JOAN OF ORLEANS.
Leonora took the paper and read as follows, with crimson cheeks, and
her heart aglow with enthusiasm:
"To my People!--I need not state the causes of the impending war
either to my faithful people or to the Germans in general.
Unprejudiced Europe is fully aware of them. We succumbed to the
superior strength of France. The peace which wrested from me one-
half of my subjects, did not confer any blessings upon us, but
inflicted deeper wounds upon us than war itself. The enemy was bent
on exhausting the resources of the country; the principal fortresses
remained in his hands; agriculture was paralyzed, and so were the
manufactures of our cities, which had formerly reached so proud an
eminence; trade was everywhere obstructed, and the sources of
prosperity were thus almost entirely ruined. The country was rapidly
impoverished. By the most conscientious fulfilment of the
engagements I had taken upon myself, I hoped to mitigate the onerous
burdens imposed upon my people, and to convince the French emperor
at length that it was to his own advantage to leave Prussia in the
enjoyment of her independence; but my best intentions were foiled by
arrogance and perfidy; and we saw only too plainly that Napoleon's
treaties, even more than his wars, would slowly and surely ruin us.
The moment has come when all deceptions have ceased.
Brandenburgians, Prussians, Silesians, Pomeranians, Lithuanians! you
know what you have suffered for seven years past; you know what your
fate would be if we should not succeed in the struggle about to
begin. Remember the history of the past; remember the noble elector;
the great and victorious Frederick; remember what our ancestors
conquered with their blood--freedom of conscience, honor,
independence, commerce, industry, and science; remember the great
examples of our powerful allies, especially the Spaniards and the
Portuguese. Even smaller nations, for the same blessings, entered
into a desperate struggle with more powerful foes, and achieved a
glorious victory. Remember the heroic Swiss and Dutch. Great
sacrifices will be required of all classes, for our undertaking is a
great one, and the numbers and resources of our enemies are not to
be underrated. You will prefer to make these sacrifices for the
fatherland and your legitimate king rather than for a foreign ruler,
who, as is proved by many examples, would devote your sons and your
last resources to objects entirely foreign to you. Confidence in
God, courage, perseverance, and the assistance of our allies, will
crown our honest exertions with victory. But whatever sacrifices may
be required, they are not equivalent to the sacred objects for which
we make them, and for which we must fight and conquer, if we do not
wish to cease being Prussians and Germans. It is the last, decisive
effort which we make for our existence, our independence, our
prosperity. There is no other issue than an honorable peace or a
glorious overthrow. You would not shrink even from the latter, for
honor's sake. But we may confidently hope for the best. God and our
firm determination will make us victorious, and we shall then obtain
peace and the return of happier times."
"FREDERICK WILLIAM. BRESLAU, March 17, 1813."
[Footnote: This proclamation was drawn up by Counsellor von Hippel,
who proposed that the king should apply to his people directly, and
call upon them to rise against the French. He communicated it to the
chancellor of state at one of the conferences held every evening at
Breslau, at Hardenberg's rooms, in presence of Gneisenau,
Scharnhorst, Thile, and a few others. Hardenberg and all the rest
approved it, and so did the king, when it was laid before him on the
following day.--Vide Hippel's work on the "Life of Frederick William
III.," p. 63.]
A pause ensued when Leonora ceased reading. Her father, who was
standing by her side, and was supporting his hands on his crutch,
heard her with a very grave face. Her mother sank down on one of the
cane chairs, and listened devoutly, her hands clasped, and her eyes
turned toward heaven; while her son, who was sitting by her side,
leaned his arms on the table, and buried his face in his hands.
"Is that all?" asked the invalid, after a while. "I should really
like to hear more of it, for it sounds as sacred as a church organ.
Did you read it all, Leonora?"
