  Dear distant Germany, how often I weep when I remember thee! Gay France my sorrow cannot soften, Her merry race gives pain to me. In Paris, in this witty region, ’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns; O bells of folly and religion, How sweetly sound at home your strains! Courteous the men! Their salutation I yet return with feelings sad; The rudeness shown in every station In my own country made me glad! Smiling the women! but their clatter, Like millwheels, never seems to cease; The Germans (not to mince the matter) Prefer I, who lie down in peace. And all things here with restless passion Keep whirling, like some madden’d dream; With us, they move in jog-trot fashion, And well-nigh void of motion seem. Methinks I hear the distant ringing Of the soft bugle’s notes serene; The watchman’s songs I hear them singing, With Philomel’s sweet strains between. At home the bard, a happy vagrant In Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove; From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant My tender verses there I wove. |
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