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It was

not thine, that forehead Oh, once, once bending to these widstrange and cold,

Nor those dumb lips, they hid be

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owed lips,

Take back the tender warmth of life from me,

let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse

The light of mine, and give me death with thee?

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps

allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,

"We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.'

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:
Brave hearts, from Severn and from
Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,

But, as the song grew louder,

That voice, the perfect music of Something upon the soldier's cheek

pour

thy heart?

Washed off the stains of powder.

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Woods of glossy oak are ringing
With the echoes bland,
While thy generous voice is singing
Songs of Fatherland,

Songs, that by the Danube's river
Sound on hills of vine,

And where waves in green light quiver,

Down the rushing Rhine.

Life, with all its hues and changes, To thy heart doth lie

Like those dreamy Alpine ranges

In the southern sky;
Where in haze the clefts are hidden,
Which the foot should fear,
And the crags that fall unbidden
Startle not the ear.

Where the village maidens gather
At the fountain's brim,
Or in sunny harvest weather,
With the reapers trim;

Where the autumn fires are burning
On the vintage-hills;

Where the mossy wheels are turning
In the ancient mills;

Where from ruined robber towers
Hangs the ivy's hair,

And the crimson foxbell flowers
On the crumbling stair:-
Everywhere, without thy presence,
Would the sunshine fail,
Fairest of the maiden peasants!
Flower of Isar's vale.

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