The deep and lordly Danube Goes winding far below;— I see the white-walled hamlets Amid his vineyards glow, And southward, through the ether, shine The Styrian hills of snow. O’er many a league of landscape Sleeps the warm haze of noon; The wooing winds come freighted With fragrant tales of June, And down amid the corn and flowers I hear the water’s tune. The meadow-lark is singing As if it still were morn; Sounds through the dark pine forest The hunter’s dreamy horn; And the shy cuckoo’s plaining note Mocks the maidens in the corn. I watch the cloud armada Go sailing up the sky, Lulled by the murmuring mountain-grass, Upon whose bed I lie, And the faint sound of noonday chimes That in the distance die! A warm and drowsy sweetness Is stealing o’er my brain; I see no more the Danube Sweep through his royal plain— I hear no more the peasant-girls Singing amid the grain! Soft, silvery wings, a moment Seem resting on my brow: Again I hear the water, But its voice is deeper now, And the mocking-bird and oriole Are singing on the bough! The elm and linden branches Droop close and dark o’erhead, And the foaming forest brooklet Leaps down its rocky bed; Be still, my heart! the seas are passed— The paths of home I tread! The showers of creamy blossoms Are on the linden spray, And down the clover meadow They heap the scented hay, And glad winds toss the forest leaves All the bright summer day. Old playmates! bid me welcome Amid your brother band! Give me the old affection— The glowing grasp of hand! I worship no more the realms of old— _Here_ is my Fatherland! Come hither, gentle maiden, Who weep’st in tender joy! The rapture of thy presence Overcomes the world’s annoy, And calms the wild and throbbing heart Which warms the wandering boy. In many a mountain fastness— By many a river’s foam, And through the gorgeous cities, ’Twas loneliness to roam, For the sweetest music in my heart Was the olden songs of home! Ah! glen, and foaming brooklet, And friends, have vanished now! The balmy Styrian breezes Are blowing on my brow, And sounds again the cuckoo’s call From the forest’s inmost bough. Veiled is the heart’s glad vision— The wings of Fancy fold; I rise and journey onward. Through valleys green and old, Where the far, white Alps reveal the morn And keep the sunset’s gold! * * * * * SONNET.