Classic Poem

Would God command the lightning from on high
To speak one word in thunder tones to thee;
To write, with lurid finger, on thy sky,
One spirit-stirring sentence, it would be:
“Awake, and sleep no more till thou art free!”
Then would an echo rise from patriot graves,
And Rhine, far-flashing to the deep blue sea,
Would murmur, with the voice of many waves:
“Awake, awake to arms! and be no longer slaves.”

Is there no word, no talisman, to still
The bitter feuds that keep thy sons apart?

Is there no charm in liberty, to thrill
The slumbering pulses of thy mighty heart?
Oppressed, enslaved, down-trodden as thou art,
Wilt thou in coming ages still remain?
Or, with one arm, one heart, one effort start
And rend at once the iron links in twain
That bind upon thy sons the vassal's galling chain.

Where are the children of the men whose frown
Made Europe tremulous and pale of yore?
The men, who trod the Roman legions down,
Defending freedom on the Lippe's shore?
Where is the spirit of the host that bore
The “Angel's Banner” o'er the gory sand,
Beside Lech's sparkling waters, evermore?
Has that free spirit left thee, father-land?
And must thy sons still wear the bondman's scathing brand?

No, thou art 'wakening from thy torpid sleep,
And sounds, like gathering waters, murmur by—
Sounds of a coming tempest, low and deep;
And soon thine ancient hills and vaulted sky
Shall echo back thy children's battle-cry!
A still, small voice is heard, in solemn tones,
Forever whispering, “Let the tyrants die!”
New life and spirit breathe upon the bones
That pillar and support thy blood-cemented thrones.

Thy blood-cemented thrones! is it not so?
Were they not built of sinews, blood and tears?
Were they not founded deep in human woe?
Sustained by human toils and human fears?
But, lo! from out the shadow of old years—
The deepening shadow of the dreamy past—
A form of light and loveliness appears;
Thank Heaven, the soul returns to thee at last,
To call thy sons to arms with Freedom's clarion blast.

Send forth thy hosts from mountain, stream and glen,
From hut and hamlet call the peasant—slave;
Though cowed and trampled on, they still are men;
Let weapons glitter, let thy banners wave,
Stamped with the motto, “Freedom or a grave!”
Fight, till the Rhine is red from shore to shore,
Red with the life-tide of the true and brave;
Sound, sound the clarion! let the cannon roar!
Till thou art free again, as in the days of yore.