"No, father, there is still another manifesto. It is printed under
the one I read to you. You yourself must read it, for my heart is
throbbing as if about to burst. In his second manifesto the king
orders a 'landwehr' and a 'landsturm' to be formed. Listen to what
he says at the end of this second manifesto: 'My cause,' he says,
'is the cause of my people, and of all patriots in Europe.'"
"Yes, he is right," said old Prohaska; "the king's cause is our
cause!"
"Queen Louisa died for us all," exclaimed Leonora; "we should all
join the Legion of Vengeance--that is, to avenge her death!"
"And I--I cannot do any thing," wailed Charles, raising his face,
which was bathed in tears, and lifting up his hands as if
supplicating God to help him. "I must wait and suffer here; I am
doomed to remain a boy while my school-fellows have become men."
"Hush," said his mother, "an idea strikes me; we may, after all, be
somewhat useful to our country, though we are unable to furnish
soldiers for it. There is a great deal to be done besides fighting.
The king's manifesto says expressly: 'Great sacrifices will be
required of all classes.' Well, then, my dear ones, let us make
sacrifices for the fatherland and our king!"
"What sacrifices do you mean, mother?" asked the invalid. "What have
we, if we cannot furnish any soldiers?"
"We have our labor," exclaimed his wife, with pride. "When there is
war, and battles are fought, there are wounded soldiers, I suppose?"
"Of course, and cripples, too," said the invalid, pointing to his
wooden leg.
"And the wounded are brought home and conveyed to the hospitals, are
they not? Who is to attend to them, to dress their wounds, give them
food, and nurse them? We women will do so! That is our task! I will
nurse the first wounded brought to Potsdam. The first maimed
soldier, however, whom I meet at the hospital, and whose right leg
has been amputated as that of my dear husband, we shall take to our
house. You may nurse him here, old man; console him and show him
that he may live quite happily, though with but one leg, and that
wife and children will love their husband and father no less
ardently, provided he is a true man, and has a courageous heart."
"You are right, mother," exclaimed Prohaska. "Let us take a wounded
soldier into our house, and I will nurse him as a brother, teaching
him how to use his wooden leg, while you are at the hospital,
attending to the other sufferers. But you have not thought of the
children. What are Leonora and Charles to do while we are thus
engaged?"
"They can help us," said his wife, quickly. "Leonora will have a
great deal to do. She will prepare lint, make nourishing soups, wash
bandages, and sew shirts and clothing."
The invalid cast a quick glance on Leonora. She stood, drawn up to
her full height, in the middle of the room; a proud, contemptuous
smile was playing about her lips, which uttered no word in reply to
her mother's plans.
"But what will Charles do?" asked Prohaska, quickly. "He cannot be
as useful as his sister."
"Father!" ejaculated Leonora, somewhat reproachfully.
"Hush!" he said, almost sternly, "mother is right; it behooves you
women to prepare lint, cook soups, nurse the wounded, and sew shirts
for them. But war itself is the task of the men. But, my wife,
before telling me what Charles is to do for our wounded, I must ask
a very sad question. Where shall we find money for the expenses we
shall have to incur? We are unfortunately poor, dependent on the
labor of our hands. This small house and my pension of three dollars
a month constitute our whole fortune, and if you were not the most
skilful hair-dresser in Potsdam--if I could not besides earn a few
dollars by making baskets, and if Leonora were not the best
seamstress in town, I should like to know how we could live and send
Charles to the Lyceum. But if we are to nurse the wounded, and
devote our labor to them alone, we shall unfortunately soon lack the
necessaries of life."
"I have thought of all that, husband," said his wife, eagerly. "But,
listen to me! Charles wants also to have his share in our
sacrifices, he does not intend to be idle while all are at work to
promote the welfare of the country. As he cannot enlist and fight,
he must use his head. He will, therefore, publish this
advertisement: 'As I have unfortunately been rejected by the
military commission on account of my youth, and because I have not
yet been confirmed, I request generous patriots to allow me to give
private lessons to their children, that I may earn a sufficient sum
to nurse and support a wounded soldier till his complete recovery.'"
