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to thee, thou eternal sea! Like accents of home thy waters are whispering, And dreams of childhood lustrous I see Through thy limpid and crystalline wave, Calling to mind the dear old memories Of dear and delightful toys, Of all the glittering Christmas presents, Of all the red-branched forests of coral, The pearls, the goldfish and bright-colored shells, Which thou dost hide mysteriously Deep down in thy clear house of crystal. Oh, how have I languished in dreary exile! Like unto a withered flower In the botanist's capsule of tin, My heart lay dead in my breast. Methought I was prisoned a long sad winter, A sick man kept in a darkened chamber; And now I suddenly leave it, And outside meets me the dazzling Spring, Tenderly verdant and sun-awakened; And rustling trees shed snowy petals, And tender young flowers gaze on me With their bright fragrant eyes, And the air is full of laughter and gladness, And rich with the breath of blossoms, And in the blue sky the birds are singing-- Thalatta! Thalatta! Oh, my brave Anabasis-heart! How often, ah! how sadly often Wast thou pressed hard by the North's fair Barbarians! From large and conquering eyes They shot forth burning arrows; With crooked words as sharp as a rapier They threatened to pierce my bosom; With cuneiform angular missives they battered My poor stunned brains; In vain I held out my shield for protection, The arrows hissed and the blows rained down, And hard pressed I was pushed to the sea By the North's fair Barbarians-- And, breathing freely, I greet the sea, The sea my deliverer, the sea my friend-- Thalatta! Thalatta! [Illustration: PLAY OF THE WAVES _From the Painting by Arnold Boecklin_] * * * * * IN THE HARBOR[38] (1825-26) Happy is he who hath reached the safe harbor, Leaving behind him the stormy wild ocean, And now sits cosy and warm In the good old Town-Cellar of Bremen. How sweet and homelike the world is reflected, In the chalice green of Rhinewine Rummer. And how the dancing microcosm Sunnily glides down the thirsty throat! Everything I behold in the glass-- History, old and new, of the nations, Both Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans, Forests of citron and big reviews, Berlin and Shilda, and Tunis and Hamburg; But, above all, thy image, Beloved, And thy dear little head
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