Then, in sweetness more than mortal,
Sang a voice a plaintive lay;
Underneath the church's portal
Emma stood in death array.
"Louis! come! thy love is calling;
Lone I lie in night and gloom,
Whilst the sun and moon beams, falling,
Glance upon my lowly tomb."
"Emma! dear!" I cried in gladness,
"Take me too beneath the sod;
Leave me not to pine in sadness,
Here on earth's detested clod."
"Death should only strike the hoary,
Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die,
When the stars again in glory,
Shine upon the midnight sky."
Tears bedeck'd her long eyelashes,
While she kiss'd my features wan;
Then, like flame that dies o'er ashes,
All at once the maid was gone.
Therefore, pluck I painted violets,
Which shall strew my lifeless clay,
When, to night, the stars have call'd me
Unto joys that last for aye.
ODE TO A MOUNTAIN-TORRENT.
FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.
How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,
When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,
'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.
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