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And the fire-fly's glance thro' the darkening shades, Like shooting stars in the forest-glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall

Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all ?

The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!

Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth!

The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home thro’ the crimson glow
That steeps the woods when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still

I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell,
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there !-down the mountains I see the sweep

Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams !
Hold me not, brethren! I

go,
To the hills of my youth where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount--give way!

I go,

Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich,

preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zahlt 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, thro' 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 armed 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?

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