To Heinrich Heine

AWAKE to lyric rapture once again,

Great German bard! Not in resurgent France

Shall thy proud spirit rally from its trance

But in the Rhineland where the sabres glance;

Where spring to arms, each day, a myriad men.—

There now they need thy patriotic pen:

Its caustic wit, so dagger-keen and bold

That erstwhile smote with such relentless zeal

Yet had the art of tenderness to heal.

Once more thy sweet-voiced Lorelei shall steal

Into the nation’s heart, whose tales were told

By thee, dear Troubador, in rhymes of gold—

And then thy matchless minstrelsy shall bring

The Fatherland swift healing on its wing.