"Yes, I will do that!" exclaimed Charles. "The citizens will learn
then why I have not enlisted, and I shall, moreover, be able to earn
money for the country. I shall certainly get pupils, for my teachers
are pleased with me, and I am already in the first class. I can give
lessons in Latin, Greek, mathematics, and history; I have good
testimonials, and, for the sake of the noble object I have in view,
parents will assuredly intrust their children to me, and pay me well
for my trouble."
"All of you will have employment, then," said Leonora, "and your
labor will benefit the country. But I also want to render myself
useful to the country."
"Well, you can assist me," said her mother; "you can prepare food,
wash, and sew shirts."
"However industrious I might be, mother, I could in that way earn
only as much as my own support would cost," said Leonora, shaking
her head. "I can be of no use to you, I am superfluous; I will go
therefore to another place, where I can render myself useful and
make money."
"But whither do you intend to go, and what do you wish to do?" asked
her mother in amazement, while her father cast searching glances
upon her.
"To Berlin, and seek a situation as saleswoman," said Leonora. "What
money I earn I shall send to you, and you will spend it for your
wounded soldier. You know, mother, my godfather, Rudolph
Werkmeister, who is a merchant at Berlin, has often asked me to go
to see him, and take such a situation at his house. I have always
refused, because I did not like to leave you, but thought I would
stay with you and devote my whole life to nursing you; but God has
decreed otherwise. Yesterday my godfather wrote again, stating that
his wife had been taken sick, and that he was greatly embarrassed
because he had no one at his house on whom he could depend. He
offers me a salary of eighty dollars a year. Now, I pray you, dear
parents, let me go! Let me pursue my own paths, and do my duty as I
understand it. Dear mother, I am sure you will not refuse your
consent? You will permit me to go this very day to Berlin, and make
money for our wounded soldiers?"
"I will, my child," said her mother, her voice trembling with
emotion. "I have no diamonds and golden chains to give my country,
so I give to it the most precious and beautiful jewels I have--my
children. Yes, go, my Leonora; take the situation offered you, and
give the money you earn to the fatherland and its soldiers."
"Oh, thanks, mother!" exclaimed Leonora, hastening to her and
clasping her in her arms--"thanks, for permitting me to put my mite
on the altar of the country!" She kissed her mother with fervent
tenderness, and then turned toward her father. "And you, father,"
she said, in a low and almost timid tone--"you do not say a word--
you do not give your consent."
The invalid stood leaning on his crutch, and looked thoughtfully
into the noble face of his daughter. He then slowly raised his right
hand and laid it on Leonora's shoulder. "I repeat what your mother
said. Like her, I have no treasures to give my country except this
jewel, my Leonora! Go, my daughter!--do what you believe to be your
duty, and may God bless you!" Opening his arms, she threw herself
into them and leaned her head on his breast.
"And now," said Prohaska, gently disengaging himself from a long and
tearful embrace, "let us be calm. These are the first tears I have
wept since the death of our dear Queen Louisa--the first for your
sake, my Leonora! May the Lord forgive them to a poor father who has
but one daughter! The heart will yield to its emotions, but now I
must again be a soldier, who knows no tears!"
"But, husband, Leonora will not leave us immediately," said her
mother. "She must remain yet a day with us. Alas! we discover what
treasures we possessed only when we lose them. I believe I have
never loved Leonora so intensely as I do at this hour, and my heart
is unable to part with her so suddenly. I must first accustom myself
to the separation, and engrave her image upon my soul, that I may
never forget her dear features. Let her stay, then, until to-
morrow!"
The invalid gravely shook his head. "No," he said; "what is to be
done must be done at once; otherwise, our hearts will grow weak, and
our tears soften our resolutions. To-day I can permit Leonora to
leave us; whether I shall be able to do so to-morrow, I do not
know."
