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Let your eyes be dim with teardrops,

Teardrops cannot bring you shame;
Throw ye one last kiss towards them,

Then to God breathe low their name.

The lips that pray for us at night and at morn,
The hearts that have loved us, the hearts we have torn,

For them, O our Father, Thy solace we claim.


On! now to the battle gory!

Eye and heart towards yonder light!
Earth is done with, and heaven’s glory

Rises dimly, grandly bright.
Cheer ye, German brethren! cheer ye,

Every nerve in conflict swell;
True hearts shall be reunited,

Only for this world farewell.
Hark! the thunders are rolling, the battle is warm,-
On, brethren, on to the lightning storm!

Till we meet in a happier world, farewell.

Watton, 1845.



OH, slumber softly — on thy mother sleeping

Thou feelest not life's anguish and unrest; Thy light dreams know not grief, and fear not weeping,

And thy whole world is now thy mother's breast.


For, ah! how sweetly in early hours one dreameth

When in a mother's love life's dews distil, Though the dim memory unabiding seemeth

But a far hope that trembles through me still.


Thrice may this glow pass o'er us sweetly shining;

Thrice to the happy spirit is it given, Awhile in Love's celestial arms reclining,

On earth to picture life's ideal heaven.

For it is she who first the nurseling blesses,

When in bright joys he takes his infant part, All to his young glance seem to shower caresses,

Love holds him to his mother's beating heart.

And when the clear blue heavens are clouded over,

And now his pathway lies through strange alarms, When first his soul is trembling as a lover,

A second time Love clasps him in her arms.

Ah, still in storms the floweret's stem is broken,

And breaks the fluttering heart by tempests riven; Then Love ariseth with her choicest token,

And as Death's angel bears him home to heaven.

Watton, 1845.




For long o'er life's calm waves I wended,

Beloved, far from thee alone; And many stars my path attended, And each their tale of music ended

With warblings of their own.


Strange were the dreams that round me floated,

And beautiful their various tone,
But like a child on each I doted,
To each my frail heart seem'd devoted,

For all were then mine own.


And, like a young unpractised singer,

Who hath nor tears nor sorrow known, Stray'd through the strings my heedless finger, If only passing dreams would linger,

A moment for mine own.


Then, as a nymph of fabling story,

Or spirit seen in dreams alone,
Thou passedst by me - a far glory,
Glancing through dim clouds transitory,

In beauty all thine own.


An hour, and all was still around me:

But, oh! that vision's magic zone,
It left me not as erst it found me,
But like a strange wild witchery bound me,

A witchery of its own.

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