O, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade
Of vengeance, and speed to thy worshippers' aid;
Beat down the old gods, cut asunder their mail--
Amen!--brother Christians, why look ye so pale.
THE VIOLET-GATHERER.
FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.
Pale the moon her light was shedding
O'er the landscape far and wide;
Calmly bright, all ills undreading,
Emma wander'd by my side.
Night's sad birds their harsh notes utter'd,
Perching low among the trees;
Emma's milk-white kirtle flutter'd
Graceful in the rising breeze:
Then, in sweetness more than mortal,
Sang a voice a plaintive air,
As we pass'd the church's portal,
Lo, a ghostly form stood there!
"Emma, come, thy mother's calling;
Lone I lie in night and gloom,
Whilst the sun and moon-beams, falling,
Glance upon my marble tomb."
Emma star'd upon the figure,--
Wish'd to speak, but vainly tried,
Press'd my hand with loving vigour,
Trembled--faulter'd--gasp'd--and died!
Home I bore my luckless maiden,
Home I bore her in despair;
Chilly blasts, with night-dew laden,
Rustled through her streaming hair.
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