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So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sibyl grots
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring "Thou art not free!"

CHORUS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.

In the scene where the dying Alcestis has bid farewell to her husband and children.)

(ATTENDANTS OF ALCESTIS.)

PEACE, mourners, peace!

Be hush'd, be silent in this hour of dread!
Our cries would but increase

The sufferer's pangs; let tears unheard be shed,
Cease, voice of weeping, cease!
Sustain, O friend!

Upon thy faithful breast,

The head that sinks, with mortal pain opprest! And thou, assistance lend

To close the languid eye,

Still beautiful in life's last agony.

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SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

I.

NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!*

NEAR thee, still near thee!-o'er thy pathway

gliding,

Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh; Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, Yet viewless love floats round thee silently!

Not 'midst the festal throng,
In halls of mirth and song;

But when thy thoughts are deepest,
When holy tears thou weepest,
Know then that love is nigh!

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings creeping,

Or the sea-music on the sounding shore,
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping,
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore;

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From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers,
I am not gone;

In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:

Know'st thou the mountain ?-high its bridge is hung,

Where the mule seeks thro' mist and cloud his

way;

There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray Know'st thou it well?

weepest,

That stream, whose tone

With thee, with thee, Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

We two have known:

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Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one

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I ask not, alien world, from thee,

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of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons. are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friem of Goethe.

1

Kennst de las Land wo die Citronen bluhn?

KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the Citron

bower,

Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,

And thro' a still blue heaven the sweet winds

rove:

Know'st thou it well?

-There, there, with thee,
O friend, O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know'st thou the dwelling ?-there the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say "Poor child! what thus hath wrought
thee woe?"
Know'st thou it well?

There, there with thee, > mv protector! homewards might I fice!

And yet I loved that earth so well
With all its lovely things!

-Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

-Let them be silent at my feet!

Since broken even as they,

The heart whose music made them sweet, Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine-
-With a lone heart, a weary frame-
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th' insought, unwatch'd-for-I too come

I, with this winged nature fraught,

These visions wildly free,

This boundless love, this fiery thought

-Alone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea!

DIRGE.

WHERE shall we make her grave? -Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird
'Midst the young leaves are heard-
There-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-
Now may sleep minister

Balm for each ill;
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,

Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind;

Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!
And, o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild flowers wave,

Make ye her mossy grave

In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird 'Midst the young leaves are heardThere, lay her there!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace

All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno,
D'una stagion volubile e fugace;

E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,
Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.

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Pietro Metastasio. In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair!

ROSE! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose

How, 'midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose

Yes! my fancy sees thee

In that light disclose,

And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes,

That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal

glows?

rose!

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