ALL ye who roam the wide world through,
Ye'd best draw in your horn-
For many a man-and Hero too-

In council sage, in battle true,
Our Schwabenland hath borne.

Boast

ye your

Karl and Edoard,

Or Fritz or Ludwig cite?

Karl, Friedrich, Ludwig, Edoard,
To us is our Graf Eberhard—

A thunderbolt in fight.

His son, young Ulrich too, where'er
Rang steel, was ready found-

The Graf's own son, young Ulrich-ne'er
Was known draw back his feet from fear,
When they had made a bound.

The Reutlingers, our fair renown
Beheld with venom'd spite.
As suitors bold for Victory's crown,
They swagger'd loudly up and down,
And girt their loins for fight.

He with them clos'd-nor conquest made——
But, baffled, home return'd.

The sire in frowns his brows array'd—
The youthful warrior sought the shade,
And pour'd forth tears that burn'd.

It smote him sore- "Ye slaves, beware!"-
Deep musing, thus he said-

"For by my Father's beard I swear,
This foul disgrace ye pay full dear
With many a Burgher's head!"

And soon blaz'd fierce the feudal fray,
And forth went man and steed
To Döffingen in bright array;

And blithe was Eberhard's son that day-
Hurrah! how fast they speed!

Our war-cry on that fatal heath—
It was- "The Battle lost!"
It urg'd us as the whirlwind's breath,
And plung'd us deep in blood and death
Amidst the spearmen's host.

His staff around the young knight swang,
Like Lion grim and brave :

Before him went the tempest-clang—
Behind him shrieks and howlings rang—
Around him yawn'd the grave.

But wo! ah wo! a sabre's blade
Into his neck sank deep-

Swift rush'd his warriors to his aid;
In vain-for cold and stiff he's laid
On the red ground asleep.

Through Victory's path confusion ran,
Whilst all deplor'd the blow.

But loud the chieftain cheer'd the van

My son is as another man—

Charge, Children, charge the foe !"

And lances whizz'd, and warriors bled-
"Revenge! revenge! they call'd-
They bounded on o'er heaps of dead,
And here and there the Burghers fled
Through valley, mountain, wald.

Then to our camp, with trumpet clang,
We back return'd again ;

And wife and child their roundelays sang,
And dance went round, and beakers rang,
And minstrels pour'd the strain.

But see our chief!-what does he there,
His son's cold corse before?

In his lone tent he sits-a tear
Bedims his eye-a single tear

For him that's lost-no more.

Now, therefore, cleave we, true and warm,

To him-our Graf so free.

Alone is he a Hero-swarm

The thunder rattles in his arm-
The Spearmen's star is he.

Then Strangers all-the wide world thro'—
Ye'd best draw in your horn-
For many a man, and Hero too-

In council wise-in battle true-
Our Schwabenland hath borne.

C

Der Triumph der Liebe.

THE following poem, as may be conjectured from its varying measure, was written for music; and the same form, though somewhat difficult to preserve, has been therefore held essential to the fidelity of the version. The subject connects itself with the Author's " Philosophical Letters," and with the Pantheistic Philosophy which they were designed to illustrate; and it ought to be studied in conjunction with the poem entitled Freundschaft which is also contained in those letters, but of which no translation is here attempted.

GODS through LOVE are blesséd:
Men, of LOVE possessed,
Equal gods above.

Heaven more heavenly sheweth-
Earth a Heaven groweth-

Through the force of LOVE.

Once, in Pyrrha's age, our planet

-(So the bards have shown)
Sprang from shapeless blocks of granite,

And mankind from stone.

Hard their hearts as rocks unriven

Dark their souls as night

Never by the torch of Heaven
Waked to Life and Light.

Never had young Loves been wreathing
Rosy fetters perfume-breathing,

Those rude souls to bind ;
Nor the Muses bliss-bestowing

Ever pour'd their raptures glowing
On the Poet's mind.

Ah! for them in close embraces

Yet no garlands twin'd,
And, without the vernal graces,
E'en Elysium pin'd.

Eos from the bed of ocean

Unsaluted rose ;

Unsaluted to the ocean

Phoebus sank at evening's close.

Savages through forests roaming
Under Luna's misty gloaming-
(Hard the yoke they bear!)
In the starry vault, with yearning,
No soft tears of secret mourning
Sought a God to cheer.

And lo! by circling Naiades
Soft cradled on the balmy breeze,

From out the dark blue water

Glides forth bright Heaven's daughter.

A burst of universal May

Like faintest blush of opening day,

At the Almighty's breathing

Air, sky, sea, earth enwreathing.