Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 1602

Now clasped the bell within the clay—

The mold the mingled metals fill—

Oh, may it, sparkling into day,

Reward the labor and the skill!

Alas! should it fail,

For the mold may be frail—

And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—

And, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!

To the dark womb of sacred earth

This labor of our hands is given,

As seeds that wait the second birth,

And turn to blessings watched by heaven!

Ah seeds, how dearer far than they

We bury in the dismal tomb,

Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray

That suns beyond the realm of day

May warm them into bloom!

From the steeple

Tolls the bell,

Deep and heavy,

The death-knell,

Guiding with dirge-note—solemn, sad, and slow,

To the last home earth's weary wanderers know.

It is that worshipped wife—

It is that faithful mother![14]

Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,

From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.

Far from those blithe companions, born

Of her, and blooming in their morn;

On whom, when couched her heart above,

So often looked the Mother-Love!

Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,

And never, never more to come—

She dwells within the shadowy land,

Who was the Mother of that Home!

How oft they miss that tender guide,

The care—the watch—the face—the MOTHER—

And where she sate the babes beside,

Sits with unloving looks—ANOTHER!