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KÖRNER'S SWORD SONG.

The trumpet's festal warning
Shall hail our bridal morning;

When loud the cannon chide,

Then clasp I my loved bride!
Hurrah!

"O joy, when thine arms hold me!

I pine until they fold me.

Come to me! bridegroom, come!

Thine is my maiden bloom.

Hurrah!"

Why, in thy sheath upspringing,
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing?

Why clanging with delight,

So eager for the fight?

Hurrah!

"Well may thy scabbard rattle:

Trooper, I pant for battle;

Right eager for the fight,

I clang with wild delight.

Hurrah!"

Why thus, my love, forth creeping?

Stay in thy chamber, sleeping;

Wait still, in the narrow room:

Soon for my bride I come.

Hurrah!

KÖRNER'S SWORD SONG.

"Keep me not longer pining! O for Love's garden, shining

With roses bleeding red,

And blooming with the dead!

Hurrah!"

Come from thy sheath, then, treasure!
Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure!

Come forth, my good sword, come!
Enter thy father-home!

Hurrah!

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Ha! in the free air glancing,

How brave this bridal dancing!

How, in the sun's glad beams,
Bride-like, thy bright steel gleams!
Hurrah!"

Come on, ye German horsemen !

Come on, ye valiant Norsemen !

Swells not your hearts' warm tide?

Clasp each in hand his bride!

Hurrah!

Once at your left side sleeping,

Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping; Now, wedded with your right,

God plights your bride in the light.

Hurrah!

KÖRNER'S SWORD SONG.

Then press with warm caresses,
Close lips and bridal kisses,

Your steel; cursed be his head

Who fails the bride he wed!

Hurrah!

Now, till your swords flash, flinging
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing.
Day dawns for bridal pride;
Hurrah, thou iron bride!

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THE RIVER TIME.

O! a wonderful stream is the River Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,

And the summers, like buds between,

And the year in the sheaf- so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the River Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of the isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow;
They are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!
There are trinkets, and tresses of hair.

GIVE ME THE OLD.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows, and pieces of rings,

And the garments that She used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air ;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

O! remembered for aye be the blessed isle,
All the day of our life till night;

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,

May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

OLD WINE TO

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR,

GIVE ME THE OLD.

DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD
FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH.

I.

OLD wine to drink!

Ay, give the slippery juice

That drippeth from the grape thrown loose

Within the tun:

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