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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 189 |
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Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk ! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we'll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine." |
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His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,—his grasp
was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased
to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had
fled,— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she
looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses
strewn; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light
seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the
Rhine. |
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LOVE NOT
L
OVE not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers — Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not! |
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