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He who for freedom fights and falls a famous name

shall keep

So long as over pass and plain, o'er rock and rampart

steep, The ghosts of the unconquered slain their phantom ranks


And rush around us in the night, and in the blaze of day, In storm that breaks the towering pine, and in the air

that waves

With gentle motion, to and fro, the grass upon their


The spirit of her freemen old, on Hellas' hallowed

shore, The very cradles of her race for ever hovers o'er ; Already with mysterious dreams the tender babe in

spires, And in his sleep devotes the child to emulate his sires. The youth it calls, and leads him forth, and with a mighty


Allures his footstep to the spot where once a freeman


There, sends a shudder to his heart, a thrill through every

vein, Nor knows he whether it be joy, or whether it be pain.

Descend, ye sacred warrior-band, abroad our banners

Aling, And speed the pulses of our hearts, our eager onset wing; We sally forth to wrest again our freedom, sword in hand; We sally forth to fight and die for God and Fatherland!

Ye come-our ranks ye rush around-hark, our

triumphant shout In mystic echoes, far and wide, by you is lengthened out ! Ye come with us ye sweep along-ye from Thermopylæ, Ye from the plain of Marathon, ye from the azure sea By Salamis and Mycale, and many a glorious strand, From every field, and hill, and dale, in broad Achaia's


He who for freedom fights and falls a famous name


shall keep

So long as through the firmament the breezes freely sweep,

So long as in the forest, free, the leaves their music make, So long as to the ocean, free, the rills their courses take, So long as through the stormy cloud, at will, the eagles


So long as in the liberal air one breast is breathing, free.

WILHELM MÜLLER.---Lied vor der Schlacht.



My mistress is not either dark or fair ;

To epitomise her, say
She's the sweetest little fay


Of her beauties would you reckon up the score?

Then to fifty charms revealed

Add of those which are concealed

Fifty more.

She is pale and she is rosy, off and on;

And her blushes come and go
O'er a neck that in its snow

Shames the swan.

Her eyes are far the softest ever seen,

Every glance is a caress;
And her lips—but no, you'll guess

Whom I mean !


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