d forms
Of mother, father, brethren; but anew
Some cloud mysterious veils their features o'er,
Thicker and darker growing evermore.
The years of childhood passed away. I lived
A German among Germans, and they gave me
The name of Walter,13 Alf thereto as surname.
German the name, my soul remained Litvanian;
Grief for my parents, for the strangers hatred
Remained. The Master Winrych in his palace
Reared me, himself did hold me to the font,
Loved and caressed me as his very son.
But weary in his palace, from his knees
I fled unto the Wajdelote. That time
Among the Germans was a Litwin bard,
Captive for many years,--interpreter,
He served the army. When he heard of me
That I was orphan and Litvanian,
He told of Litwa, cheered my longing soul
With his caresses, song, and with the sound
Of the Litvanian speech. He often led me
To the grey Niemen's shores; from thence I joyed
To look upon my country's well-loved mountains.
And when unto the castle we returned,
He dried my tears to waken no suspicion:
He dried my tears, but kindled in me vengeance
Against the Germans. I remember well
How, when we came again into the castle,
I sharpened secretly a knife, with what
Delight of vengeance cut I Winrych's carpets,
Or broke his mirrors, on his shining shield
Flung sand, or spit upon it. Later on,
When grown near manhood, from Klajpedo's port
I sailed with the old man to view the shores
Of Litwa. There I plucked my country's flowers;
Their magic fragrance woke within my soul
Some ancient, dark remembrance. With the fragrance
Intoxicated, seemed me that a child
Once more I grew, and in my parents' garden,
Played with my little brothers. The old man
Assisted memory with his words, more lovely
Than herbs and flowers,--painted the happy past,
How sweet in native land 'mid friends and kin
To pass one's youth, how many Litwin children
Knew not such bliss, in the Order's fetters weeping.
I heard this on the plains, but on the beach,
Where the white billows break with roaring breasts,
And from their foamy throat cast streams of sand,
'Thou seest,' the old man then was used to say,
'The grassy carpet of this seaboard meadow.
The sand blows over it. These fragrant herbs,
Thou seest, would pierce the deadly covering,
By their brow's strength. In vain, alas! for now
Another hydra comes of gravel-dust,
Spreads its white fins, subdues the living lands,
Stretching its kingdom of wild desert round.
My son! the gifts of spring are li