t water enough to wash
away the shame which that mighty one hath bequeathed to thee in dying.
Not thy wind bag, Sir Hudson--no; thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo
whom perjured kings lured that they might secretly revenge on the man of
the people that which the people had once openly inflicted on one of
themselves. And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.

Until the latest times the boys of France will sing and tell of the
terrible hospitality of the _Bellerophon_, and when those songs of
mockery and tears resound across the strait, there will be a blush on
the cheek of every honorable Briton. But a day will come when this song
will ring thither, and there will be no Britannia in existence--when the
people of pride will be humbled to the earth, when Westminster's
monuments will be broken, and when the royal dust which they inclosed
will be forgotten. And St. Helena is the holy grave whither the races of
the east and of the west will make their pilgrimage in ships, with
pennons of many a hue, and their hearts will grow strong with great
memories of the deeds of the worldly savior, who suffered and died under
Sir Hudson Lowe, as it is written in the evangelists, Las Cases,
O'Meara, and Autommarchi.

Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest
enemies of the Emperor: Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII has
rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still, as before,
professor in Goettingen.

* * * * *

ENGLISH FRAGMENTS[56]

BY HEINRICH HEINE

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

DIALOGUE ON THE THAMES

The sallow man stood near me on the deck, as I gazed on the green shores
of the Thames, while in every corner of my soul the nightingales awoke
to life. "Land of Freedom!" I cried, "I greet thee! Hail to thee,
Freedom, young sun of the renewed world! Those older suns, Love and
Faith, are withered and cold, and can no longer light or warm us. The
ancient myrtle woods, which were once all too full, are now deserted,
and only timid turtle-doves nestle amid the soft thickets. The old
cathedrals, once piled in towering height by an arrogantly pious race,
which fain would force its faith into heaven, are crumbling, and their
gods have ceased to believe in themselves. Those divinities are worn
out, and our age lacks the imagination to shape others. Every power of
the human breast now tends to a love of Liberty, and Liber