I saw upon her lips then A wondrous smile arise, And as with tears of pity Glistened once more her eyes. Adown my cheeks in silence, The tears came flowing free. And oh! I cannot believe it, That thou art lost to me! XXVI. I, a most wretched Atlas, the huge world, The whole huge world of sorrow I must carry. Yea, the unbearable must bear, though meanwhile My heart break in my bosom. Thou haughty heart, thyself hast willed it thus, Thou would'st be happy, infinitely happy, Or infinitely wretched, haughty heart! And lo! now art thou wretched. XXVII. The years are coming and going, Whole races are home to their rest; But never ceases the passion That burns within my breast. Only once more I would see thee, And make thee a low salaam, And with my dying breath, murmur: "I love you still, Madame!" XXVIII. I dreamed that the moon looked sadly down, And the stars with a troubled ray; I went to my sweetheart's home--the town Lies many a league away. My longing led me before her door; I kissed the stone steps brown, That her feet had touched in the days of yore, And the trailing hem of her gown. The night was long, the night was cold, Ice-cold did the stone steps seem. In the window her own wan face, behold! Illumed by the moon's pale beam. XXIX. What means this lonely tear-drop That blurs my troubled sight, From olden times returning Back to mine eyes to-night? Its many glimmering sisters Are vanished long ago, In the night and the wind they vanished With all my joy and my woe. And like the mists of evening Did those blue stars depart, That smiled all joys and sorrows Into my trusting heart. Alas! my love, too, melted Like idle breath one day; Oh lingering, lonely tear-drop, Thou also fade away! XXX. The pale half-moon of autumn Through clouds peers doubtfully. Within the lonely churchyard The parsonage I see. The mother reads in her Bible, The son at the light doth gaze; One drowsy daughter is nodding, While another speaks and says: "Ah me! how dreary the days are! How dull, and dark, and mean! Only when there's a funeral Is anything to be seen." The mother looks from her Bible: "Nay, only four in all Have died since thy father was buried Without by the churchyard wall." Then yawns the eldest daughter, "I will starve no longer here; I will go to the Count to-morrow, He is rich, and he loves me dear." The son bursts out a-laughing: "At the 'Star' three huntsmen drink deep; They are making gold, and they promise To give me their secret to keep." Toward his lean face, flings the mother Her Bible, in wrath and grief. "Out! God-forsaken beggar, Thou wilt be a common thief!"