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These are the


which a man

Will buckle to his side ;

With these, life's battle he may scan

Serene, in honest pride.
These, in the thickest of the fight,

He knows full well to save ;

These, like a true and valiant knight,

He carries to the grave.


It is the Lord's own day.

A lonely plain is stretching round,

One morning chime has yet to sound ... And now it dies away.

A suppliant here I bend.

O breathing silence, dread delight,
What hosts are kneeling, hid from sight,

With mine their vows to blend !

Far as the eye can stray,

The heavens are clear, as though about

Their golden gates to open out. It is the Lord's own day.

UHLAND.-Schäfer's Sonntagslied.

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Can any horn of plenty
From age to age

avail ? Has not each bloom been gathered

Each fount begun to fail?'

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So long as rolls through ether

The chariot of the sun ;

1 Wann wird einst ausgesungen

Das alte, ew'ge Lied ?

So long as gazes upward

Of humankind but one;

So long as, after tempest,

The rainbow spans the sky, And tells one stricken spirit

Of peace and pardon nigh;

So long as night is sowing

The heaven with starry seed, And of the golden writing

One man the signs can read ;1

So long as in the moonlight

One heart a transport knows; So long as woods are wooing

One pilgrim to repose ;

So lang die Nacht den Aether

Mit Sternensaat besät,
Und noch Ein Mensch die Züge

Der goldnen Schrift versteht.

So long as spring is verdant,

And roses greet the sight; So long as eyes are smiling,

Or sparkle with delight;

So long as, decked with cypress,

The grave can grief awake;

So long as falls one tear-drop,

One heart is left to break;

So long, on earth a Power,

Shall Poesy abide,
And they whom she has chosen

Shall triumph at her side ;

And through the old world singing,

In ages beyond ken,

The last of bards to leave it

Shall be the last of men.

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