Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Germany
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Germany: Vols. XVII–XVIII.  1876–79.
 
Lorraine (Lothringen)
Lorraine
Frederick K. Crosby (1845–1874)
 
Part I
SWEETLY the June-time twilights wane
Over the hills of fair Lorraine,
 
Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall
O’er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall;
 
But never dawned a brighter eve        5
Than the holy night of St. Genevieve,
 
And never moonlight fairer fell
Over the banks of the blue Moselle.
 
Richly the silver splendor shines,
Spangles with sheen the clustered vines,        10
 
And rests in benediction fair,
On midnight tresses and golden hair.
 
Golden hair and midnight tress
Mingle in tender lovingness,
 
While the evening breezes breathe upon        15
Marie and Jean, and their hearts are one!
 
The spell of silence lifts at last:
“Marie, the Saint’s sweet day is past,
 
“The vesper chimes have died away,
Where shall we be on New Year’s day?”        20
 
With answering throb heart thrilled to heart,
Hand met hand with sudden start,
 
For in each soul shone the blessed thought,
The vision fair of a little cot
 
Nestled beneath the lilac spray,        25
Waiting the blissful bridal day.
 
Low bowed in tearful silence there,
Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer;
 
And still the mellow lustre fell
Over the banks of the blue Moselle,        30
 
And still the moonlight shone upon
Marie and Jean, and their hearts were one!
 
Part II
Six red moons have rolled away,
And the sun is shining on New Year’s day.
 
Over the hills of fair Lorraine,        35
Heaps of ashes, and rows of slain;
 
Where merrily rang the light guitar,
The angry tramp of the red hussar
 
Flings on the midnight’s shrinking breath
The direful notes of the dance of death!        40
 
Underneath the clustering vines
The sentry’s glittering sabre shines;
 
Over the banks of the blue Moselle
Rain of rocket and storm of shell!
 
Where, to-day, is the forehead fair        45
Crowned with masses of midnight hair?
 
A summer’s twilight saw him fall
Dead on Verdun’s leaguered wall.
 
Where, alas! is the little cot?
Ask the blackened walls of Gravelotte.        50
 
Under the lilac broods alone
A maid whose heart is turned to stone;
 
Who sits, with folded fingers, dumb,
And meekly prays that her time may come.
 
Yet see! the death-god’s baleful star,        55
And war’s black eagle screams afar!
 
And lo! the New Year’s shadows wane
Over the hills of sad Lorraine.
 
 
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