To her e'en spring of swelling buds

Hath brought his dole:

When will the green leaf fade and fall,

Reaching its goal?

J. O. L.

EMANUEL GEIBEL.

[1815

FROM AFAR.

SAY, wild heart, torn by passion's bitter throe,

What meaneth now this throbbing fiery fast?

Wilt thou, after such weary, nameless woe,

Not rest at last?

Thy youth has passed away, its perfume fled;

With it the heaven that once thine own did seem;

The tree of life its rosy bloom hath shed

'Twas all a dream!

The blossom fell, but mine remains the thorn;

Still, still the crimson stream the wound doth lave;

The woe, the passionate longing, and the scorn,

Are all I have.

And yet didst Lethe's waters to me bring,

And say, Thou shalt be healed; drink, then, and know Forgetfulness, how wondrous sweet a thing!

I'd say: Not so.

E'en though 'twas but a vision swift to pass,

Its blissful sweetness seemed of heaven above;

Too well with ev'ry breath I know, alas !

That still I love.

Then let me go; my bleeding heart I'd fain

Bear to some quiet spot, where night and day

In my

last song

I all my love and pain

May breathe away.

J. O. L.

THE WANDERING SPANIARD.

SOUTHERN Spain, the land of beauty,

Spain is my own fatherland,

Where the chestnuts tall and shady

Rustle on the Ebro's strand.

Where the rosy almond blossoms,

Where the vine in purple glows,

Where the moonlight gleams more brightly,

And more lovely seems the rose.

Now I with my lute must wander

Sadly forth from door to door,

But no kind, bright eyes are looking

Out upon me as of yore.

Scarce and scanty alms they give me,

Coldly then they bid me go;

Ah! the poor brown Spanish wand'rer

None will understand or know.

How this mist weighs down upon me,

Distancing the sun's bright ray!

How have all my merry ditties

From my mem'ry passed away!

Still, whatever be the music,

One sad note is ever there;

I would seek my own dear country,

Land of sunshine bright and fair.

When last harvest-time, the village

Held a joyous holiday,

Of my songs, to aid the dancing,

I the very best did play.

But when all were dancing gaily

In the sunset's evening gold,

O'er my brown cheeks slowly, sadly,

Hot and fast, the tear-drops rolled.

N