Infantine effusions By Ernest Charles Jones, written by him, between the eighth and tenth years of his age |
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LINES ON THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. |
 | Infantine effusions |  |
LINES ON THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.
If nought but the wild-flower bloom'd on the plain
And the Hermit dwell'd in the cave
I'd long to see that Land again
Which holds great Frederic's grave
And the Hermit dwell'd in the cave
I'd long to see that Land again
Which holds great Frederic's grave
Who on the field those laurels found
That honor Prussia's name
And lightning sunbeams playing round
Irradiate his fame.
That honor Prussia's name
And lightning sunbeams playing round
Irradiate his fame.
67
My native Land—'tis thee I greet!
And hail the lovely Sprey
I hail Berlin's imperial seat
Illum'd by Frederic's ray
And hail the lovely Sprey
I hail Berlin's imperial seat
Illum'd by Frederic's ray
My native Land!—where unobscured
Great deeds resplendent shine
Where Glory's reign, has still endured
With pride I hail thee mine.
Great deeds resplendent shine
Where Glory's reign, has still endured
With pride I hail thee mine.
And thou!—fair star in Prussia's crown,
Thou pure and polish'd gem,
Who gleam'd more bright in fortune's frown,
Its torrent sought to stem.
Thou pure and polish'd gem,
Who gleam'd more bright in fortune's frown,
Its torrent sought to stem.
Thy peoples love have thee enshrin'd,
That love,—that's never bought,
Thou sleeps't by sweetest flow'rs intwin'd
True emblems of their thought.
That love,—that's never bought,
Thou sleeps't by sweetest flow'rs intwin'd
True emblems of their thought.
Thy virtues in their hearts deep fixt,
Will live to times last doom
As breathes the sweet vergiß-mein-nicht,
That blooms around thy tomb.
Will live to times last doom
As breathes the sweet vergiß-mein-nicht,
That blooms around thy tomb.
68
Hail Berlin's imperial dome
The silver winding Sprey—
Where victory holds her sacred home,
Still beams beneath her ray.
The silver winding Sprey—
Where victory holds her sacred home,
Still beams beneath her ray.
Where her deathless wreath she twined,
'Round the tomb, that holds enshrined,
The ashes of the great,—the brave,
Reposing in the silent grave,
May peace her emblems o'er them wave!
'Round the tomb, that holds enshrined,
The ashes of the great,—the brave,
Reposing in the silent grave,
May peace her emblems o'er them wave!
| Infantine effusions | |