Note 17 — VI YOUNG GERMANY (continued 9)

In this same city of Cologne, 'mid moaning winds of winter wild, To-day in deepest organ-tones resounds the grave-song of this child. 'Tis not the mother bow'd in grief who sings it o'er her fallen son; Nay, all Cologne bewails the death of him whose toil too soon is done. With solemn woe the city speaks: Thou who didst bear the noble dead, Remain to weep within thy home, and bow to earth thine aged head; I also am his mother! Yea, and yet a mightier one than I, I and the Revolution's self, for whom he laid him down to die. Stay thou within and nurse thy woe. 'Tis we will do him honour here; 'Tis we will watch and requiem sing for thy dead son upon his bier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Why grasp ye not your swords in wrath, O ye that sing and ye that pray? Ye organ-pipes, to trumpets turn, and fight the scoundrels with your breath, And din into their dastard ears the dreadful news of sudden death, Those scoundrels who the order gave, the cruel murder dared to do— The hero leant him on his knee in that autumnal morning's dew, Then silent fell upon his face in blood—'tis eight short days ago— Two bullets smote him on the breast, and laid his head for ever low. (JOYNES.)