KÖRNER'S SWORD SONG. The trumpet's festal warning When loud the cannon chide, Then clasp I my loved bride! "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, 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! Come forth, my good sword, come! Hurrah! 66 Ha! in the free air glancing, How brave this bridal dancing! How, in the sun's glad beams, 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, Your steel; cursed be his head Who fails the bride he wed! Hurrah! Now, till your swords flash, flinging THE RIVER TIME. O! a wonderful stream is the River Time, 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, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of the isle is the Long Ago, There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow; GIVE ME THE OLD. There are fragments of song that nobody sings, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, And the garments that She used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, O! remembered for aye be the blessed isle, When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 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 I. OLD wine to drink! Ay, give the slippery juice That drippeth from the grape thrown loose Within the tun: |