Ach Land! Ach Land! Für alle Sturmbedrohten
Der mildeste von unsers Schicksals Boten
Winkt uns, die Fackel umgewandt,
Und leitet uns mit sanfter Hand,
In's Land der grossen Todten,
In's stille Land!

Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

Into the silent land!
Ah, who shall lead us thither?

Come Grief, and sing a solemn dirge Beneath this midnight shade; From central darkness now emerge,
And tread the lonely glade.

To die is landing on some silent shore
Where billows never break, nor tempests roar;
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er.

An horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.