ABROAD.

I HEAR the brooklets murmur

As through the wood they flow,

Where 'midst the wood and murmur,

I am, I scarcely know.

The nightingales are singing

Here in the forest lone,

As though sweet tidings bringing

Of happy days long flown.

Fast speed the moonbeams flying,

As though mine eyes could see

The castle 'neath them lying,

But that is far from me.

As though my true-love roaming

'Midst roses white and red,

Must there await my coming,

But she is long since dead.

GRIEF.

'Tis true I sometimes sing,

As though 'twere well with me,

Yet secret tears soon spring,

And set my sad heart free.

E'en thus the nightingale,

Caged in the gladsome spring,

With longing's tuneful tale

Makes all her prison ring.

Then hushed are hearts in gladness,

And listening all rejoice,

Yet none perceive what sadness

Lurks in the thrilling voice.

J. O. L.

ERNST MORITZ ARNDT.

[1769-1860.]

THE SOLACE OF TEARS.

Do not dry thy tears that mourn the dead!
Tears in sign of endless love are shed;

In the eyes that weep in deathless sadness
Shines reflected heaven's eternal gladness.

Check not grief for those the grave enfoldeth, Yonder tomb thy best possessions holdeth;

All that swiftly as the wind departs,

Empty treasure was in empty hearts.

Let the dust to other dust be cast,

As thou mournest, so thy love will last;

As thou lovest, thou wilt love for ever, E'en should sun and moon in pieces sever.

To the angels thee thy tears will bring,

And thy longings to the angels' King.

Suffer, heart, the strong o'ermastering feeling, Heaven's future light to thee revealing.

Oh the bliss in midst of anguish given !

Seek, oh heart! the heart of God in heaven,

In those arms that all the world embrace,

And thy sorrow unto joy gives place.

H