Heinrich Heine

SON of a mystic race, he came

When Europe faltered at one name,

And, to his youthful eyes, the sun

Darkened before Napoleon.

France brought his freedom, but it brought

To Germany the years that wrought

Her shame, her bondage, her despair—

Thus in the quiet Rhineland air

A deep division drew apart

The fighter’s and the poet’s heart.

The poet heard the linden croon

Tragic old ditties to the moon,

And sang with clear authentic voice

The music of his country’s choice.

He knew the forest of romance,

The haunting wail, the elfin dance,

The wounded heart, the magic lance,

And first on German Islands he

Heard echoes of the Odyssey

Sonorous in the Northern Sea.

III

Then, as he dreamed, the loud world’s brood

Cried out, the visionary mood

Broke, and the poet in his fear

Bade poisoned arrows sing and sear.

God touched him. From his couch of pain

He sang, he fought, and in his strain

Thunder of olden battles stirred

By prophets in Judea heard.

God touched him, but his long repose

Is broken still by clamorous foes.

Yet battle dies, and song alone

With the Eternal is at one—

Great verse that is the warder of

Justice and wisdom, truth and love,

And of that beauty in all lands,

Not seen of eyes, not made with hands,

Whose harmony can so control

The sanctuary of the soul,

That we must know its prophets still

The child of a diviner will.