Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn, Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings; "Still sleep'st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th* avenging Destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood I My children's manes call—awake! prepare The feast they claim!—exult in Rome's despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!" The vision flies—a mortal step is near, And sovereign in despair, he cried, "Return! SONG. POUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE* Away! though still thy sword is red With life-blood from my sire, No drop of thine may now be shed To quench my bosom's fire; Fve sought thee 'midst the sons of men, I've sought thee by the lion's den, No step that mark'd the burning waste, But mine its lonely course hath traced. Thy name hath been a baleful spell, O'er my dark spirit cast; No thought may dream, no words may tell, What there unseen hath pass'd: Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd, Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored, What though unknown—yet who shall rest Secure—if not the Arab's guest? Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor, Inviolate and pure! —Man may not thus endure! Away! I bear a fetter'd arm, A heart that burns—but must not harm J Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle! The wind in speed subdue! As vengeance shall pursue; To-morrow—and th' avenger's hand, The warrior's dart is free! E'en now, no spot in all thy land, Save this, had shelter'd thee, Let blood the monarch's hall profane,— The Arab's tent must bear no stain! Fly! may the desert's fiery blast Avoid thy secret way! Its whirlwinds sleep to-day! ALP-HORN SONG. TRANSLATED PROM THE OERMA.N OF TIECK. What dost thou here, brave Swiss? Can the stranger's yield thee bliss? What welcome cheers thee now? Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around? Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown'd? Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn, Or the peasant's fearless brow? But thy spirit is far away! Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes, Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies, With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free, And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea, And the summits, clothed with day I Back, noble child of Tell! Back to the wild and the silent glen, And the frugal board of peasant-men! Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here ?— Away! not a true Swiss heart is near, Against thine own to swell! |