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To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble bead,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,
---Yet must thou hear a voice--restore the dead !
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!

-Restore the dead, thou sea!


BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath.!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride !
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead !
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed.



Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift - bring ye flowers, pale flowers !
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in

They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!


“ Alas! the mother that him bare,

If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair,
She had not known her child."


Rest, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land,
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know
By the long-withered palm-branch in tby band,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part,
So full of hope, for that far country's bourne !
Alas! the weary and the changed in beart,
And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return !

Thou 'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at last,
Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is pass'd,
The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou 'rt faint and worn-hear'st thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ?
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling?
-He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine!

He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade--the convent's vesper-chime.


And sit thou there for be was gentle ever;
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' fever-
- There in his place thou 'rt resting—where is he?

If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again !-bow oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember'd strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!

- Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen In that far land, the chosen land of

yore, A youth my Guido-with the fiery mien, And the dark eye of this Italian shore? The dark, clear, lightning eye ?-on Heaven and earth It smiled-as if man were not dust-it smiled! The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth, And I-my heart grew young before my child! My blessed child !--I had but him-yet be Fiil'd all my home ev'en with o'erflowing joy, Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free --Where is he now ?-my pride, my flower, my boy! His sunny childhood melted from my sight, Like a spring dew-drop-then his forehead wore A prouder look-his eyes a keener lightI knew these woods might be bis world no more! He loved me--but he left me thus they go, Whom we have rear'd, watch’d, bless'd, too much adored ! He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow, And bounded from me, with his father's sword!

Thou weep'st-I tremble-thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain
Where hosts have met-speak? answer! - was he there?
Oh! bath his smile departed ?--Could the grave
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
-No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave-
That look gives hope I knew it could not be!
Still weep'st thou, wanderer?-some fond mother's glanco
O'er thee too brooded in tbine early years,
Think'st thou of her, wbose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded bair with parting tears?


Speak, for thy tears disturb me what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up !-oh! is it that wan cheek and brow !
Is it-alas! yet joy !--my son, my son !




This Song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.

“ Tis not merely
The buman being's pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Are all too narrow."

Coleridge's Translation of Wallenstein.

Ask'st thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd ?,
Was not my work fulfil'd and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved ?-my lot was cast.
Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring

breeze what witch'd thee in its tone ?
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!
Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found ?
Yes ! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,
Where naught again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.



There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
If as our love thy love is pure and true!
There dwells father, * sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue..
And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken,
There it is with us, ev'n as is our trust,
He that believes, is near the holy then.
There shall each feeling beautiful and high,
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day;

-Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye!
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.



Riss, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain !
They are here--the fair face and careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
-But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ;
I heard the tone of heavy sigh,
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that wo should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!
-Ye that to thought or to grief belong,

Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords !—but who art thou
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ?

- Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell :
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on ! - yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile !
There is not a tone in our songs for thee--

-Home with thy sorrows flee!


* Wallenstein.


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