Hurrah!

And so the world goes well with me:

Hurrah!

And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, Why, let him take hold and help me drain These mouldy lees of wine.

VANITAS.

I set my heart at first upon wealth:

Hurrah!

And bartered away my peace and health;
But ah!

The slippery change went about like air,
And when I had clutched a handful here,
Away it went there.

I set my heart upon woman next:
Hurrah!

For her sweet sake was oft perplexed;
But ah!

The false one looked for a daintier lot;
The constant one wearied me out and out;
The best was not easily got.

I set my heart upon travels grand:
Hurrah!

And spurned our plain old fatherland;

But ah!

Naught seemed to be just the thing it should :
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food,
My tastes misunderstood.

I set my heart upon sounding fame:
Hurrah!

And, lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name,
And ah!

When in public life I loomed quite high,

The folk that passed me would look awry;
Their very worst friend was I.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

And then I set my heart upon war:
Hurrah!

We gained some battles with éclat:

Hurrah!

We troubled the foe with sword and flame,

And some of our friends fared quite the same.
I lost a leg for fame.

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see:
Hurrah!

And the whole wide world belongs to me:

Hurrah!

The feast begins to run low, no doubt;

But at the old cask we'll have one good bout!
Come! drink the lees all out!

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. (German.)

Translation of JOHN S. DWIGHT.

COME,

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's

brow,

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare,
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains - the black mould heaves below;
And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe.
It rises, roars, rends all outright—O, Vulcan! what a glow!
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright- the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show!
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe!
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;
And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant
"ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode;
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road:

The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains;
But courage still, brave mariners-the bower yet remains!
And not an inch to flinch he deigns-save when ye pitch sky high;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing - here
am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we!

Strike in, strike in!—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din—our work will soon be sped;
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's
cheer,

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!
O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary monster's palaces!- Methinks what joy 'twere now
To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging
tails!

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles,
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,