ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS,

BROUGHT FROM GERMANY.

IFT from the land of song and wine,

GIF

Can I forget the enchanted day, When first along the glorious Rhine

I heard the huntsman's bugle play,
And marked the early star that dwells
Among the cliffs of Drachenfels !
Again the isles of beauty rise;

Again the crumbling tower appears,
That stands, defying stormy skies,
With memories of a thousand years,
And dark old forests wave again,
And shadows crowd the dusky plain.

They brought the gift that I might hear
The music of the roaring pine,

To fill again my charméd ear

With echoes of the Rodenstein,

With echoes of the silver horn,

Across the wailing waters borne.

Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place
Is in this quiet home of mine;

Farewell the busy, bloody chase,

Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne,' When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.

James Thomas Fields.

HILLS

THE RHINE.

[ILLS and towers are gazing downward
In the mirror-gleaming Rhine,

And my boat drives gayly onward,
While the sun-rays round it shine.

Calm I watch the wavelets stealing,
Golden gleaming, as I glide;
Calmly too awakes the feeling
Which within my heart I hide.

Gently greeting and assuring,

Bright the river tempts me on; Well I know that face alluring! Death and night lie further down!

Joy above, at heart beguiling,

Thou 'rt my own love's image, Flood! She too knows the art of smiling,

She can seem as calm and good.

Heinrich Heine. Tr. C. G. Leland.

That magic word which holdeth,
With but a single sound,
The mighty torrent's surges,
As if in fetters bound.

Deep in the valley buried
A sword all-conquering lies,
And he who can possess it
Against the world may rise.
One word must first be spoken,
The earth then opes, and lo!
From out her rocky chambers
The steel will brightly glow.

And there on yonder mountains,

Deep in the shaft profound,

By dwarfs and gnomes well guarded,

There may a key be found;

It opens every portal,

Forever 't is thy own,

Know'st thou 'mong words unnumbered

That one right word alone.

How have I mused already

In vain so long, so long,

Till, word by word commencing,
It ended in a song!

But still as yet lie hidden

That treasure, key, and sword,

And what I sang so often

Was never the right word.

Adelheid von Stolterfoth. Tr. A. Baskerville.

ON

ON THE RHINE IS MY HEART.

N the Rhine is my heart, where affection holds sway!

On the Rhine is my heart, where encradled I lay, Where around me friends bloom, where I dreamt away

youth,

Where the heart of my love glows with rapture and truth,

O, where I have revelled in song and in wine:
Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

All hail, thou broad torrent, so golden and green,
Ye castles and churches, ye hamlets serene,
Ye cornfields, that wave in the breeze as it sweeps,
Ye forests and ravines, ye towering steeps,
Ye mountains e'er clad in the sun-illumed vine!
Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

I greet thee, O life, with a yearning so strong,
In the maze of the dance, o'er the goblet and song,
All hail, beloved race, men so honest and true,
And maids who speak raptures with eyes of bright
blue!

May success round your brows e'er its garlands entwine!

Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

On the Rhine is my heart, where affection holds sway! On the Rhine is my heart, where encradled I lay,

Where around me friends bloom, where I dreamt away

youth,

Where the heart of my love glows with rapture and truth!

May for me your hearts e'er the same jewels enshrine, Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

Wolfgang Müller. Tr. A. Baskerville.

WHE

RHENISH WINE SONG.

HERE such a fire still lives to fame,
Where such a wine still vomits flame,
There never shall the German's name,
No, never cease to reign.

A toast! a toast! the Rhine,

And were 't but for the wine,

E'er German shall remain.

Take down the musket from its stand,
Take up the rapier in the hand,
Whene'er the foe for Gallic land

Shall seek the Rhine to gain

Strike, brothers, for the Rhine !

Our ancient father Rhine

E'er German shall remain.

The right and left bank of thy wave,
How false it sounds! Thus speaks the knave.
No, not a drop, shall, like a slave,
E'er turn the Frenchman's mill again!

Drink, brothers, drink! the Rhine,