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THE DEATH OF HOFER.-JAMES C. MANGAN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.

At Mantua long had lain in chains
The gallant Hofer bound;

But now his day of doom was come→
At morn the deep roll of the drum
Resounded o'er the soldiered plains.

O Heaven! with what a deed of dole
The hundred thousand wrongs were crowned
Of trodden-down Tyrol!

With iron-fettered arms and hands

The hero moved along,

His heart was calm, his eye was clear—

Death was for traitor slaves to fear!

He oft amid his mountain bands,

Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll,

Had faced it with his battle-song,
The Sandwirth of Tyrol.

Anon he passed the fortress wall,

And heard the wail that broke

From many a brother thrall within.
"Farewell!" he cried. "Soon may you win

Your liberty! God shield you all!

Lament not me! I see my goal.

Lament the land that wears the yoke,
Your land and mine, Tyrol!"

So through the files of musketeers
Undauntedly he passed,

And stood within the hollow square.
Well might he glance around him there,

And proudly think on by-gone years!
Amid such serfs his bannerol,

Thank God! had never braved the blast
On thy green hills, Tyrol!

They bade him kneel; but he with all

A patriot's truth replied

"I kneel alone to God on high

As thus I stand so dare I die,

As oft I fought so let me fall!

Farewell"-his breast a moment swoll

With agony he strove to hide-
"My Kaiser and Tyrol!”

No more emotion he betrayed.
Again he bade farewell

To Francis and the faithful men

Who girt his throne. His hands were ther Unbound for prayer, and thus he prayed: "God of the Free, receive my soul!

And you, slaves, fire!" So bravely fell
Thy foremost man, Tyrol!

MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL

Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago—
Dwelt a lady in a villa

Years and years ago;—

And her hair was black as night,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,
And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy;

When she spoke, you thought, each minute,

'Twas the trilling of a linnet;

When she sang, you heard a gush

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;

And she struck from the guitar

Ringing music, sweeter far

Than the morning breezes make

Through the lime trees when they shake

Than the ocean murmuring o'er

Pebbles on the foamy shore.

Orphaned both of sire and mother
Dwelt she in that lonely villa,
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.
Skills it little now the telling

How I wooed that maiden fair,
Tracked her to her lonely dwelling

And obtained an entrance there.
Ah! that lady of the villa-
And I loved her so,

Near the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago.

Ay de mi!-Like echoes falling
Sweet and sad and low,
Voices come at night, recalling
Years and years ago.

Once again I'm sitting near thee,
Beautiful and bright;

Once again I see and hear thee
In the autumn night;

Once again I'm whispering to thee
Faltering words of love;

Once again with song I woo thee
In the orange grove
Growing near that lonely villa
Where the waters flow
Down to the city of Sevilla-
Years and years ago.

"Twas an autumn eve; the splendor
Of the day was gone,

And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on

That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,

Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away.
And a dim light, rising slowly,
O'er the welkin spread,

Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head;
And the thin moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,

As Murillo paints her crescent

Underneath Madonna's feet.

And we sat outside the villa
Where the waters flow
Down to the city of Sevilla-
Years and years ago.

There we sate-the mighty river
Wound its serpent course along

Silent, dreamy Guadalquiver,

Famed in many a song.

Silver gleaming 'mid the plain

Yellow with the golden grain,

Gliding down through deep, rich meadow Where the sated cattle rove,

Stealing underneath the shadows

Of the verdant olive grove;

With its plenitude of waters,

Ever flowing calm and slow,

Loved by Andalusia's daughters,
Sung by poets long ago.

Seated half within a bower

Where the languid evening breeze

Shook out odors in a shower

From oranges and citron trees,

Sang she from a romancero,

How a Moorish chieftain bold

Fought a Spanish caballero

By Sevilla's walls of old.

How they battled for a lady,

Fairest of the maids of Spain-
How the Christian's lance, so steady,

Pierced the Moslem through the brain.

Then she ceased-her black eyes moving,
Flashed, as asked she with a smile,
"Say, are maids as fair and loving-
Men as faithful, in your isle?"

"British maids," I said, "are ever
Counted fairest of the fair;
Like the swans on yonder river
Moving with a stately air.

"Wooed not quickly, won not lightly-
But, when won, forever true;
Trial draws the bond more tightly,
Time can ne'er the knot undo."

"And the men?"-"Ah! dearest lady,
Are-quien sabe? who can say?
To make love they're ever ready,

Where they can and where they may;

"Fixed as waves, as breezes steady
In a changeful April day-

Como brisas, como rios,

No se sabe, sabe Dios."

"Are they faithful?”—“Ah! quien sabe?
Who can answer that they are?

While we may we should be happy."-

Then I took up her guitar,

And I sang in sportive strain,

This song to an old air of Spain.

"QUIEN SABE."
I.

"The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air,
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair,
Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume,
That you know not the region from which it is come?
Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes,

Hither and thither and whither-who knows?
Who knows?
Hither and thither-but whither-who knows?

II.

"The river forever glides singing along,
The rose on the bank bends down to its song;
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips,
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips.
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose,
And why the rose stoops for those kisses-who knows?
Who knows?

And away flows the river-but whither-who knows?

III.

"Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along
The river that ever rejoices in song;

Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom,
The rose by the river that gives its perfume.

Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose,
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?

Who knows?

Who knows?

If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?
Who knows?"

As I sang, the lady listened,

Silent save one gentle sigh:

When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened
On the dark fringe of her eye.

Then my heart reproved the feeling
Of that false and heartless strain

Which I sang in words concealing

What my heart would hide in vain.

Up I sprang. What words were uttered
Bootless now to think or tell-
Tongues speak wild when hearts are fluttered
By the mighty master spell.

Love, avowed with sudden boldness,
Heard with flushings that reveal,
Spite of woman's studied coldness,
Thoughts the heart cannot conceal.

Words half-vague and passion-broken,
Meaningless, yet meaning all
That the lips have left unspoken,
That we never may recall,

"Magdalena, dearest, hear me,

Sighed I, as I seized her hand

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