History of Three Hearts

There was a knight, of fatherland bereft,That land wrecked, ruined—not a vestige left,Which waste and war, and desolation's flameHad spared—it stood, the shadow of a name;The knight looked on the frightful devastation,His blood was boiling, and his reddened browBespoke a fierce, but silent indignation,As if the blood-fount were exhausted now;And every drop outpoured so willingly,Poured out in vain—the Fatherland is dead,—Dishonoured—doomed. The branch is from the treeWrenched rudely by the storm-wind—scatteredThe leaves through the wide world,—he saw the cloudThat darkened all the heaven—and on the spot,Which was his home, in agony he bowed,But even one word of anguish uttered not;The tears dropped thickly on the absorbing grass—The grass upon his country's grave that grew;His tears were all he had to give—alas!And he would fain be melted with the dewThat lay there—then he rose—and looked around—Stalked like a ghostly shadow o'er the ground,And flung a curse upon the solitude;Then came a thought to that bewildered mood—Might not a wandering, weary spirit roamIn search of home, to find at last a home?But better than a foreign home it wereTo sink into enduring death, sleep thereWhere snowy flowers might lie upon the grave—What more than rest would the tired pilgrim have?So in the silent woods he lingered, askingA pillow for his weariness. The spot.Was brightened by a lovely maiden, baskingIn sunshine,—in his gloom he saw her not—Saw nothing—but the wrecked and ruined cot—Knew not how often, through the forest shade,The starry lamps were looked on by the maid;How oft her eyes caught radiance from their glance;He knew not that love's terrors often paledLike snowy lilies that sad countenance,That what she felt she uttered not, but quailed,Under a silence-forcing influence.O how could she, mistress of house and land,And name and fortune—dream of one who stoodA poor knight by the world's opinion banned,And tainted with the stains of common blood?For in that spot the youth had dwelt of old—A peasant—a field labourer—of the poorThe poorest—struggling both with want and cold,He then had seen the maiden, but no moreDared look upon her face, than look uponThe blasting lightning or the mid-day sun;Yet wheresoe'er he went, a ray that cameFrom that bright vision, filled his soul with flame—The flame of love, whose ever fostered fireBlazed brighter in the darkness of desireAnd dread, lest she, the lofty, might discoverThe hidden passion of the lowly lover:So daringly presumptuous—yet perhapsHeroic deeds and laurel wreaths might bring,When many a weary, weary year should lapse,For love's high altar a fit offering;Meanwhile might he not hope to catch—from farA glance—a glory from that heavenly star?

And he went forth again—again to strive,But not the fierce encounter to survive;The tyrants hurled their thunder at his head—But tyrant's thunder cannot wake the dead;And there he sleeps the eternal sleep—no stoneTo mark his resting place—the coarse grass grownUpon a little hillock, shows the spot—What could a stone say more? Alas! Is notHis maiden's heart to stone all petrified?And will not his dear memory more abideIn grateful souls, with living thoughts enshrined;She had no more concern with earth—she died—The loved one—and she slumbers at his side.

They left a servant—only one—behind,Who came heart-broken; but the griefs, the care,Were all too heavy—all too hard to bear,And he sought death to soothe his troubled mind.At midnight, when the tomb-gates open wide,A wanderer sought the spot, where lay interredHis love, and looking round on every side,Asked for the idol of his soul—nought stirred;She was not there—she, too, at midnight toll,Had sought the vanished idol of her soul;'Twas a vain seeking—like a wandering birdHe, too, had fled—and from a foreign strand—Asks—Do the chains still hold my Fatherland?