honest farmer’s dwelling
  These cornflowers mild and poppies wild,
    With others past my telling;
  The osier fine, the blossoming vine,
    The meadow-sweetening clover—­
  All vagrant stuff, and like enough
    To him, thy vagrant lover.

  His dark eye beams, his visage gleams,
    His clenched hand—­how it trembles! 
  His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns,
    His brow the storm resembles.

  He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast—­
    His weeds and he rejected! 
  His flowers, oh, see!—­shall they and he
    Lie here at thy door neglected?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  DEATH ON THE BARRICADE ALFRED RETHEL]

  THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45] (July, 1848)

  The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow,
  You raised us on the bloody planks with wild and wrathful vow! 
  High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain
  Might be an endless curse to him, at whose word we were slain;
  That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight’s shine,
  Whether he turns his Bible’s leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine;
  That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned,
  A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned;
  That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound,
  Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound;
  That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear;
  That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear—­
  Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown,
  Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on bloody scaffold down!