"Father, the stage-coach starts for Berlin in two hours, and I shall
take passage in it!" exclaimed Leonora, quickly. "You are right,
what is to be done must be done now, and when we have taken a
resolution, we must not hesitate to carry it into effect. I will go
to my chamber and pack my trunk."
"I will go and help you," said her mother, hastening toward the
door, and leaving the room with Leonora.
"And I will write my advertisement," said Charles. "It must be
published to-morrow, that I am obliged to stay here because my
country will not accept me as a soldier, and that I desire to give
private lessons, the proceeds of which are to be devoted to the
support of a wounded soldier."
"And I--what shall I do?" asked the old invalid, when he was alone.
"I must swallow my tears, and tell no one my thoughts. I shall
quietly accustom myself to the idea that the darling of my heart, my
Leonora, is to leave me, and that my old eyes are to see no more her
dear face, or my ears hear her voice. Ah, when she looked at me, I
felt as though it were spring in my heart, and the sun shining
there; and when I heard her voice I thought it music rejoicing my
soul. Now, how quiet and gloomy all around me will be in the small
house--no more sunshine or music! all will be gone when Leonora is
gone. And will she come back, then?--will not some bullet, some
sword-blade--hush, my thoughts! I must not betray them! Be still, my
heart, and weep! Be still and--" Tears choked his voice, and the
strong man, overwhelmed with grief, sank into his easy-chair and
sobbed aloud. After a long time he raised himself again and dried
his tears. "Fie, Sergeant Prohaska!" he said aloud. "You sit here
and cry like an old woman, and wring your hands in grief, instead of
being glad and thanking the Lord that a substitute has been found
for the invalid sergeant with the wooden leg. Thunder and lightning,
Sergeant Prohaska! I advise you to behave yourself, and not be weak
and foolish, while women are becoming men. Keep your head erect,
turn your eyes on the enemy, and then, 'Charge them!' as old father
Blucher used to say. I will go to work now," he continued, drawing a
deep breath, after repeatedly pacing the small room with measured
steps. "Yes, I will go to work, and that no one may discover that I
have wept, I will sing a beautiful song I learned yesterday from a
volunteer. Yes, I will work and sing!" He hastened to the chamber
adjoining the sitting-room, and brought from it a neat half-finished
basket upon which he had been at work the day before. "It must be
finished to-day; I have promised it," he said, sitting down on his
old easy-chair. He then commenced working assiduously, and sang in a
powerful voice:
"Nun mit Gott! Es ist beschlossen!
Auf, Ihr wackern Streitgenossen,
Endlich kommt der Ehrentag!
Besser flugs und f rohlich sterben,
Als so langsam bin verderben,
Und versiechen in der Schmach."
"Endlich darf das Herz sich regen,
Sich die Zunge frei bewegen,
Alle Fesseln sind eutzwei.
Ach, da Alles schier zerstoben,
Kam der Retterarm from oben,
Neugeboren sind wir, fred!"
"Tag der Freiheit, Tag der Wonne!
Bruder, seht! es tanzt die Sonne,
Wie am ersten Ostertag!
Todte sprengen ihre Grufte,
Und durch Berg und Thai und Klufte
Hallt ein freudig Jauchzen nach!"
"Auferstanden, auferstanden
Aus der Knechtschaft Todesbanden,
Streiter Gottes, nun zu Hauf!
Unsre Adler! Ha sie wittern
Ihrer Raub--die Feinde zittern,
Unsre Adler fahren auf!"
"Zu den Waff en, zu den Rossen,
Auf, Ihr wackern Kampfgenossen
Er ist da, Der Ehrentag!
Besser flugs und frohlich sterben,
Als so langsam hin verderben,
Und versiechen in der Schmach!"
[Footnote:
It is resolved in God's great name!
Up, comrades! to the field of fame!
This day of glory save.
Quickly and merrily to die
Is better than the sick-bed sigh,
And an unhonored grave.
