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Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
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 eheeks and sunburnt hair,
She had not known her child."
REST, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land,
Thou art from the wild and wondrous east, I know
By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sun-burnt 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 heart,
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
By the gray pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ?
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling ?
He that hath left ine train'd that loaded vine !
He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(01! 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 yesper-chime.
And sit thou there for he 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 !-how oft it wanders by,
In the stilt 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 l-my heart grew young before my child !
My blessed child !- I liad but him-yet he
Fill'd all my home ev'n with o'erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free-
Where is he now ?-my pride, my flower, my boy!
His supny childhood melted from my sight;
Like a spring dew-drop—ihen his forehead wore
A prouder look--his eyes a keener light-
I knew these woods might be his world no more !
He loved me—but he left me !-hus they go,
Whom we have rear’d, watch'd, bless'd, ioo much ador'd!
He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow,
And bounded from 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 tbe plain
Where hosts have met-speak ! answer!-was he there?
Oh! hath his smile departed ?-Could the grave
Shut o'er tbose 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 glance
O'er thee too brooded in thine early years,
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!-- what art thou ?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on ?
-oh! is it that wan cheek and brow !
Is it-alas! yet joy!-my son, my son!
THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A
FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
This Song is said to have beeu composed by Schiller in answet 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 human 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 fulfill'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 fear, 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 my 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 ost in childish play.
RING, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, nnd 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 thon 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!
Ring, joyous chords !--ring out again!
But what dost thou with the revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notcs;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest ?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth
-Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords ! ring forth again!
A swister still, and a wilder strain!
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine, By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, I know thee!-t is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! I know thee ! thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might! There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst skun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done! And thou—there's a dark weight on thine-away!
-Back to thy home and pray! Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! And bring fresh wreaths! We will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. On through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! -But where are the young and the lovely!-gone! Where are the brows with the red rose crown'd, And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? And the waving locks and the flying feet, That still should be where the mirthful meet! They are gone they are fled—they are parted alla
--Alas! the forsaken hall!