Thou'rt silent! Raise thy voice again and curse;
Let not the dreadful tear which pierces stones
Perish in vain. My helmet I'll remove.
Here let it fall; I am prepared to suffer;
Would learn betimes what waiteth me in hell.
Voice from the Tower.
Pardon, my loved one, pardon! I am guilty!
Late was thy coming, weary 'twas to wait,
And thus, despite myself, some childish song—
Away with it! What have I to regret?
With thee, my love, with thee a passing space
We lived through; but the memory of that time
I would not change with all earth's habitants,
For tranquil life passed through in weariness.
Thyself didst say to me that common men
Are as those shells deep hidden in the marsh;
Scarce once a year by some tempestuous wave
Cast up, they peep from out the troubled water.
Open their lips, and sigh forth once towards
heaven.
And to their burial once more return.
No! I am not created for such bliss.
While yet within my Fatherland I dwelt