Our heart at last resumes its life--
Our tongues now urge to holy strife;
The broken chains we see.
When all seemed lost, a saving hand
From heaven vouchsafes to bless our land,
And make us strong and free.
O happy day! The sun new-born
Is dancing as on Easter morn!
See, risen brothers, see!
"We come from slavery's grave unbound,
And mountains and the vales resound
With songs of jubilee.
Ascending from Oppression's night,
Behold the dawn of freedom's light!
Soldiers of God, arise!
The enemy will rue this day,
For victory's eagle scents the prey
And onward quickly flies.
To arms! to horse! my comrades brave!
And let the battle-standard wave,
For now is honor's day.
The dying shout of bloody strife
Is better than the pining life
That sinks by slow decay."]
"Yes, it is better to die quickly and merrily than slowly pine away
and perish in disgrace," repeated a sonorous voice behind him. It
was Leonora, who had just entered the room, unnoticed by her father,
and had listened to the last verse of his song. "Yes, the song is
right," she said, enthusiastically. "But I, father, have already
been pining away for a long time. The first volunteer I saw was as a
dagger that pierced my soul, and ever since I have been ill and
suffering, and in my heart a voice has been continually singing the
words I once heard at the theatre: 'I wish to be a man!'"
"And why do you wish to be a man?" asked her father, bowing his
head, and seemingly devoting his whole attention to his work.
"Because a man is allowed to do freely and boldly what he deems
right and good," replied Leonora; "because, when the fatherland
calls him, he may step forth with a bold front, and reply: 'Here I
am! To thee, my country, belongs my arm--my blood! For thee I am
ready to fight, and if need be to die!' Father, when a man talks
thus, his words are sublime--the women clasp their hands and listen
devoutly to him, and the children fall on their knees and pray for
him. But if a girl talk thus, it would be as mockery; the women
would deride their heroic sister, and the children point at and
shout after her, 'Look at the foolish girl who wants to do what is
solely the task of man! Look at the crazy one, who imagines she can
do men's work!' Her most sacred sentiments, her most patriotic
desires and resolutions, would be mercilessly ridiculed!"
"That is the reason, my child," said her father, calmly laboring at
his basket, "why she should not betray her sentiments, and confide
her thoughts to God alone. Have you forgotten what Charles read to
us about Joan of Orleans? She left her parents silently and
secretly, and went whither God called her."
"But her father cursed and disowned her for it," said Leonora, in a
tremulous voice. "Do you think her father was right, merely because
she followed the voice of God, and went out to deliver her king and
country?"
"No," said Prohaska, laying his basket aside and rising, "I do not;
I was always indignant when that particular passage was read to us."
"And what would you have said, father?" asked Leonora, in a tone of
profound emotion. "Imagine me to be Joan, the inspired maid of
Orleans, and that I say: 'Father, I cannot remain any longer in this
narrow dwelling. The voice of the king and the fatherland has
penetrated my heart also, and has called me. I must obey it, for I
feel courageous and strong enough, and it would be cowardly to
disobey.' What would you say if I were Joan of Orleans, and should
talk thus to you?"
"I should say, 'Kneel down, my Leonora, and receive my last
blessing,'" replied Prohaska, straightening himself and approaching
his daughter.
Leonora knelt down, and, raising her tearful eyes to her father,
whispered: "What blessing would you give me if I were Joan of
Orleans? Oh, think I am she, and give me your blessing!"
