"I'll lay my hand, dear Henry, Upon thy heart again. Then shall it cease from bleeding. And stilled shall be its pain." "I cannot rise, my darling, My head is bleeding--see! I shot myself, thou knowest, When thou wast reft from me." "Oh, with my hair, dear Henry, I'll staunch the cruel wound, And press the blood-stream backward; Thou shalt be whole and sound." So kind, so sweet she wooed me, I could not say her nay; I tried to rise and follow, And clasp my loving may. Then all my wounds burst open, From head and breast outbreak The gushing blood in torrents-- And lo, I am awake! SONG. Death comes, and now must I make known That which my pride eternally Prayed to withhold; for thee, for thee, My heart has throbbed for thee alone. The coffin waits! within my grave They drop me soon, where I shall rest. But thou, Marie, shalt beat thy breast, And think of me, and weep and rave. And thou shalt wring thy hands, my friend. Be comforted! it is our fate, Our human fate, the good and great And fair must have an evil end. HOMEWARD BOUND. 1823-1824. TO FREDERIKA VARNHAGEN VON ENSE, THE SONGS OF HOMEWARD BOUND ARE DEDICATED IN JOYFUL HOMAGE BY THE AUTHOR HEINRICH HEINE. HOMEWARD BOUND. I. In my life, too full of shadows, Beamed a lovely vision bright. Now the lovely vision's vanished, I am girt about by night. Little children in the darkness Feel uneasy fears erelong, And, to chase away their terrors, They will sing aloud a song. I, a foolish child, am singing Likewise in the dark apart. If my homely lay lack sweetness, Yet it cheers my anxious heart. II. I know not what spell is o'er me, That I am so sad to day; An old myth floats before me-- I cannot chase it away. The cool air darkens, and listen, How softly flows the Rhine! The mountain peaks still glisten Where the evening sunbeams shine. The fairest maid sits dreaming In radiant beauty there. Her gold and her jewels are gleaming. She combeth her golden hair. With a golden comb she is combing; A wondrous song sings she. The music quaint in the gleaming, Hath a powerful melody. It thrills with a passionate yearning The boatman below in the night. He heeds not the rocky reef's warning, He gazes alone on the height. I think that the waters swallowed The boat and the boatman anon. And this, with her singing unhallowed, The Lorelei hath done. III. My heart, my heart is heavy, Though merrily glows the May. Out on the ancient bastion, Under the lindens, I stay. Below me the calm blue waters Of the quiet town-moat shine; A boy in his boat rows past me, He whistles and drops his line. And yonder the cheerful colors, And tiny figures, one sees, Of people, and villas, and gardens, And cattle, and meadows, and trees.