Poems (Hooper)/Frederick the Great at Sans Souci
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FPREDERICK THE GREAT AT SANS SOUCI.
Dies ist der Konigspark.
This is the royal park. See, trees—turf—flowers—
See, from their shells stone Tritons blow bright showers;
And in the fountain's breast the white nymph shines.
See Flora's statue where the rose-trees stand,
And see the shady walks as primly plann'd,
And smooth as Boileau's lines.
See, from their shells stone Tritons blow bright showers;
And in the fountain's breast the white nymph shines.
See Flora's statue where the rose-trees stand,
And see the shady walks as primly plann'd,
And smooth as Boileau's lines.
Passing the house where strange bird-voices blend,
Let us the terrace's high slope ascend
Where, crown'd with fallow green, the orange grows;
There tow'rs o'er all, where fir and beech entwine,
The castle whose broad casements in long line
With evening's fire glow.
Let us the terrace's high slope ascend
Where, crown'd with fallow green, the orange grows;
There tow'rs o'er all, where fir and beech entwine,
The castle whose broad casements in long line
With evening's fire glow.
And there, with sunken head, a man reclines;
His blue eye muses, and oft sudden shines
As through the thunder-cloud the lightning flits.
A cocked hat shades his brow; and in his hand
He holds a cane, and scribbles in the sand.
Thou'rt right; it is King Fritz!
His blue eye muses, and oft sudden shines
As through the thunder-cloud the lightning flits.
A cocked hat shades his brow; and in his hand
He holds a cane, and scribbles in the sand.
Thou'rt right; it is King Fritz!
He sits, and thinks, and writes. Canst tell his thought?
With bygone battles are his musings fraught?
Thinks he of Hochkirch night with flaming air?
How flashed the cannon redly to the sky,
How broke the squadrons of the cavalry
His grenadiers' firm square?
With bygone battles are his musings fraught?
Thinks he of Hochkirch night with flaming air?
How flashed the cannon redly to the sky,
How broke the squadrons of the cavalry
His grenadiers' firm square?
Frames he a law to teach how mild and wise
His war-strong nation may to beauty rise?
Peace greetings where the war-drum rent the air?
Seeks he a rhyme for some defective verse?
Or does he now an epigram rehearse
To overcome Voltaire?
His war-strong nation may to beauty rise?
Peace greetings where the war-drum rent the air?
Seeks he a rhyme for some defective verse?
Or does he now an epigram rehearse
To overcome Voltaire?
Comes now the vanished past before his sight
When he, in dressing-gown, 'neath pale moonlight,
Grasped his soft flute and braved his father's scorn?
Or does he summon, from his last long rest,
The faithful friend, alas! whose youthful breast
By sevenfold balls was torn?
When he, in dressing-gown, 'neath pale moonlight,
Grasped his soft flute and braved his father's scorn?
Or does he summon, from his last long rest,
The faithful friend, alas! whose youthful breast
By sevenfold balls was torn?
Dreams he of future days? Before his sight
Passes the Prussian eagle's daring flight?
The double-headed eagle checked he sees?
Thinks he, hereafter, how the German land
Shall, hoping, fearing, 'neath the black wing stand?
He thinks of none of these.
Passes the Prussian eagle's daring flight?
The double-headed eagle checked he sees?
Thinks he, hereafter, how the German land
Shall, hoping, fearing, 'neath the black wing stand?
He thinks of none of these.
He sighs: "O grief, to be the hero given
Unto a people shut from Art's fair heaven!
To be Augustus where no Horace sings!
What good from foreign swans white plumes to borrow?
Yet what remains us else? Appear, O morrow!
That unto us the God beloved brings."
Unto a people shut from Art's fair heaven!
To be Augustus where no Horace sings!
What good from foreign swans white plumes to borrow?
Yet what remains us else? Appear, O morrow!
That unto us the God beloved brings."
He speaks, and dreams not that the morning's glow
Kisses the horizon; that even now
The wreath is grasped by youthful Goethe's hand;
That he doth lead the timid, blushing child,
The German Muse, from far-off Taxus wild,
To the free Minstrel Land.
Geibel.
Kisses the horizon; that even now
The wreath is grasped by youthful Goethe's hand;
That he doth lead the timid, blushing child,
The German Muse, from far-off Taxus wild,
To the free Minstrel Land.
Geibel.