"If you were Joan of Orleans," responded the old man, solemnly, "and
should kneel before me as you do now, and ask my blessing, I should,
as I do now, lay my hands on your head, and say to you: 'God the
Lord, who holds heaven and earth in His hand, and without whose will
not a hair falls from our head, watch over you and protect you! May
He be with you on the battle-field! May He give you a brave heart, a
strong arm, and a steady eye! May He give you courage to brave
death! Yon have chosen men's work, you have pledged your love and
your life to the fatherland; go, then, and be a man; love your
country like a man, fight like a man, and, if need be, die like a
man!' But when your last hour has come, my daughter, think of your
father, and pray to God with your last thoughts that He may soon
deliver me also, and take me away, for I shall feel lonely on earth
when you are no more, and even the victorious shouts of the
returning would no longer gladden my old soldier's heart if I find
you not among the conquerors. But, hush! let no tear desecrate this
secret hour of our last farewell! God has called all strong and
courageous hearts--follow His call! It is incumbent on every one to
love his country more intensely than parents, brothers, and sisters.
Go, then, my daughter; do your duty, and remember that your father's
blessing will be with you in life as well as in death! And now, give
me a last kiss."
Leonora rose from her knees, and, encircling his neck with her arms,
pressed a glowing kiss on his lips. "Father," she said, looking at
him with a beaming face, "my lips have not yet kissed any man's lips
but yours, and here I swear to you--and may God have mercy on me at
my last hour if I do not keep my oath!--I swear to you that I shall
kiss no man until I am permitted to return to you, my father!"
"I believe you, dear Leonora," said Prohaska, solemnly.
"Leonora, my child, it is time now!" exclaimed her mother, hastily
entering the room. "The postilion has already passed our house, and
in a quarter of an hour the stage-coach will stop at our door. I
have myself gone to the postmaster, and he granted it as a favor
that the stage-coach should stop here, and thus save you the trouble
of going to the post-office. This will enable you to remain with us
fifteen minutes yet."
"But my trunk, mother; we have to take it to the post-office?" asked
Leonora.
"Oh, it would have been too heavy for us," said Mrs. Prohaska;
"Charles and two of his school-mates are just carrying it to the
post-office. Leonora's trunk is quite heavy, father. Thank God, she
is well provided, and for the first year it will be quite
unnecessary for her to buy any thing."
"My dear mother would indeed have packed up all her own things and
dresses for me if I had not prevented her," said Leonora, smiling.
"I should like best to pack up my own heart for you, my dear child,"
exclaimed her mother, deeply moved, "but, as I could not do so, I
put my bridal dress into your trunk. It is a nice silk dress, and I
have worn it only three times in my life--on my wedding-day, and on
the days when my two children were baptized; it is as good as new. I
suppose, husband, you will permit me to give it to her?"
"Of course, but what is she to do with it?" asked Prohaska.
"Why, what a question!" exclaimed Mrs. Prohaska, "she is to wear it,
and look pretty when she goes to parties on Sundays. Leonora, I
suppose you will know what to do with it?" "Yes, mother, I thank
you from the bottom of my heart for the beautiful present, and I
promise you that I shall use it only in a noble and worthy manner,"
said Leonora, gravely. "My mother's bridal dress shall not be worn
for frivolous purposes, but it shall serve me to attain the highest
and purest objects."
"Oh, I know," whispered the mother, who was scarcely able to
restrain her tears, "I know that you are an excellent girl, and a
good daughter, and that you will never do any thing of which your
old parents would have to be ashamed. You have always been my pride
and joy, and never would I consent to part with you unless every one
had now to make the greatest sacrifices for the king and the
fatherland. But still it is very painful, and--"
"Wife," interposed the old sergeant, "no tears now! When we are
alone we shall have time enough for weeping. As long as Leonora is
here, let us gaze at and rejoice in her.--I have to give you a
commission yet. Go to my general, old Blucher, and tell him he ought
not to be angry with me--that he must not believe me a lazy coward
because I do not go to the war. Tell him that my leg had to be
amputated some time after the battle, and that he ought to excuse my
absence when the roll is called."
"I will assuredly repeat your words to the general, father."
"Why!" asked Mrs. Prohaska, wonderingly, "is General Blucher now at
Berlin?"
"No," said her husband, carelessly, "he is at Breslau, whither all
the volunteers are marching."
