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The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crashed to his antler'd head
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soared from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,

As the cloud and tempest onward rolled
With the din of the trampling race;

And the glens were filled with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle's festive board,

And a sudden pause came o'er the swell
Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's* thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.

The convent's chanted rite was stayed,
And the hermit dropped his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky,

But the mother looks on her son to-day,
With a troubled heart and eye,

And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
'Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,

And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;

And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

*Minnesinger, love-singer; the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.



THE corn, in golden light,
Waves o'er the plain;
The sickle's gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.

Now send we far around

Our harvest lay!
-Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o'er the day!

On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour,—
-We know its cause too well,
She is no more!

Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eye's blue,-
-Now o'er the gifts of God
F'all tears like dew!

For the year of the queen of Prussia's death,

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KNOW ye not when our dead

From sleep to battle sprung? -When the Persian charger's tread On their covering greensward rung! When the trampling march of foes

Had crushed our vines and flowers, When jewell'd crests arose

Through the holy laurel-bowers,

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crowned,

And armed for Greece that day; But the falchions made no sound

On his gleaming war-array, In the battle's front he stood,

With his tall and shadowy crest; But the arrows drew no blood

Though their path was through his breast.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash

Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash ;

The stroke was heard by none ! His voice was not of those

That swelled the rolling blast, And bis steps fell hushed like snows'Twas the shade of Theseus passed!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foc,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a brow

On the sounding ocean-shore..
And the foaming waves grew red,

And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the shade of Theseus passed!

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.


WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun?

-That festal glory hath not passed from earth:
For me aloue the laughing day is done!

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
-Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breath and die
On the green hills?-the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?
-Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth entwining
The Spring's first roses for their silvan fanes ?
-Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?'
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
-Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams?
-Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!


"Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on deplore en Grece la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom parliculier de Myriologia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vientil de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mere, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont la, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en epanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le defunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. La elles changent de vetemens, s'habillent de blane, comme pour la ceremonie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elles gardent la tete nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprets termines, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en circle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de nouveaú, et, comme la premiere fois, sans regle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanees succedent bientot des lamentations d'une autre espece: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sein la premiere; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composes et chantes par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvises, toujours en vers, et toujours chantes sur un air qui differe d'un lieu a un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donne, reste invariablement consacre a ce genre de poesie."

Chants populaires de la Grece Moderne, par C. Fauriel.

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the


Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother


"Ianthis! dost thou sleep?-Thou sleep'st!-but this is not the rest,

The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my


I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done!
-How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow?
"I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and


I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily thine eye



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