In Steyermark, — dear Steyermark,
Each heart is light as the morning lark :
There men are framed in the manly mould
Of their stalwart sires, of the times of old,
And the sunny blue of the Styrian sky
Grows soft in the timid maiden's eye,
When love descends with the twilight dark,
In the beechen groves of Steyermark.

TO A BAVARIAN GIRL.

HOU, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter,
Art a shape of joy,
Standing by the Isar's water
With thy brother-boy;

In thy dream, with idle fingers
Threading through his curls,
On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers,
Rosiest of girls!

Woods of glossy oak are ringing
With the echoes bland,

While thy generous voice is singing
Songs of Fatherland,

Songs, that by the Danube's river

Sound on hills of vine,

And where waves in green light quiver,
Down the rushing Rhine.

Life, with all its hues and changes,
To thy heart doth lie

Like those dreamy Alpine ranges
In the southern sky;

Where in haze the clefts are hidden,
Which the foot should fear,

And the crags that fall unbidden
Startle not the ear.

Where the village maidens gather
At the fountain's brim,

Or in sunny harvest-weather,

With the reapers trim;

Where the autumn fires are burning
On the vintage-hills;

Where the mossy wheels are turning
In the ancient mills;

Where from ruined robber-towers
Hangs the ivy's hair,

And the crimson foxbell flowers

On the crumbling stair: —
Everywhere, without thy presence,
Would the sunshine fail,

Fairest of the maiden peasants!
Flower of Isar's vale!

MUNICH, 1845.

IN ITALY.

EAR Lillian, all I wished is won!
I sit beneath Italia's sun,

Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver

Along the banks of Arno's river.

Through laurel leaves, the dim green light "Falls on my forehead as I write,

And the sweet chimes of vesper, ringing,
Blend with the contadina's singing.

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold;
The stirring memories of old

Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit's young ambition.

But as the radiant sunsets close
Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;

Thou standest here - the gentle-hearted—
Amid the shades of bards departed.

I see before thee fade away

Their garlands of immortal bay,

And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances.

Sad is the opal glow that fires

The midnight of the cypress spires,
And cold the scented wind that closes
The heart of bright Etruscan roses.

A single thought of thee effaced
The fair Italian dream I chased;

For the true clime of song and sun

Lies in the heart which mine hath won!

FLORENCE, 1845.

A BACCHIC ODE.

INE,- bring wine!

Let the crystal beaker flame and shine, Brimming o'er with the draught divine!

The crimson glow

Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw,
Like the sunset's flush on a field of snow.

I burn to lave

My thirsty lip in the ruddy wave;
Freedom bringeth the wine so brave!

The world is cold:

Sorrow and pain have gloomy hold,
Chilling the bosom warm and bold.

Visit my soul in immortal dreams,

When the wave of the goblet burns and beams.

Not from the Rhine,

Not from fields of Burgundian vine,
Bring me the bright Olympian wine!

Not with a ray

Born where the winds of Shiraz play,
Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay.

Not where the glee

Of Falernian vintage echoes free,
Or the Chian gardens gem the sea.

But wine, bring wine,

Royally flushed with its growth divine,
In the crystal depth of my soul to shine!

Whose glow was caught

From the warmth which Fancy's summer brought To the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought.

Rich and free

To my thirsting soul will the goblet be,
Poured by the Hebe, Poesy.

A FUNERAL THOUGHT.

I.

HEN the stern Genius, to whose hollow

tramp

Echo the startled chambers of the soul, Waves his inverted torch o'er that pale

camp

Where the archangel's final trumpets roll, I would not meet him in the chamber dim,

Hushed, and pervaded with a nameless fear, When the breath flutters and the senses swim, And the dread hour is near.