Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know,
As long as through heaven’s free expanse the breezes freely blow,
As long as in the forest wild the green leaves flutter free,
As long as rivers, mountain-born, roll freely to the sea,
As long as free the eagle’s wing exulting cleaves the skies,
As long as from a freeman’s heart a freeman’s breath doth rise.
Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know,
As long as spirits of the free through earth and air shall go;
Through earth and air a spirit-band of heroes moves always,
’Tis near us at the dead of night, and in the noontide’s blaze,
In the storm that levels towering pines, and in the breeze that waves
With low and gentle breath the grass upon our fathers’ graves.
There’s not a cradle in the bounds of Hellas broad and fair,
But the spirit of our free-born sires is surely hovering there.
It breathes in dreams of fairy-land upon the infant’s brain,
And in his first sleep dedicates the child to manhood’s pain;
Its summons lures the youth to stand, with new-born joy possessed,
Where once a freeman fell, and there it fires his thrilling breast,
And a shudder runs through all his frame; he knows not if it be
A throb of rapture, or the first sharp pang of agony.
Come, swell our banners on the breeze, thou sacred spirit-band,
Give wings to every warrior’s foot, and nerve to every hand.
We go to strike for freedom, to break the oppressor’s rod,
We go to battle and to death for our country and our God.
Ye are with us, we hear your wings, we hear in magic tone
Your spirit-voice the pæan swell, and mingle with our own.
Ye are with us, ye throng around,—you from Thermopylæ,
You from the verdant Marathon, you from the azure sea,
By the cloud-capped rocks of Mykale, at Salamis,—all you
From field and forest, mount and glen, the land of Hellas through!
Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know,
As long as through heaven’s free expanse the breezes freely blow,
As long as in the forest wild the green leaves flutter free,
As long as rivers, mountain-born, roll freely to the sea,
As long as free the eagle’s wing exulting cleaves the skies,
As long as from a freeman’s heart a freeman’s breath doth rise.
When we remember all that was compressed into this short life, we might
well believe that this ceaseless acquiring and creating must have tired
and weakened and injured both body and mind. Such, however, was not the
case. All who knew the poet agree in stating that he never overworked
himself, and that he accomplished all he did with the most perfect ease
and enjoyment. Let us only remember how his life as a student was broken
into by his service during the war, how his journey to Italy occupied
several years of his life, how later in Dessau he had to follow his
profession as teacher and librarian, and then let us turn our thoughts to
all the work of his hands and the creations of his mind, and we are
astonished, not only at the amount of work done, but still more at the
finished form which distinguishes all his works. He was one of the first
who with Zeune, Von der Hagen, and the brothers Grimm, labored to reawaken
an interest in ancient and mediæval German literature. He was a favorite
pupil of Wolf, and his “Homerische Vorschule” did more than any other work
at that time to propagate the ideas of Wolf. He had explored the modern
languages of Europe,—French, Italian, English, and Spanish; and his
critiques in all these fields of literature show how intimately acquainted
he was with the best authors of these nations. Besides all this, he worked
regularly for journals and encyclopædias, and was engaged co-editor of the
great “Encyclopædia of Arts and Sciences,” by Ersch and Gruber. He also
undertook the publication of a “Library of the German Poets of the
Seventeenth Century,” and all this, without mentioning his poems and
novels, in the short space of a life of thirty-three years.
I almost forget that I am speaking of my father; for indeed I hardly knew
him, and when his scientific and poetic activity reached its end, he was
far younger than I am now. I do not believe, however, that a natural
affection and veneration for the poet deprives us of the right of judging.
It is well said that love is blind, but love also strengthens and sharpens
the dull eye, so that it sees beauty where thousands pass by unmoved. If
one reads most of our critical writings, it would almost appear as if the
chief duty of the reviewer were to find out the weak points and faults of
every work of art. Nothing has so injured the art of criticism as this
prejudice. A critic is a judge; but a judge, though he is no advocate,
should also be no prosecutor. The weak points of any work of art betray
themselves only too soon; but in order to discover its beauties, not only
a sharp, but an experienced eye is needed; and love and sympathy are
necessary above anything else. It is the heart that makes the critic, not
the nose. It is well known how many of the most beautiful spots in
Scotland, and Wales, and Cornwall, were not many years ago described as
wastes and wildernesses. Richmond and Hampton Court were admired, people
travelled also to Versailles, and admired the often admired blue sky of
Italy. But poets such as Walter Scott and Wordsworth discovered the
beauties of their native land. Where others had only lamented over bare
and wearisome hills, they saw the battle-fields and burial-places of the
primeval Titan struggles of nature. Where others saw nothing but barren
moors full of heather and broom, the land in their eyes was covered as
with a carpet softer and more variegated than the most precious loom of
Turkey. Where others lost their temper at the gray cold fog, they marveled
at the silver veil of the bride of the morning, and the gold illumination
of the departing sun. Now every cockney can admire the smallest lake in
Westmoreland or the barest moor in the Highlands. Why is this? Because few
eyes are so dull that they cannot see what is beautiful after it has been
pointed out to them, and when they know that they need not feel ashamed of
admiring it. It is the same with the beauties of poetry, as with the
beauties of nature. We must first discover what is beautiful in poetry,
and, when it is discovered, communicate it; otherwise the authors of
Scotch ballads are but strolling singers, and the Niebelungen songs are,
as Frederick the Great said, not worth powder and shot. The trade of
fault-finding is quickly learnt; the art of admiration is a difficult art,
at least for little minds, narrow hearts, and timid souls, who prefer
treading broad and safe paths. Thus many critics and literary historians
have rushed by the poems of Wilhelm Müller, just like travellers, who go
on in the beaten track, passing by on the right hand and on the left the
most beautiful scenes of nature, and who only stand still and open both
eyes and mouth when their “Murray” tells them there is something they
ought to admire. Should an old man who is at home here meet them on their
way, and counsel the travellers to turn for a moment from the high road in
order to accompany him through a shady path to a mill, many may feel at
first full of uneasiness and distrust. But when they have refreshed
themselves in the dark green valley with its lively mill stream and
delicious wood fragrance, they no longer blame their guide for having
called somewhat loudly to them to pause in their journey. It is such a
pause that I have tried in these few introductory lines to enforce on the
reader, and I believe that I too may reckon on pardon, if not on thanks,
from those who have followed my sudden call.
1858