He did forgive—long, long ago!
But many a burning tear he shed
O'er thine unkindness—softly now!
He slumbers with the silent dead.
Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou'lt mourn by silent graves—alone!
* * * * *
THE EMIGRANTS[40] (1832)
I cannot take my eyes away
From you, ye busy, bustling band,
Your little all to see you lay
Each in the waiting boatman's hand.
Ye men, that from your necks set down
Your heavy baskets on the earth,
Of bread, from German corn baked brown,
By German wives, on German hearth.
And you, with braided tresses neat,
Black Forest maidens, slim and brown,
How careful, on the sloop's green seat,
You set your pails and pitchers down.
[Illustration: J.P. HASENCLEVER FERDINAND FREILIGRATH]
Ah! oft have home's cool shady tanks
Those pails and pitchers filled for you;
By far Missouri's silent banks
Shall these the scenes of home renew—
The stone-rimmed fount, in village street,
Where oft ye stooped to chat and draw—
The hearth, and each familiar seat—
The pictured tiles your childhood saw.