Still let the urn of the brave one inherit
The crown that was glorious around his youthful head:
Maidens still ask his sweet songs, and his spirit
Is with us, although its mortal veil be fled.
Never, on the noble race in which he led ye, falter—
Oh, my German people! forget ye not the brave;
Vow ye to your country's cause, as if upon an altar—
Make ye an altar of my youthful hero's grave!
Although but in its youth-tide, already adorning
The early oak, with summer, hung around each graceful bough,
Stately and pleasant, amid the skies of morning,
Amid the rich and painted clouds it reared its lofty brow.
So bloomed our hero! and for the sunny hours
That lifted up his young green head so beautiful above,
There came forth all the music from the forest's deepest bowers,
And sung in his boughs like the singing of love!
