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Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,

Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.

XVI

Allons! through struggles and wars !

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature?

Now understand me well—It is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle- I nourish active

rebellion;

He going with me must go well arm'd;

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

XVII

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe-I have tried it-my own feet have tried it well.

Allons! be not detain'd!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher !

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado! I give you my hand!

I give you my love, more precious than money,
I give you myself, before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel
with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
Walt Whitman

SOME

PEREGRINO'S SONG

FROM The Way of Perfect Love

OMETHING calls and whispers, along the city street,

Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet,

And makes my blood to quicken and makes my

flesh to pine.

The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine.

Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear.

Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree,

The deep boom of surges, the grey waste of

sea.

Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close,

On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose; But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world,

The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled.

Georgiana Goddard King

THE MERRY BEGGARS

NOME, come; away! the Spring,

Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,
In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,
Who in her sweetness strives t' outdo
The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.
"Cuckoo," cries he; "jug, jug, jug,"
sings she;

From bush to bush, from tree to tree:
Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accounts to make,
Nor land or lease to let or take:
Or if we had, should that remore us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort,
It is our kingdom and our court.

Cuckoo," cries he; “jug, jug, jug,”

sings she;

From bush to bush, from tree to tree:
Why in one place then tarry we?

Alexander Brome

WANDERSCHAFT

VOM

OM Grund bis zu den Gipfeln,
So weit man sehen kann,
Jetzt blüht's in allen Wipfeln,
Nun geht das Wandern an:

Die Quellen von den Klüften,
Die Ström' auf grünem Plan,
Die Lerchen hoch in Lüften,
Der Dichter frisch voran.

Und die im Thal verderben
In trüber Sorgen Haft,
Er möcht' sie alle werben
Zu dieser Wanderschaft.

Und von den Bergen nieder
Erschallt sein Lied ins Thal,
Und die zerstreuten Brüder
Fasst Heimweh allzumal.

Da wird die Welt so munter
Und nimmt die Reiseschuh,
Sein Liebchen mitten drunter,
Die nickt ihm heimlich zu.

Und über Felsenwände
Und auf dem grünen Plan

Das wirrt und jauchzt ohn' Ende.

Nun geht das Wandern an!

Joseph von Eichendorff

4

D

DER MAI IST GEKOMMEN

ER Mai ist gekommen, die Bäume schlagen aus,

Da bleibe, wer Lust hat, mit Sorgen zu Haus! Wie die Wolken wandern am himmlischen Zelt, So steht auch mir der Sinn in die weite, weite Welt.

Herr Vater, Frau Mutter, dass Gott euch behüt'! Wer weiss, wo in der Ferne mein Glück mir noch blüht!

Es giebt so manche Strasse, die nimmer ich marschiert,

Es giebt so manchen Wein, den ich nimmer noch probiert.

Frisch auf drum, frisch auf, im hellen Sonnenstrahl!

Wohl über die Berge, wohl durch das tiefe Thal! Die Quellen erklingen, die Bäume rauschen all, Mein Herz ist wie'ne Lerche und stimmt ein mit Schall.

Und abends im Städtlein, da kehr' ich durstig ein:

"Herr Wirt, Herr Wirt, eine Kanne blanken Wein!

Ergreife die Fiedel, du lust'ger Spielmann du, Von meinem Schatz das Liedel das sing' ich dazu."

Und find' ich keine Herberg', so lieg ich zu Nacht

Wohl unter blauem Himmel, die Sterne halten

Wacht:

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