Heine

NOR life nor death had any peace for thee,

Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey

To wind and water, till we bade thee stay

And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea.

But now it seems that on thine effigy

Thy very host an impious hand would lay:

Go then and wander, praising on thy way

The proud Republic’s hospitality!

Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong,

The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir

Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear

The Lords of Gold above the Lords of Song,

Were it not strange, then, should we honor more

The sweet-mouthed singer of a foreign shore?