For Teutons brave, inured by toil,
Protect their country's holy soil.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
The heart may break in agony,
Yet Frenchmen thou shalt never be.
In water rich is Rhine; thy flood,
Germania, rich in heroes' blood.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
When heavenward ascends the eye,
Our heroes' ghosts look down from high;
We swear to guard our dear bequest,
And shield it with the German breast.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
As long as German blood still glows,
The German sword strikes mighty blows,
And German marksmen take their stand,
No foe shall tread our native land.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
We take the pledge. The stream runs by;
Our banners proud, are wafting high.
On for the Rhine, the German Rhine!
We all die for our native Rhine.
Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
H! give me back that royal dream
My fancy wrought,
When I have seen your sunny eyes
Grow moist with thought;
And fondly hoped, dear love, your heart from mine
And laid me down to dream that dream divine,
But true, methought,
Of how my life's long task would be. to make yours blessed as it ought.
To learn to love sweet nature more
For your sweet sake,
To watch with you-dear friend, with you!—
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see
Its mirror make-
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing
By linn and lake;
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake!
To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore;
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla's shore;
'OW slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom-then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed-or reels, Half wrecked, through gulfs profound.
-Moons, wax and wane. But still that lonely traveler treads the deep.— I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. — They land!-They land!-not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies.-Forth they come From their long prison-hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness-men of hoary hair, And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave,
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.-
Bleak nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests and unyielding earth,
And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow.-What could lure their steps
To this dreary desert?—Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands.-
And can ye deem it strange
That from their planting such a branch should bloom
As nations envy.-Would a germ, embalmed
With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root
Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again?
Hid by its veil of waters from the hand
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth
In giant strength.-
Its early clusters crushed
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host
A draught of deadly wine. O, ye who boast
In your free veins the blood of sires like these,
Lose not their lineaments! Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart—or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue-or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth's beach—and on that rock
Kneel in their foot prints, and renew the vow
They breathed to God.
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His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother-may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low, murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken;
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night-
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever.
'HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner trailed in dust
Is now their martial shroud-
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are passed-
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain Came down the serried foeWho heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death.
Full many a mother's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dead fray.
Sons of the dark and bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war its richest spoilThe ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky
Shines sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave!
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION.
IGHT wind, whispering
wind, wind of the
Carib sea;
The palms and the still
lagoon,
Long for thy coming soon;
But first my lady find:
Haste nor look behind,
To-night, to-night, love's her-
ald be.
The feathery bamboo moves,
the dewy plantains weep;
From the jasmine thicket
bear
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH
YARD.
HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl doth to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
The scents that are swooning Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
there,
And steal from the orange groves
The breath of a thousand loves,
To bear her ere she sleep.
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
And the lone bird's tender song that rings from the The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
The fire-fly's light and the glow.
Of the moonlit waters low
All things that to-night belong,
And can do my love no wrong,
Bear her this hour for me.
Speed thee, speed thee, wind of the deep, for the cyclone comes in wrath,
The distant forests moan:
Thou hast but an hour thine own,
An hour thy tryst to keep,
Ere the hounds of tempest leap,
And follow upon thy path.
Whisperer, tarry a space, she waits for thee in the
night,
She leans from her casement there,
With the star-blooms in her hair,
And a shadow falls like lace
From the fern-tree over her face,
And over her mantle white.
Spirit of air and fire, to-night my herald be;
Tell her I love her well,
And all that I bid the tell,
And fold her ever the nigher,
With the strength of my soul's desire :
Wind, wind of the Carib sea.
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines eir artless tale relate;
If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say:
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;
Another came-nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ;Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send.
He gave to misery all he had-a tear;
He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode : (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.
H, never sit we down, and say There's nothing left but sorrow! We walk the wilderness to-day, The promised land to-morrow. And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow, We'll sow the golden grain to-day, And harvest comes to-morrow.
Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call,
O chivalry of labor !
Triumph and toil are twins; and aye
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow;
And 't is the martyrdom to-day
Brings victory to-morrow.
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