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Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends, Through which I walk to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden trees

Lay moving on the grass ;
Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,

And thy heart as pure as they : One of God's holy messengers

Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees

Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass

Rise up to kiss thy feet.

“Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,

Of earth and folly born!” Solemnly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turned o'er the hymn book's fluttering

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon,

Yet it seemed not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,

And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he uttered,

Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him,

And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed

Thou art no longer here:
Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,

Like pine trees, dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe

A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past

As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that near us hangs

Shines on a distant field.


This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms, But from their silent pipes no anthems pealing

Startles the village with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary When the death-angel touches those swift

keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies !

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before

us, In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse

man's song,

And loud, amid the universal clamour,

O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's

skin :

The tumult of each sacked and burning village, The shout that every prayer for mercy

drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

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