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Looks at me from the wall, where round its head

The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

Here in this room she died; and soul more white

Never through martyrdom of fire was led

To its repose; nor can in books be read

The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes

And seasons, changeless since the day

she died.

July 10, 1879.

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O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how So love in our hearts shall grow mighty

faithless is thy bosom !

To love me in prosperity,

And leave me in adversity!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom !

and strong,

Through crosses,

through sorrows,

through manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander

alone

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou In a desolate land where the sun is scarce tak'st for thine example!

So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings. The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain, In drought its springs soon dry again. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!

ANNIE OF THARAW.

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH.

ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet

or come snow,

We will stand by each other, however it blow.

known,

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It is this, O my Annie, my heart's | And the Saviour speaks in mildness:

sweetest rest,

That makes of us twain but one soul in

one breast.

"Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!"

This turns to a heaven the hut where we And that bird is called the crossbill;
dwell;
Covered all with blood so clear,
While wrangling soon changes a home In the groves of pine it singeth

to a hell.

Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

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