Christoph August Tiedge (1752–1841)

Translated by Charles T. Brooks

THERE rests the Muses’ son—his conflicts o’er;

Forget him not, my German country, thou!

The wreath that twined around his youthful brow

May deck his urn,—but him, alas! no more.

Dost ask, thou herdsmaid, for those songs of yore?

Though fled his form, his soul is with us now,

And ye who mourn the hero gone before,

Here on his grave renew the patriot vow;

Through Freedom’s holy struggle he hath made,

Ye noble German sons, his heavenward way.

Feel what he felt, while bending o’er his clay;

Thus honour him, while, in the green-arched shade,

Sweet choirs of nightingales, through grove and glade,

Awake the memory of his kindling lay.