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النشر الإلكتروني

THE SWORD SONG. Translation of Charles T. Brooks. By CHARLES THEODORE KÖRNER.

WORD, on my left side gleaming,

What means thy bright eye's beaming?
It makes my spirit dance
To see thy friendly glance.

Hurrah!

SWOR

A valiant rider bears me;
A free-born German wears me:
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight."

Hurrah!

Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side,
E’en as a plighted bride.

Hurrah!

“And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given;
When shall the knot be tied?
When wilt thou take thy bride?"

Hurrah!

The trumpet's solemn warning
Shall hail the bridal morning.
When cannon-thunders wake
Then my true-love I take.

Hurrah!

“O blessed, blessed meeting!
My heart is wildly beating:

Come, bridegroom, come for me; My garland waiteth thee."

Hurrah!

Why in the scabbard rattle,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow?
My sword, why clatter so?

Hurrah!

“Well may thy prisoner rattle;
My spirit yearns for battle.
Rider, 'tis war's wild glow
That makes me tremble so."

Hurrah!

Stay in thy chamber near,
My love; what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide:
Soon, soon I take

my bride.
Hurrah!

“Let me not longer wait:
Love's garden blooms in state,
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed."

Hurrah!

Now, then, come forth, my bride! Come forth, thou rider's pride! Come out, my good sword, come! Forth to thy father's home!

Hurrah!

“O, in the field to prance The glorious wedding dance!

How, in the sun's bright beams,
Bride-like the clear steel gleams!"

Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters!
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold,
Let each his love infold.

Hurrah!
Once on the left it hung,
And stolen glances flung;
Now clearly on your right
Doth God each fond bride plight.

Hurrah!

Then let your hot lips feel
That virgin cheek of steel;
One kiss, -and woe betide
Him who forsakes the bride.

Hurrah!

Now let the loved one sing;
Now let the clear blade ring,
Till the bright sparks shall fly,
Heralds of victory!

Hurrah!
For hark! the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning;
It dawns in festal pride;
Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!

Hurrah!

from the French. By THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

THE

HE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall,

On spire and cornice and mould; The swallows gather, and twitter and call, “We must follow the summer, come one, come all,

For the winter is now so cold.”

Just listen awhile to the wordy war,

As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, “I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand.

“And every year when the brown leaves fall,

In a niche of the Parthenon
I build my nest on the corniced wall,
In the trough of a devastating ball

From the Turk's besieging gun."
Says another, "My cosy home I fit

On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadjii sit,
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,

Dreaming the hours away."
Another says, “I prefer the nave

Of a temple of Baalbec; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave,

I fill each open beak."

"Ah!" says the last, "I build my nest

Far up on the Nile's green shore, Where Memnon raises his stony crest,

And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest,

But greets him with song no more. “In his ample neck is a niche so wide,

And withal so deep and free, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, And a thousand little ones rear beside,

Then come to the Nile with me.” They go, they go, to the river and plain,

To ruined city and town, They leave me alone with the cold again, Beside the tomb where my joys are lain,

With hope like the swallows flown.

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