chained,
Went forth the valiant Hofer
To death which he disdained,--
That death, which by his valor foiled
Had oft from Iselberg recoiled,
In his loved land, Tyrol.

The noisy drum-beat slackened,
And silenced was its roar
When Andreas the dauntless,
Stepped through the prison door;
The "Sandwirt", fettered still, yet free,
Stood on the wall with unbent knee,--
The hero of Tyrol.

When told to kneel, he answered:
"That will I never do;
I'll die, as I am standing,
Die, as I fought with you;
Here I resist your last advance,
Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz,
And with him his Tyrol!"

The soldier takes the kerchief
Which Hofer will not wear;
Once more the hero murmurs
To God a farewell prayer;
Then cries: "Take aim! Hit well this spot!
Now fire! ... How badly you have shot!
Adieu, my land Tyrol"!

(From the German.)

STREAM AND SEA

A river flowed through a desert land
On its way to find the sea,
And saw naught else than glaring sand
And scarcely a shady tree.

The distant stars looked down by night,
And the burning sun by day,
On the crystal stream, so pure and bright;
But the sea was far away.

Sometimes at night the little stream
Would sigh for the sea's embrace,
And oft would see, as in a dream,
The longed-for ocean's face.

At last one day it felt a thrill
It had never known before,
As it reached the brow of a lofty hill,
And saw the wave-lapped shore.

And it flung itself with a mighty leap
From the crest of the hill above,
Till its waters mingled with the deep;--
And the name of the sea was Love.

* * * * *

RACHEL

'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light
Still lingered on the city's walls, and crowned
Mount Olivet with splendor, while below,
Among the trees of dark Gethsemane
And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay,
As if but waiting for the death of day
To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud.
To one who watched it in that golden light,
Across the gulf between the sunlit hills,
The city seemed transfigured, lifted high
Above the gloom and misery of earth,--
A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings.
The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt,
And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews
Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold,
Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque,
But bore it as a captive bears his chains,
Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft
By thrilling memories of a noble past.
The rays of dying day