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And melt our heart, and rouse to rage,—and
weary;
And let it then again affright the weary.
Such is our life, and such our song should be;
Who then will sing it?"
"I," replied an old
And venerable man, who near the door
Sat 'mid the squires and pages, by his robe
Prussian or Litwin. Thick his beard, by age
Whitened; the last grey hairs wave on his head;
His brow and eyes are covered by a veil;
Sufferings and years are graven on his face.

He bore in his right hand a Prussian lute,
But towards the table stretched his left hand
forth,
And by this sign entreated audience.
All then were silent.
"I will sing," he cried.
"Once sang I to the Prussians and to Litwa;
Some now have perished in their land's defence;
Others will not outlive their country's loss,
But rather slay themselves upon her corse;
As servants true, in good and evil lot.
Will perish on their benefactor's pile.