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THE SEARCHER FOR THE DEAD.

LOVED Wolfgang, loved Wolfgang, where art thou lying now, With the red gore on thy breast, and the turf upon thy brow ; Sick and sore at heart I seek thee all this lone and awful night, Midst the shadowy graves that rise in the misty faint moonlight.

Ah, my brother, have I found thee? up I tear each trampled turf,
As the stones are upward hurled by the maddened ocean surf;
Back I drag the blood-stained earth as I toil and toil away,
And then on bended knee I mark the breaking of the day.

Oh, my brother, I have found thee cold and death-like as thou art,
I clasp thee, oh, my Wolfgang, I clasp thee to my heart;
I look into thy lifeless eyes ; I know that thou art dead;
And I think of poor old mother with a strange and sickly dread.

One single lock I take from thy curling rich brown hair,
And I kiss thy marble brow with the love that is despair ;
Then so gently and so lovingly upon thy silent breast,
I lay the gore-stained sods, and leave thee to thy rest.

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“AND so you really are going to Würtemburg? I am afraid you will find it well-nigh impossible to get on," said the German, drawing a huge cloud of smoke from his lips as he lowered his cherry-wood pipe, and blinked solemnly through his spectacles at me, while he ejaculated, “Unmöglich—unmöglich -unmöglich" over and over again.

"Stay,” cried he at last, "I will aid you, I shall give thee letters to a true friend of mine, who lives in Stutgardt, and he will direct thee;" and so saying he called the waiter for pen and paper, and leisurely set to work to compose an epistle.

“What dost thou say thou goest to Würtemburg for ? and thou dost go by France ?” and the spectacles glowered upon me. I sipped my cafe-noir leisurely, and the German as leisurely wrote on; now and then he stole a long look at me, and then wrote down a few words more.

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