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,
And to the best affections that proceed
From this conjunction.

WORDSWORTH.

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither;

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.

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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,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.

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.
-An exile was borne to a lonely tomb.

"Brother!" (so the chant was sung
In the slumberer's native tongue,)
"Friend and brother! not for thee
Shall the sound of weeping be:-

THE EXILE'S DIRGE.

Long the Exile's woe hath lain
On thy life a withering chain;
Music from thine own blue streams,
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams;
Voices from thy country's vines,
Met thee 'midst the alien pines,
And thy true heart died away;
And thy spirit would not stay."

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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-
Brother! now thy dwelling lies

Where the Indian arrow flies!
He that blest thine infant head,
Fills a distant greensward bed;
She that heard thy lisping prayer,
Slumbers low beside him there;
They that earliest with thee play'd,
Rest beneath their own oak shade,
Far, far hence!-yet sea nor shore
Haply, brother! part ye more;

God hath call'd thee to that band
In the immortal Fatherland!"

"The Fatherland!"—with that sweet word
A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard.

"Brother! were we there with thee,
Rich would many a meeting be!
Many a broken garland bound,
Many a mourn'd and lost one found!

But our task is still to bear,
Still to breathe in changeful air;
Loved and bright things to resign,
As even now this dust of thine;
Yet to hope!—to hope in Heaven,
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven-
Yet to pray! and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Fatherland!"

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;-
They had reach'd the Exile's lonely tomb.

THE DREAMING CHILD.

Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy?
What should the cloud be made of?-blessed child!
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,

All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild:

And now thou tremblest!-wherefore?- -in thy soul
There lies no past, no future.-Thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.