Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,— Thou canst not—and a king?— His dust be mountains on thy head!” He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,-upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,-then turn'd from that sad place: His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain, His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.1 To a mysteriously consorted pair This place is consecrate; to death and life, WORDSWORTH. How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 1 1At Hindelbank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus: “Here am I, O God! with the child whom thou hast given me.” TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. 63 Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth, All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours; Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting; Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting ;But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence! Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping! A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, As, kindling up the silent stone, I see The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past; Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking! Captive! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking? Thou hear'st, thou answer'st, "God of earth and Heaven! Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given!" THE EXILE'S DIRGE. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious Winter's rages, Cymbeline. I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlers present. After I had performed such service as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from the Vaterland, a word which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the body along: the words "mein Gott," "mein Bruder," and "Vaterland," died away in distant echoes among the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn. Flint's Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi. THERE went a dirge through the forest's gloom. "Brother!" (so the chant was sung THE EXILE'S DIRGE. Long the Exile's woe hath lain 65 So swell'd the chant; and the deep wind's moan Seem'd through the cedars to murmur- -"Gone!" "Brother! by the rolling Rhine, Stands the home that once was thine- Where the Indian arrow flies! God hath call'd thee to that band "The Fatherland!"—with that sweet word "Brother! were we there with thee, But our task is still to bear, And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;- THE DREAMING CHILD. Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild: And now thou tremblest!-wherefore?- -in thy soul |