"To thee till death united,

Thy steel's bright life is plighted;

Ah, were my love but tried!

When wilt thou wed thy bride? Hurrah!"

"The trumpet's festal warning

Shall hail our bridal morning;

When loud the cannon chide,

Then clasp I my loved bride! Hurrah!"

“Oh, joy, when thine arms hold me!

I pine until they fold me.

Come to me! bridegroom, come!

Thine is my maiden bloom. Hurrah!"

"Why, in thy sheath upspringing,
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing?
Why clanging with delight,
So eager for the fight? Hurrah!”

"Well may thy scabbard rattle,
Trooper, I pant for battle;

Right eager for the fight,

I clang with wild delight. Hurrah!"

"Why thus, my love, forth creeping?
Stay, in thy chamber sleeping;
Wait, still i' th' narrow room;
Soon for my bride I come.

"Keep me not longer pining!
Oh, for Love's garden shining
With roses, bleeding red,

Hurrah!"

And blooming with the dead! Hurrah!"

"Come from thy sheath, then, treasure!

Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure!

Come forth, my good sword, come!

Enter thy father-home! Hurrah!"

"Ha! in the free air glancing,

How brave this bridal dancing!

How, in the sun's glad beams,

Bride-like thy bright steel gleams! Hurrah!"

Come on, ye German horsemen !
Come on, ye valiant Norsemen !

Swells not your hearts' warm tide?
Clasp each in hand his bride! Hurrah!

Once at your left side sleeping,

Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping;

Now, wedded with your right,

God plights your bride i' th' light. Hurrah!

Then press, with warm caresses,

Close lips, and bridal kisses,

Your steel;-cursed be his head,

Who fails the bride he wed! Hurrah!

Now, till your swords flash, flinging
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing;
Day dawns for bridal pride;
Hurrah, thou iron-bride! Hurrah!

SONG OF THE FATHERLAND.
(By E. M. Arndt.)

THE God who made earth's iron hoard
Scorned to create a slave,

Hence unto man the spear and sword
In his right hand he gave.

Hence him with courage he imbued,

Lent wrath to freedom's voice,

That death or victory in the feud
Might be his only choice.

What God hath willed will we uphold,

And with true faith maintain,

And never to the tyrant sold

Cleave human skulls in twain;

But him whose sword wins shame will we

In pieces hew and tear,

In German land he ne'er shall be

Of German men the heir.

O Deutschland, holy Fatherland!
Thy faith and love how true!

THE SOLDIER'S MORNING SONG.
(By Max von Schenkendorf.)

RISE from your grassy couches,
Ye sleepers, up! 'tis day;
Already do the chargers

To us good morning neigh.
In morning's glow, so brightly
Our faithful weapons gleam;
While we of death are think-
ing,

Of victory we dream.

Thou God of endless mercy,

Gaze from Thy azure tent; For to this field of battle

By Thee have we been sent.
Grant we be found not wanting,

And victory accord,
The Christian flags are waving,
Thine is the war, O Lord!

A morn will dawn upon us,
Bright, balmy and serene,
The pious all await it,

By angel hosts 'tis seen.
Soon will its rays, unclouded,

On every German beam; O break, thou day of fulness,

Thou day of freedom, gleam!

Joy echoes from each tower,
In every bosom glows,
To storms succeed life's pleas-
ures,

And love, and soft repose.
The victor's songs resounding

Ring gaily through the air; And we, ye gallant swordsmen, Yes, we were also there!

jecting the affectations of the Romanticists, they were simple in style and theme, and drew their inspiration from nature only. At their head stood Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862). His ballads and songs have been universally popular. The most noted pieces are "The Minstrel's Curse," "The Luck of Edenhall," "The Passage."

To the same school belongs Gustav Schwab (1792-1850), whose chief ballad is "The Knight and the Bodensee;" Eduard Mörike (1804-1875), whose "Song of the Wind" is remarkable for its rhythm; and Justinus Kerner (1786-1862), whose song is a voice of sadness. Kerner's "Kaiser Rudolph's Ride to the Grave," "The Richest Prince," are well known, and his "Poesy" deserves to be better known.

THE MINSTREL'S CURSE.

THERE stood in olden times a castle, tall and grand,
Far shone it o'er the plain, e'en to the blue sea's strand,
And round it gardens wove a wreath of fragrant flowers,
In rainbow radiance played cool fountains 'mid the bowers.
There sat a haughty king, in victories rich and lands,
He sat enthroned so pale, and issued stern commands;
For what he broods is terror, rage his eyeball lights,
And scourge is what he speaks, and blood is what he writes.

Once to this castle went a noble minstrel pair,
The one with golden looks, and gray the other's hair;
The old man, with his harp, a noble charger rode