Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gal
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),
For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine.
"There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye.
Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning!
O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along: I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk,
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine;
But we'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine."
His voice grew faint and hoarser, his grasp was childish weak;
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak.
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled:
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land-was dead.
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to
shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen, -fair Bingen on the Rhine!
sleight, an artful trick.
mā'tron, an elderly married mis trust'less, unconscious. swāin, a rustic lover. [woman.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delayed,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,—
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,—
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade;
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet village! Sports like
these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms; but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade:
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man;
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