Christoph August Tiedge (1752–1841)

Translated by Charles T. Brooks

PROUDLY, e’en now, the young oak waved on high,

Hung round with youthful green full gorgeously;

And calmly graceful, and yet bold and free,

Reared its majestic head in upper sky.

Hope said, “How great, in coming days, shall be

That tree’s renown!” Already, far or nigh,

No monarch of the forest towered so high:

The trembling leaves murmured melodiously

As love’s soft whisper; and its branches rung

As if the master of the tuneful string,

Mighty Apollo, there his lyre had hung.

But, ah, it sank. A storm had bowed its pride!—

Alas! untimely snatched in life’s green spring,

My noble youth, the bard and hero, died!