Who with death-rattle there bid the day farewell
    ’Mid the moans of prostrate foes? 
  Of the hand of death the drawn features tell,
  Yet the dauntless hearts triumphant swell,
    For his Fatherland’s safe each knows! 
  Should you of the black-clad fallen demand—­
  That is Luetzow’s wild and invincible band.

  The wild, fierce band and the Teuton band,
    For all tyrants’ blood athirst!—­
  So you who would mourn us, be not unmanned;
  For the morning dawns, and we freed our land,
    Though to free it we won death first! 
  Then tell, at your grandsons’ rapt demand: 
  That was Luetzow’s wild and unconquered band!

[Illustration:  THEODOR KOeRNER]

* * * * *

  PRAYER DURING BATTLE[13](1813)

        Father, I call to thee. 
  The roaring artillery’s clouds thicken round me,
  The hiss and the glare of the loud bolts confound me. 
        Ruler of battles, I call on thee
        O Father, lead thou me!

        O Father, lead thou me;
  To victory, to death, dread Commander, O guide me;
  The dark valley brightens when thou art beside me;
        Lord, as thou wilt, so lead thou me. 
        God, I acknowledge thee.

        God, I acknowledge thee;
  When the breeze through the dry leaves of autumn is moaning,
  When the thunder-storm of battle is groaning,
        Fount of mercy, in each I acknowledge thee. 
        O Father, bless thou me!

        O Father, bless thou me;
  I trust in thy mercy, whate’er may befall me;
  ’Tis thy word that hath sent me; that word can recall me. 
        Living or dying, O bless thou me! 
        Father, I honor thee.

        Father, I honor thee;
  Not for earth’s hoards or honors we here are contending;
  All that is holy our swords are defending;
        Then falling, and conquering, I honor thee. 
        God, I repose in thee.

        God, I repose in thee;
  When the thunders of death my soul are greeting,
  When the gashed veins bleed, and the life is fleeting,
        In thee, my God, I repose in thee. 
        Father, I call on thee.

MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF

* * * * *

  THE MOTHER TONGUE[14] (1814)

  Mother tongue, oh, tongue most dear,
  Sweet and gladsome to mine ear! 
    Word that first I heard, endearing
  Word of love, first timid sound
    That I stammered—­still I’m hearing
  Thee within my soul profound.

  Oh, my heart will ever grieve
  When my Fatherland I leave,
    For in foreign tongues repeating
  Words of strangers, I lose cheer. 
    Oh, they seem not like a greeting,
  And I’ll never hold them dear.

  Speech so wonderful to hear—­
  How thou ringest pure and clear! 
    Though thy beauty hath enthralled me,
  Still I’ll deepen my delight,
    Awed, as if my fathers called me
  From the grave’s eternal night.