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* Cease here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother drowned in woe:
Now thy kind caresses pain me,
Morn advances—let me go.

See yon orient streak appearing!
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away!

Lately launched, a trembling stranger,
On the world's wild boisterous flood;
Pierced with sorrows, tossed with danger,
Gladly I return to God.

Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee,
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillow than thy breast.

Weep not o'er these eyes that languish,
Upward turning toward their home:
Raptured they'll forget all anguish,
While they wait to see thee come.

There, my mother, pleasures centre—
Weeping, parting, care or woe,
Ne'er our father's house shall enter-
Morn advances—let me go.

As through this calm, this holy dawning
Silent glides my parting breath,
To an everlasting morning,
Gently close my eyes in death.

Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
(Though no language yet possessing,)
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
Though again his voice I hear;
Rise! may every grace attend thee;
Rise I and seek to meet me there.'


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of the scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steel to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave I
Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall bo a soldier's sepulchre.


My native land,—land ofmy heart!

O'er thee yet lingers memory's spell; And though from thee I ever part,

On thy wild shores my heart will dwell; For there, in youth's bright dawn, I wove The sweet—the glittering dream of love.

My native land,—my happy home!

Endeared by friendship's holy tie, To other brighter realms I roam,

But far behind is lovers deep sigh;
And feeling's burning, magic wand,
Will conjure up my native land.

My native land,—my earthly heaven!
My heart yet lingers on thy shore;

And though misfortune's blast be driven,
And ruin's wild o'erwhelming roar

On this lone heart may lower a while,

A thought of thee will right Hope's smile.

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