With thy soul all aglow, there's the dwelling for thee; There seem all things fitting and right.

From the stream how they greet thee, the towers in their might,

And the ancient cathedral town,

When thou climbest aloft to the dizzying height,
To gaze on the waters down.

In the river upriseth the nymph from the vale,
And if once she hath on thee smiled,
And if Lorelei sings, with her lips so pale,
My son, thou 'rt forever beguiled.

The glamour of sight and of sound will combine,
Till with shuddering delight thou shalt burn;
Thou 'lt sing of thy home "By the Rhine, by the
Rhine!"

To thine own thou wilt never return!

Karl Simrock. Tr. H. W. Dulcken.

THE GUARD ON THE RHINE.

THER
HERE comes a call like thunder's peal,

The breakers' roar, the clank of steel;
The Rhine! the Rhine! the glorious Rhine!

Who will protect the river's line?

Dear Fatherland, be comfort thine,

Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not pine.

Firm stands thy shield, the Guard, the Guard on the

Rhine.

By hundred thousands forth they stream,
Their eyes like flashing lightnings gleam,
The German, honest, strong, and brave;
These will the sacred landmark save,
Dear Fatherland, etc.

To heaven they raised their gleaming eyes,
The heroes saw them from their skies,
And swore, with yearning for the strife,
"Dear is the free Rhine as our life!”
Dear Fatherland, etc.

Loud rings the oath, the waters flow,
In the free breeze the banners blow;
The Rhine! the Rhine! unfettered Rhine!
All Germany will guard its line.

Dear Fatherland, etc.

From the German. Tr. Anon.

RHINE-WINE.

ITH laurel wreathe the glass's vintage mellow,

WITH And drink it gayly dry!

Through farthest Europe, know, my worthy fellow, For such in vain ye 'll try.

Nor Hungary nor Poland e'er could boast it;

And as for Gallia's vine,

Saint Veit, the Ritter, if he choose, may toast it,

We Germans love the Rhine.

-

Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing,
And many more beside;

And many more, though little show possessing,
Well worth our love and pride.

Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border,
As well the mountains show,

That harbor in their bosoms foul disorder;
Not worth their room below.

Thuringia's hills, for instance, are aspiring
To rear a juice like wine;

But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring,
It breathes not of the vine.

And other hills, with buried treasures glowing,
For wine are far too cold;

Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing,
And chance some paltry gold.

The Rhine, the Rhine,

tions!

--

there grow the gay planta

O, hallowed be the Rhine!

Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations
Of this consoling wine.

Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow
Be mirth and music thine!

And when we meet a child of care and sorrow,
We'll send him to the Rhine.

Matthias Claudius. Tr. J. Macray.

0

A DAY-DREAM ON THE RHINE.

FOR a kingdom rocky throned

Above the brimming Rhine!

With vassals who should pay their toll
In many sorts of wine;

Above me naught but the blue air,
And all below the vine.

I'd plant my throne where legends say,
In nights of harvest-time,
King Charlemagne, in golden robe
(So runs the rustic rhyme),

Doth come to bless the mellowing crops,
While the bells of heaven chime,

(Children have heard them!) and a bridge

Of gold leaps o'er the stream

For the king to cross.

A maiden once

Saw its bright arches gleam;

The priests they burnt her for that sight, Calling it "Satan's Dream."

Churches should in my valleys hide,
Old towers rise on each hill;
The forge, the farm-house, and the inn
Should cluster round the mill,

And past them all the river broad
Would flow at its own sweet will.

My stream at noon of fairy gold
Should crimson turn ere night,
Then by the magic of the moon
Change to quicksilver bright.
At dawn each little wave should be
Mantled with purple light.

I'd dwell where Charlemagne looked down,
And, turning to his peers,
Exclaimed, "Behold, for this fair land
I've prayed and fought for years."
Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear
The earthquake of their cheers.

That day the tide ran crimson red
(But not with Rhenish wine);

Not with those vintage streams that through
The green leaves gush and shine;
'T was blood that from the Lombard ranks
Rushed down into the Rhine.

'Twas here the German soldiers flocked,
Burning with love and pride,

And threw their muskets down to kiss
The soil with French blood dyed.

"The Rhine, dear Rhine!" ten thousand men, Kneeling together, cried.

O, fairest of the many brides

Wedded to Father Sea,