THE EFFIGIES. Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann: GOETHE. WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stain'd window shed; The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, through a cloud of years I trace What thou hast been and done. A banner, from its flashing spear And strong to turn the flight; A haughty heart and a kingly glance- A lofty place where leaders sate In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;— Surely these things were all thine own, So hadst thou thy reward. Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest By the arm'd knight is laid, With meek hands folded o'er a breast In matron robes array'd; What was thy tale?-Oh! gentle mate Bound unto his victorious fate, He wooed a bright and burning star- The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang-but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these? Thy silent and secluded hours Through many a lonely day, While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, With spirit far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains, Thy watchings till the torch grew dim— These fill no minstrel strains. A still, sad life was thine !-long years Vigils of anxious thought; THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. And slight, withal, may be the things which bring A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound-- Childe Harold. THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery ?-Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way? |