Love sounds th’alarm,
And fear is a-flying!
When beauty’s the prize,?
What mortal fears dying?

In defence of my treasure,
I’d bleed at each vein;
Without her no pleasure,
For life is a pain.

Treue Liebe dauert lange,
Überlebet manche Stund’,
Und kein Zweifel macht sie bange,
Immer bleibt ihr Mut gesund.

Dräuen gleich in dichten Scharen,
Fordern gleich zum Wankelmut
Sturm und Tod, setzt den Gefahren
Lieb’ entgegen, treues Blut.

Und wie Nebel stürzt zurücke,
Was den Sinn gefangen halt
Und dem heitern Frühlingsblicke
Öffnet sich die weite Welt.

Errungen,
Bezwungen
Von Lieb’ ist das Glück,
Verschwunden
Die Stunden,
Sie fliehen zurück;
Und selige Lust,
Sie stillet,
Erfüllet
Die trunkene, wonneklopfende Brust;
Sie scheide
Von Leide
Auf immer,
Und nimmer
Entschwinde die liebliche, selige, himmlische Lust!

Achieved,
Mastered,
Love is happiness.
Vanished
Are the hours –
They fly away.
And blessed joy
Stills,
Fulfils
The throbbing breast with delight.
May it be set apart
From sorrow
Forever.
And never
Vanish this sweet, blessed, heavenly bliss!

¡Aleluya, aleluya,
aleluya, alma mía!
Que en un himno concluya
mi doliente elegía:
Ya me dijo: ¡Soy tuya!
Ya le dije: ¡Eres mía!
Y una voz encantada,
que de lejos venía,
me anunció la alborada,
me gritó: ¡Ya es de día!

Todo es luz y belleza
lo que fue sombra fría;
se apagó la Tristeza,
se encendió la alegría.
Ya le dije: ¡Eres mía!
Ya me dijo: ¡Soy tuya!
-¡cuánto sol tiene el día!
¡Aleluya, alma mía!

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, my soul!
That what was my elegy
Now ends in a hymn;
She confessed: I am yours!
I exclaimed: You are mine!
And an overjoyed voice
that came from afar
announced- the light of day,
shouted: It is now day!

What was once darkness and cold
is now beauty and light;
sadness has ended
joy is ignited!
I told her: You are mine!
She told me: I am yours!
How bright is the day
Hallelujah, my soul!

He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.

As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think” said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
That viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned was
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.

Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.
But t’was said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.

Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.

And from the coppice thinned,
So sacred and so sweet
The lilac in the wind!
And when by night the May wind blows
The lilac-blooms apart,
The memory of his first love
Is shaken on his heart.

In tears it long was buried,
And trances wrapt it round;
O how they wake it now,
The fragrance and the sound!
For when by night the May wind blows
The lilac-blooms apart,
The memory of his first love
Is shaken on his heart.

Bright be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E’er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be:
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest;
But not cypress nor yew let us see,
For why should we mourn for the blest?

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.