Therefore, the expulsion of Marx was practically the death sentence of the paper. On May 19th the last number appeared with Freiligrath's defiant poem as a leader:
May 19th, 1849.
No open blow in an open fight,
But with quips and with quirks they arraign me,
By creeping treachery's secret blight
The Western Calmucks have slain me.
The fatal shaft in the dark did fly;
I was struck by an ambushed knave;
And here in the pride of my strength I lie,
Like a corpse of a rebel brave!
With a deathless scorn in my dying breath,
In my hand the sword still cherished;
"Rebellion" still for my shout of death,
In my manhood untainted, I perished.
Oh! gladly, full gladly, the Pruss and the Czar
The grass from my grave would clear;
But Germany sends me, with Hungary far,
Three salvoes to honor my bier.
And the tattered poor man takes his stand,
On my head the cold sods heaving;
He casts them down with a diligent hand,
Where the glory of toil is cleaving.
And a garland of flowers and May he brought
On my burning wounds to cast;
His wife and his daughters the wreath had wrought
When the work of the day was past.
