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Let your eyes be dim with teardrops,
Teardrops cannot bring you shame;
Then to God breathe low their name.
For them, O our Father, Thy solace we claim.
On! now to the battle gory!
Eye and heart towards yonder light!
Rises dimly, grandly bright.
Every nerve in conflict swell;
Only for this world farewell.
Till we meet in a happier world, farewell.
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.
IN IMITATION OF KÖRNER'S
“ DAS WARST DU.”
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,
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,
In beauty all thine own.
An hour, and all was still around me:
But, oh! that vision's magic zone,
A witchery of its own.