Puslapio vaizdai
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THE EFFIGIES.

Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen
Der überbleibnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt.

GOETHE.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed; The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone,

Yet, through a cloud of years I trace

What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight,
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance-
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council-board;

In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour'd;

A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;— Surely these things were all thine own,

So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest By the arm'd knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er a breast

In matron robes array'd;

What was thy tale?-Oh! gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,

Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?

He wooed a bright and burning star-
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed

Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Fame take heed

Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours

Through many a lonely day,

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,

With spirit far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim—

These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine !-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervor pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given—
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound--
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken

From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery ?-Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

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