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38 They brought the gift that I might hear The music of the roaring pine,— To fill again my charmèd ear With echoes of the Rodenstein,— With echoes of the silver horn,— Across the wailing waters borne.

Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place Is in this quiet home of mine;— Farewell the busy, bloody chase, Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.