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W

HERE shall once the wan

derer weary Meet his resting-place and

shrine ?

Under palm-trees by the
Ganges ?
Under lindens of the Rhine?

Shall I somewhere in the desert

Owe my grave to stranger hands?
Or upon some lonely sea-shore

Rest at last beneath the sands?

'Tis no matter! God's wide heaven

Must surround me there as here;
And as death-lamps o'er me swinging
Night by night the stars burn clear.

-Heinrich Heine.

[graphic]

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

SHOT an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not I

where; For, so swiftly it flew, the

sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song ?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

AUF WIEDERSEHEN !

T

HE little gate was reached at

last, Half hid in lilacs down the

lane;

She pushed it wide, and as she past, A wistful look she backward cast,

And said, Auf wiedersehen!
With hand on latch, a vision white

Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,

She said, Auf wiedersehen!
The lamp's clear gleam flits up the

stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,

Thinks she, Auf wiedersehen!'Tis thirteen years: once more I press

The turf that silences the lane;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—ah yes,
I hear, Auf wiedersehen!

وو

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!
The English words had seemed too

fain,
But these—they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
She said, "Auf wiedersehen!

-James Russell Lowell. “BREATHES THERE THE

MAN"

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REATHES there the man

with soul so dead Who never to himself hath

said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him

burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall

go

down To the vile dust from whence he

sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung.

-Sir Walter Scott.

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