Poetry Archives

Where is the minstrel’s Father-land?
  Where the sparks of noble spirits flew,
  Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew,
  Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true
  For all things sacred, good and grand:
There was my Father-land.

How named the minstrel’s Father-land?
  O’er slaughtered son—’neath tyrants’ yokes,
  She weepeth now—and foreign strokes;
  They called her once the Land of Oaks—
  Land of the Free—the German Land:
Thus was called my Father-land.
Why weeps the minstrel’s Father-land?
  Because while tyrant’s tempest hailed
  The people’s chosen princes quailed,
  And all their sacred pledges failed;
  Because she could no ear command,
Alas must weep my Father-land.

Whom calls the minstrel’s Father-land?
  She calls on heaven with wild alarm—
  With desperation’s thunder-storm—
  On Liberty to bare her arm,
  On Retribution’s vengeful hand:
On these she calls—my Father-land.

What would the minstrel’s Father-land?
  She would strike the base slaves to the ground
  Chase from her soil the tyrant hound,
  And free her sons in shackles bound,
  Or lay them free beneath her sand:
That would my Father-land.

And hopes the minstrel’s Father-land?
  She hopes for holy Freedom’s sake,
  Hopes that her true sons will awake,
  Hopes that just God will vengeance take,
  And ne’er mistakes the Avenger’s hand:
Thereon relies my Father-land.