THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE. WHEN HEN the Romans, rashly roving, First of all, to flourish partial, Rode mid trumpets the field marshal, But in the Teutoburgian Forest How the north-wind blew and chorussed; And there was a perfume there All at once, in sock and buskins Ah, it was an awful slaughter, O Quinctilius! wretched general, Knowest thou not that such our men are all? In a swamp he fell, - how shocking! And, besides, was smothered. Then, with his temper growing wusser, Said to Centurion Titiusser, "Pull your sword out, never mind, And bore me through with it behind, Since the game is busted." Scævola, of law a student, Fine young fellow, but imprudent E'en his hoped-for death was baffled, To his Corpus Juris. When this forest fight was over To a first-rate breakfast. Now, in honor of the story, A monument they'll raise for glory. Joseph Victor Scheffel. Tr. C. G. Leland. Tharaw. ANKE VON THARAW. THIS Song of Simon Dach, though apparently written in a tone of great tenderness, is in fact a satire upon a lady who proved untrue to him. In after life he could not forgive himself for having taken this poetical revenge. On his death-bed, after a violent spasm of pain, he exclaimed: Ah! that was for the song of Anke von Tharaw." ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life and my goods and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow Oppression and sickness and sorrow and pain As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through mauifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart and one mouth and one hand? Some seek for dissension and trouble and strife: Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; Simon Dach. Tr. H. W. Longfellow. Thuringia. THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS. HIS is the land, the happy valleys these, THIS Broad breadths of plain, blue-veined by many a Umbrageous hills, sweet glades, and forests fair, Is Wartburg, seat of our dear lord's abode, The open flats lie fruitful to the sun Full many a league; till, dark against the sky, Robert, Lord Lytton. |