"But how is Leonora, then, to repeat your words to him?" asked his
wife, in amazement.
"Father means that I shall tell General Blucher when he comes to
Berlin?" said Leonora, quickly. "They say Blucher will come soon to
expel the French from the capital, and father thinks I might then
repeat those words to his old chieftain."
"Sister, sister, the stage-coach is coming," shouted Charles,
rushing breathlessly into the room. "The postilion has already blown
his bugle for the third time!"
"Well, then, my child, we must part," said the old sergeant, deeply
moved, and clasping Leonora in his arms. "God bless you, my
daughter! Your father's thoughts will always be with you!" He
disengaged himself from her arms, and pushed her gently toward her
mother. The two women remained a long time locked in each other's
arms. Neither of them said a word, but their tears and their last
looks were more eloquent than words.
"And you forget me?" asked Charles, reproachfully. "You do not care
to take leave of me?"
Leonora released herself from her mother's embrace, and encircled
her brother's neck with her arms. "Farewell, darling of my heart!"
she cried. "Be a good son to father and mother, and remember that
you must henceforth love them for both of us. Farewell, brother, and
forgive me for being born earlier than you, and thus preventing your
being in my place. God decreed it thus, putting us in our own
places, and we must both fill them worthily."
"Yes," said Charles, amid his tears, "certainly we will."
A carriage was rattling over the pavement, and stopped in front of
the house. A bugle sounded.
"Father, mother, and brother, farewell!" exclaimed Leonora. Then,
raising her arms to heaven, she added: "God in heaven, watch over
them, and, if such be Thy will, let me return to them!" She hastily
wrapped herself in her cloak, and, without looking at them again,
rushed out of the room, and jumped into the coach.
"Farewell, farewell!" shouted father, mother, and brother, who had
followed her, and were standing in front of the house.
She leaned her head out of the coach window. "Farewell," she
exclaimed, "and God--" The bugle drowned her words; the carriage
rolled away.
The loving relatives gazed after it until it had disappeared around
the next corner, and then returned sighing into the small house.
Charles hastened to his little chamber up-stairs to give vent to his
grief. The parents returned to their sitting-room. "Oh, how still it
is here now, as still as in the grave," sighed Mrs. Prohaska, "for I
miss my child, and will miss her everywhere. Oh, husband, my heart
aches, and I feel as though I had lost my Leonora forever! Ah, why
did we allow her to go? Why did we not keep her here, our child, our
only daughter? Oh! if she should never return, if she should die! O
God, have mercy on a poor mother's heart--protect my dear child!"
She sank down on a chair, and, covering her face with her apron,
sobbed aloud.
The old sergeant paced the room in silence. He scarcely knew that
the tears, like large pearls, were running down his cheeks into his
gray beard. The loud sobs of his wife aroused him. "Hush, wife;
hush!" he said, standing in front of her. "It is too late now for
weeping. Let us rather be glad, for Leonora is possessed of a brave
heart, and has done her duty toward her country and her old invalid
father. Let us, therefore, be glad, and sing!" And he commenced to
sing in a tremulous voice, while the tears were still rolling from
his eyes:
"Ihr Deutsche auf in Sud und Nord!
Hinweg gemeiner Neid!
Wir alle reden eine Sprach'
Und stehen air fur eine Sach'
Im ehrenvoilen Streit!"
"Und wer sich feig entzieht dem Kampf
Fur Freiheit und fur Ehr',
Wer nicht das Schwertergreift zur Stund!
Der leb' und sterb' als schlechter Hund,
Der sei kein Deutscher mehr!"
[Footnote:
Arise, ye Germans, North and South!
And honor's path pursue.
Since all one common language speak
And all one sacred object seek,
Your jealousies subdue.
Let him who shirks his country's call,
To freedom and to fame,
Both live and die a cowardly hound,
Despised wherever may be found
A man of German name.]