RHINE SONG.

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RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.

TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN." }

"I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his !—the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. At the first gleam of the river,' he said,' they all burst forth into the national chant, Am Rhein! Am Rhein ! They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time for each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, 'Am Rhein ! Am Rhein !"—Manuscript Letter.

SINGLE VOICE.

It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving, I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood shine!

Sing on the march, with every banner waving — Sing, brothers, 't is the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 't is the Rhine!

CHORUS.

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river! Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track! We left thy shores, to die or to deliver

We bear thee freedom back, we bear thee freedom back!

SINGLE VOICE.

Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water, Even as my mother's song; even as my mother's

song;

That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong! And heart and arm grew strong!

CHORUS.

Roll proudly on!-brave blood is with thee sweeping, Pour'd out by sons of thine, pour'd out by sons of

thine,

Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, Like thee, victorious Rhine! Like thee, victorious Rhine!

SINGLE VOICE.

Home!- Home!-thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,

Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home: Even now my children count the hours till meeting, O ransom'd ones, I come! O ransom'd ones, I come!

CHORUS.

Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never, Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by hearth and shrine!

Sing through the hills that thou art free for everLift up thy voice, O Rhine! Lift up thy voice, O Rhine!

A SONG OF DELOS.

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A SONG OF DELOS.

The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.

"Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature,

Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau ;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!

Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!"

LAMARTINE.

A SONG was heard of old- -a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,

Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!-but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,

And of soft Grecian skies-oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward-as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell

O'er dancing waves:-"Oh! linger yet," she cried,

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Oh! linger, linger on the oar,

Oh! pause upon the deep!

That I may gaze yet once, once more,

Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep; Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore, -Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!

“I see the laurels fling back showers

Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes-a swell of song-
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!

"Oh! linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!

Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson-gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!-slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.

"A fatal gift hath been thy dower,

Lord of the Lyre! to me;

With song and wreath from bower to bower, Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.

"Now, wasted by the inborn fire,

I sink to early rest;

The ray that lit the incense-pyre,

Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
-O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,

While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

"Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep

A tone of my farewell,

One tender accent, low and deep,

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Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell! Might my last breath send music to thy shore! -Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!"

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,

Our virgins dance beneath the shade."

Io! they come, they come!

Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home:
Bring roses, pour ye wine!

Swell, swell the Dorian flute

BYRON.

Through the blue, triumphant sky!

Let the Cittern's tone salute

The sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood

They have ransom'd hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;-

Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave-
Sing, sing, the land is free!