Brandenburg Harvest-Song. [320]
FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.
The corn in golden light
Waves o’er the plain;
The sickle’s gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!—
Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o’er the day!
Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,—
Now o’er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!
On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour:
We know its cause too well—
She is no more!
[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.