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There are marks of age,

There are thumb-marks on

Made by hands that clasped

At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art ;

Yellow are thy time-worn pa

As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goble

As these leaves with the libat

Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall

Days departed, half-forgotten,

When in dreamy youth I wand

By the Baltic,

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When I paused to hear

The old ballad of King Christian

Shouted from suburban taverns

In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards,

Who, in solitary chambers,

And with hearts by passion wasted,

Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes

Where thy songs of love and friendship

Made the gloomy Northern winter

Bright as summer.

Once some ancient Scald,

In his bleak, ancestral Iceland,

Chanted staves of these old ballads

To the Vikings.

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Once in Elsinore,

At the court of old King Hamle Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.

Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barrad Suddenly the English cannon

Joined the chorus !

Peasants in the field,

Sailors on the roaring ocean,

Students, tradesmen, pale mecha

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Thou hast been their friend;

They, alas! have left thee friend

Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.

And, as swallows build

In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle

In my bosom,

Quiet, close, and warm,

Sheltered from all molestation,

And recalling by their voices

Youth and travel.

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88

WALTER VON DER VOGELW

VOGELWEID the Minnesinger,

When he left this world of ours.

Laid his body in the cloister,

Under Würtzburg's minster tow

And he gave the monks his treasure Gave them all with this behest : They should feed the birds at noont Daily on his place of rest;

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