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He sings of Fatherland, the minstrel's glory—

High theme of memory and hope divine— Twining its fame with gems of antique story, In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine;

Well do they know his name among the mountains,

In ballads breathing many a dim tradition,
Nourished in long belief or minstrel rhymes,
Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle inis-

And plains and valleys, of his native land; Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains

Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies spanned.

His simple lays oft sings the mother, cheerful,
Beside the cradle in the dim twilight;

His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden,

With tender murmurs in the ear of night.

The hillside swain, the reaper in the mead


Carol bis ditties through the toilsome day; And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.

O precious gift! O wondrous inspiration!
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,
To be the oracle, while a whole nation
Catches the echo from the sounding strings!

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion
Rises the orb of song, serenely bright-
As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean,
The golden sunrise bursting into light.

Wide is its magic world-divided neither

By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone; Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither,

In fancied fortunes to forget his own?

LET her be laid within a silent dell,
Where hanging trees throw round a twilight

Just within hearing of some village-bell,
And by the margin of a low-voiced stream;
For these were sights and sounds she once
loved well.

Passed from the earth before our wiser Then o'er her grave the star-paved sky will

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For silence may impair, but cannot kill

The music that is native to thy soul; Nor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will, Upon thy purest honor have control: But, since thou wilt not to our wishes sing, This truth I speak-thou art of poets king.



THE dreamy rhymer's measured snore Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of womankind, Who wage their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achieved the crowning work When they have trussed and skewered a Turk. Another comes with stouter tread, And stalks among the statelier dead: He rushes on, and hails by turns High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns; And shows the British youth, who ne'er Will lag behind, what Romans were, When all the Tuscans and their Lars Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.



BARDS of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daises are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine, melodious truth-
Philosophic numbers smooth-
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumbered, never cloying. Here your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!



"WHAT Voice, what harp, are those we hear WHо best can paint th' enamelled robe of Beyond the gate in chorus?


With flow'rets and fair blossoms well bedight;

Who best can her melodious accents sing, With which she greets the soft return of light;

Go, page!-the lay delights our ear;
We'll have it sung before us!"
So speaks the king: the stripling flies—
He soon returns; his master cries-


Bring in the hoary minstrel!"

"Hail, princes mine! Hail, noble knights!

Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage, And make th' imperial arch of Heav'n to groan

All hail, enchanting dames!

What starry heaven! What blinding lights! Breed warfare with the winds, and finely

Whose tongue may tell their names?

In this bright hall, amid this blaze,
Close, close, mine eyes! Ye may not gaze
On such stupendous glories!"

The minnesinger closed his eyes;
He struck his mighty lyre:
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs,
And warriors felt on fire;
The king, enraptured by the strain,
Commanded that a golden chain

Be given the bard in guerdon.

"Not so! Reserve thy chain, thy gold,

For those brave knights whose glances, Fierce flashing through the battle bold,

Might shiver sharpest lances! Bestow it on thy treasurer thereThe golden burden let him bear

With other glittering burdens.

"I sing as in the greenwood bush
The cageless wild-bird carols—
The tones that from the full heart gush
Themselves are gold and laurels!
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask—
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask

Of glowing gold, be brought me !"

They set it down; he quaffs it all—

"O! draught of richest flavor! O! thrice divinely happy hall

Where that is scarce a favor!
If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me;
And thank your God as I thank ye

For this delicious wine-cup!"


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Great strife with Neptune on his rocky throne

Or lose us in those sad and mournful days
With which pale Autumn crowns the misty

Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays
A poet in our awful eyes appear;

For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile,
Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing



TELL me, what is a poet's thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught?

Or by whispering morn?

Was it cradled in the brain?

Chained awhile, or nursed in night?
Was it wrought with toil and pain?
Did it bloot and fade again,
Ere it burst to light?

No more question of its birth:

Rather love its better part!
'Tis a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the poet's heart.


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