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The strings were hush’d—the knights made way

For the queenly mother's tread, As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-hair'd boys she led.

She led them ev'n to the Kaiser's place,

And still before him stood;
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face

Flush'd the proud warrior-blood :
And “Speak, my mother! speak !” he cried,

“Wherefore this mourning vest ? And the clinging children by thy side,

In weeds of sadness drest ?"

“Well may a mourning vest be mine,

And theirs, my son, my son !
Look on the features of thy line

In each fair little one!
Though grief awhile within their eyes

Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-

Thy brother's children see!

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“And where is he, thy brother, where?

He in thy home that grew,
And smiling, with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew ?
How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow!
My son ! oh, call these orphans thine-

Thou hast no brother now!

“What! from their gentle eyes doth nought

Speak of thy childhood's hours, And smite thee with a tender thought

Of thy dead father's towers ? Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When rear'd together there, Through the old woods like fawns ye flew

Where is thy brother-where?

“Well didst thou love him then, and he

Still at thy side was seen ;
How is it that such things can be,
As though they ne'er had been ?

Evil was this world's breath, which came

Between the good and brave !
Now must the tears of grief and shame

Be offer'd to the grave.

“ And let them, let them there be pour'd!

Though all unfelt below,
Thine own wrung heart, to love restor’d,

Shall soften as they flow.
Oh ! death is mighty to make peace;

Now bid his work be done!
So many an inward strife shall cease-

Take, take these babes, my son !”

His eye was dimm’d—the strong man shook

With feelings long suppressid ; Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strain'd them to his breast. And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight; And eyes were wet, 'midst the brave that met

At the Kaiser's feast that night.


Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,
And gaz'd o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness.--Speak to me!
This once-once more !


“ Thou 'rt gone thou 'rt slumbering low,

With the sounding seas above thee; It is but a restless wo,

But a haunting dream to love thee! Thrice the glad swan has sung,

To greet the spring-time hours, Since thine oar at parting fung

The white spray up in showers.

There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round

thy home; Come to me from the ocean’s dead !—thou ’rt surely of

them-come !"

'Twas Ulla's voice-alone she stood

In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood,

From a dark rock's beetling height.

“I know thou hast thy bed

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee;
The storm sweeps o'er thy head,

But the depths are hush'd around thee.
What wind shall point the way

To the chambers where thou ’rt lying?
Come to me thence, and say

If thou thought'st on me in dying ?
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and

cheekCome to me from the ocean's dead !-thou ’rt surely of


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