A PATHETIC POEM.

NZ Truth, Issue 79, 22 December 1906, Page 7

A PATHETIC POEM.

THE BIRTH OF LISA'S GHILD.

A work that is now by no means easy to procure ia J. L. Joynes' volume of poems, entitled "Songs of a Revolutionary Epoch." The epoch referred to is tbe German levolutionary period of 1848, or about that time. Th© "songs" are translations from the German into English verse, and most of them are decidedly well done. Many of the translations are by Joynes hinis-.if, who was a tutor at the great public school at Eton before he left that school m order to devote his energies to £he propaganda of the Socialist movement. Among the authors of songs that are included m the volume are men so famous as Ferdinand Freiligrath, Heine, Herwegh, Becker, and many others equally famous. We purpose to reprint some "of the poems m the volume referred to, a,nd this week we commence with a poem by Herwegh, which is called "The Birth of Liza's Child." The author,- George iierwegh, was a student of theology, who joined the revolutionary movement m. 1848. His poems were greatly admired m Germany, and, indeed, throughout Europe, but tbey prevented him from getting many a position to which bis abilities entitled him. # In 1861, he was appointed to a Professorship at Naples, but. at the request of the Governments of Prussia and France the appointment was cancelled. He eventually joined the Solialist movement. Here is: — THE BIRTH OF LISA'S CHILD. Along dark . streets, with tottering tread, . Poor Lisa hastes— 'tis winter wild, And she has neither home nor bed Wherein to bear her first-born child. She sees m many a lamp-lit hall Late revel laughing sleep to scorn — '•'" . Ha&be,- —isa, to the hospital — . 'Tis there the poor men's sons are born. "Thy father, child, may toil and slave, But oh, what good to slave and toil 1 Beg thou a .cradle or a grave— Thy only birthright m the soil. My child, thy fatherland is fain Thy unborn life with shame to blight; Have patience till the house of pain — 'Tis there that thou shalt see the light. "They bless to-night m festive fashion The God who took the poor man's part, I And yet oio touch of true compassion , Finds entrance at their stony heart; [ No tears of pity ever fall j For outcasts homeless and forlorn; ! Haste, Lisa, to the hospital— j 'Tis there the common folk are born i "Much trouble shall I have for thee, | Thou child of love, my darling child ; Thy country's son thou yet shall be, ; Though on thy birth she has not smiled. For lords' and princelings' tender nerves j The softest lint to shreds is torn; The hard bare plank our childbed serves— 'Tis "thus the people's sons are born ! "Were trumpets sounding m my ear, And our red banner waving high, That flag should be for thee, my dear, | j Thy swaddling clothes. wherein to lie; ': Bap'titmal dew should on thee fall, j Though no priest poured it on tby head"— : Haste, Lisa, to the hospital— ! ; "Tis there the poor are brought to bed. :

"What is't, my darling, thou dost cravi>> Oh, wait awhile— the night is wild : I see, I see the hero's grave; Thj country there will own her child; For Freedom's friends who fought so we'll That column fronts the reddening morn" - Down on its steps she" fainting fell — 'Tis thus the People's Sons are bom!