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As lofty as his mountains, and as calm
As waters of his lakes amid the snows
Is that pure faith which, in a rhythmic psalm,
From Switzer Protestant's good heart o'erflows.
The rushing current of the crystal Rhone
Runs seaward to refresh the rugged vales,
From peaks that stand mute, terrible, alone.
So, Switzerland, thy faith that never fails,
Sprung from those stalwart twins who wrote reform
Upon the Papal doors, flows down to bless
The spirit-weary millions where they swarm
In lands untouched by Liberty's caress.
Keep thou the inspiration of thy song,
And thou mayst never fear invading wrong!





O SPIRIT, disembodied though thou art,
I cling to thee, and cannot let thee go!
Thy voice rings through the chambers of my heart;

Its subtle music echoes all my woe.

Its perfect passion, its consummate pain,
Its dreamy rapture and its lofty range
Thrill with a sorrow-laden joy my brain!
Ah! sweet dead singer! it is sad and strange
To lose with thee the harmony of life!
Why could not gentle Death deign to foresee
That all our souls would be with discord rife
If in his round he placed his hand on thee?
E'en he shall learn the silences to hate,
And half regret he sealed thy sudden fate.

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Like to that splendid Swede who swayed the souls
Of prince and peasant didst thou live and sing:
So long as Time's firm hand the years outrolls,
The memories of ye twain shall bloom in spring.
The nightingale your melodies shall chant,
For she alone of all the birds can know
How near ye were to Nature; your romaunt,
Like hers, outlives the ages' ebb and flow.
And if some eve the birdling sweeter cries
Than e'er before, transfigured by her pains;
If closer home to Heaven her carol flies,
And catches music from celestial strains,
Then shall she make thy notes her noblest choice,
O stainless lady of the matchless voice!


THE wind of Fortune blew a seed that fell
Within a garden on a foreign strand,

And from it sprang a flower, and bloomed full well,
No blossom like it was in all the land.

Upon its petals seemed to burn and dance
The concentrated light of Heaven's great eye:
Beneath the moon's intense, impassioned glance
It grew unearthly beautiful; nor why
Its perfume woke a madness in men's hearts
Could any tell. More wonderful each day
The glow and glory of its perfect parts
Seemed to admiring thousands, who would stay
Spell-bound, and gazing at it hour by hour.
Modjeska, thou art like this passion-flower!



THRICE blessed love, I live for thee alone!
All other joys are base, and fill the hours
With harmonies of faint, uncertain tone.
My soul, abashed before thy mystic powers,
Dare not deny obedience to thee.

It sought to soar without thee, but it fell,
And now it owns thee Lord of all that be.
It flies the story of thy fame to tell.
Earth is too little to contain its song,
And so it sings its glory to the stars.
Thou healest all its pangs; it fears not wrong;

And shuns rude Passion with her stains and scars.

By faith in thee it ever shall be strong,

And not a doubt its sweet contentment mars.

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