The nightingale pour forth her singing.
And, while we rest from toil, again
Our dreams of youth will soft enclose us . . .
How lovely then they'll be,
How fresh, how sweet the roses!
IMMORTALITY.
No, I cannot believe, that when the grave has claimed us,
Our memories of life we shall not keep;
Nor will Death take away forever joys and sorrows,
By sinking us into eternal sleep.
On opening somewhere there, shall then our eyes be blinded,
Our ears forever lose the power to hear?
And memory of the past,—beyond the coffin's darkness—
Will not the soul released still hold it dear?
Within that other world, could Raphael awaking,
Forget his Sistine Virgin thron'd above?
Would Shakespeare not sometimes remember Hamlet?
Could Mozart there his Requiem cease to love?
It cannot be. No, all which sacred was and lovely
We shall relive,—not sleep beneath the sod,
And not forgetting, no! But purely, without passion,
Again shall love, in spirit joined with God!
THE BELLS.
Sounding their call to prayer, what melancholy longing
Here in this foreign land the deep-toned bells impart.
They speak to me of home, its memories prolonging,
And all my former grief lies heavy on my heart.
My northern fields I see, all fair and snowy lying,
Our village chimes I hear, their note familiar swells,
And from that distant land, unto my thought replying
With kindness and with tenderness, resound the friendly bells.
