"Look at Hecker wealth-renouncing, O'er his head the red plume waves, Th' awakening people's will announcing, For the tyrant's blood he craves! Mud boots thick and solid wears he, All round Hecker's banner come, And march at sound of Hecker's drum."] Original Poetry. THE GRIEF OF THE WEEPING WILLOW. Round my cottage porch are wreathing Creeping vines, their perfume breathing To the balmy breeze of Spring. Near it is a streamlet flowing, Where old shady trees are growing; But of _one alone_ I sing. O'er the water sadly bending, With the wave its leaflets blending, Stands a lonely willow tree. And the shadow seems e'erlasting, That its boughs are always casting O'er the tiny wavelets' glee. Oft I've wondered what the sorrow, That ne'er know a gladsome morrow, In the mourner's heart was sealed; But no bitter wail of sadness, Nor low tone of chastened gladness, Had the willow tree revealed. When the breeze its leaves was lifting; When the snows were round it drifting, Seemed it still to grieve the same. Round its trunk a vine is twining, But its tendrils too seem pining For a hand to tend and claim. Type of love that bears life's testing, They earth's rudest storms are breasting; Harmed not--so together borne; And like girl to lover clinging, Passing time is only bringing Strength for every coming morn. Of one summer eve I ponder, When I musing chanced to wander By the streamlet's margin bright. Moonbeams thro' the leaves were streaming, And each leaping wave was gleaming With a paly, astral light. O'er me hung the weeping willow; Mossy bank was balmy pillow, And in slumber sweet I dreamed: Dreamed of music round me gushing, That as winds o'er harp-strings rushing, E'er like angel's whisper seemed. Oh, those low-breathed tones of sorrow; Would that mortal tongue could borrow Power to sing their sweetness o'er; Here and there a sentence gleaming, Soon my spirit caught the meaning That the mournful numbers bore. Sleeper, who beneath my shade, Hath thy couch of dreaming made; Listen as I breathe to thee All my mournful history. Childhood, youth, and womanhood, Have beneath my branches stood; And of each as pass thy slumbers, Speak my melancholy numbers.