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The Land of the Sun.
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime; Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with per
fume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? "Tis the clime of the East'tis the Land of the Sun; Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
Ja, Schicksal, ich verstehe dich:
Nostin' qvae regio miscet myrteta cupressis,
Indicio populi qualia facta sui ;
Solvitur in gemitus turturis instar amor?
Qva cum perpetuo flore perenne iubar;
Qvamlubet admissam tardat odore fugam;
Mutaqve non unqvam vox, Philomela, tua est; Qva, qvom terrarum color alter et alter Olympi,
Major, in ambiguo est, gloria cedat utri;
Multa rosis virgo textile nectit opus,
Excipias animi vim modo, plena Deo?
Despicit ah populi blandus in ausa sui ? 0, ut amatorum vox illa novissuma, dirum est Qvodqve solent animo volvere, qvodqve loqvi.
Iam scio qvid moneas. Perierunt gaudia mundi;
Somnia Pieridum sola fruenda manent.
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
Your locks are like the snaw;
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
We've had wi' ane anither :
But hand in hand we'll go,
The Lion and the Unicorn.
The lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
All round the town.
Some gave him brown;
Pamphile, noster amor, primo mihi notus in aevo
Corvus eras crines, tempora marmor eras. Nunc frons calva tibi, nivea est coma : sed inihi vernat
Bruma tui capitis, Pamphile, noster amor.
Pamphile, noster amor, nos collem adscendimus una,
Et laeti socios vidimus ire dies :
Έμάχονθ' ο λέων χώ μουνόκερως
περί του στεφάνου
The Wronged Husband.
Had it pleased heaven To try me with affliction ; had he rained All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head; Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips; Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes ; I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the hand of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at, 0! 0! Yet could I bear that too; well, very well : But there where I have garner'd up my heart; Where either I must live, or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up; to be discarded thence ! Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim, Ay, there, look grim as hell !
Deine Augen sind nicht himmelblau,