« VorigeDoorgaan »
I sped to yon heath that is lonely and THE BRITISH STRIPLING'S
For each nerve was unquiet, each
pulse in alarm ; IMITATED FROM STOLBERG
And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the Yes, noble old Warrior ! this heart has
objectless air, beat high,
And in open-eyed dream proved the Since you told of the deeds which our
strength of my arm. countrymen wrought ; O lend me the sabre that hung by thy Yes, noble old Warrior ! this heart has thigh,
beat high, And I too will fight as my forefathers
Since you told of the deeds that our fought.
countrymen wrought ; O lend me the sabre that hung by thy
thigh, Despise not my youth, for my spirit is
And I too will fight as my forefathers steel'd And I know there is strength in the
fought ! grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field,
ON A CATARACT And as proudly would die for my dear native land.
FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT
OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd · the fight,
[AFTER STOLBERG'S UNSTERBLICHER The sound of a trumpet suspended my
STROPHE And my fancy still wanderd by day and by night,
UNPERISHING youth ! Amid battle and tumult, ʼmid conquest Thou leapest from forth and death.
The cell of thy hidden nativity ;
Never mortal saw My own shout of onset, in the heat of my The cradle of the strong one ; trance,
Never mortal heard How oft it awakes me from visions of The gathering of his voices ; glory ;
The deep-murmur'd charm of the son of When I meant to have leapt on the
the rock, Hero of France,
That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless And have dash'd him to earth, pale
fountain. and breathless and gory.
There's a cloud at the portal, a spray
woven veil As late thro' the city with banners all At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing; streaming
It embosoms the roses of dawn, To the music of trumpets the Warriors It entangles the shafts of the noon, flew by.
And into the bed of its stillness With helmet and scimitars naked and The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, gleaming,
That the son of the rock, that the On their proud -trampling, thunder
nursling of heaven
TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE--THE VISIT OF THE GODS
THE VISIT OF THE GODS
IMITATED FROM SCHILLER
NEVER, believe me,
Never alone :
Scarce had I welcomed the SorrowHere first, an infant to her breast,
beguiler, Him his loving mother prest;
Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the And kissed the babe, and blessed the
Smiler : day,
Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from And prayed as mothers use to pray.
his throne !
They advance, they float in, the OlymIII
pians all !
With Divinities fills my Vouchsafe him health, O God! and
Terrestrial hall ! give The child thy servant still to live !'
How shall I yield you But God had destined to do more
Due entertainment, Through him, than through an armed
Celestial quire ? power.
Me rather, bright guests! with your IV
wings of upbuoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets God gave him reverence of laws,
of joyance, Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause- That the roofs of Olympus may echo my A spirit to his rocks akin,
lyre ! The eye of the hawk, and the fire Hah! we mount ! on their pinions they therein !
waft up my soul !
O fill me the bowl !
Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet, His soul found wings, and soared aloft!
Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, For if the nymphs should know my That Styx the detested no more he may
I fear they'd love him too. And like one of us Gods may conceit Yet while my joy's unknown, him to be!
Its rosy buds are but half-blown : Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it ! Io Pæan, I What no one with me shares, seems
scarce my own.
I'll tell, that if they be not glad, 1799.
They yet may envy me :
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,
'Twould vex me worse than scorn ! KNOW'st thou the land where the pale
And yet it cannot be forborne, citrons grow,
Unless my heart would like my thoughts The golden fruits in darker foliage
be torn. glow? Soft blows the wind that breathes from
He is, if they can find him, fair that blue sky!
And fresh, and fragrant too ; Still stands the myrtle and the laurel
As after rain the summer air, high !
And looks as lilies do,
That are this morning blown !
Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known, Thither with thee, O, thither would I
Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown. wend !
But he hath eyes so large, and bright,
Which none can see, and doubt
That Love might thence his torches [The following is an almost literal translation
light of a very old and very favourite song among the Tho' Hate had put them out ! Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the But then to raise my fears, same with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, His voice--- what maid so ever and the air to which it is sung by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.)
Will be my rival, though she have but When thou to my true-love com’st
ears. Greet her from me kindly ; When she asks thee how I fare?
I'll tell no more ! yet I love him, Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.
And he loves me ; yet so,
That never one low wish did dim When she asks, 'What ! Is he sick?' Our love's pure light, I knowSay, dead !and when for sorrow
In each so free from blame, She begins to sob and cry,
That both of us would gain new Say, I come to-morrow.
fame, If love's strong fears would let me tell
his name ! MUTUAL PASSION
ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM
AN OLD POET
I LOVE, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who :
COME hither, gently rowing,
Come, bear me quickly o'er
This stream so brightly flowing
To yonder woodland shore. But vain were my endeavour
To pay thee, courteous guide ; Row on, row on, for ever
I'd have thee by my side.
Iler father's leave she bade me gain;
I went, but shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man-in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE
IN OTTFRIED'S METRICAL
“Good boatman, prithee haste thee,
I seek my father-land.' “Say, when I there have placed thee,
Dare I demand thy hand ?' A maiden's head can never
So hard a point decide ; Row on, row on, for ever
I'd have thee by my side.' The happy bridal over
The wanderer ceased to roam, For, seated by her lover,
The boat became her home. And still they sang together
As steering o'er the tide : • Row on through wind and weather
For ever by my side.'
Arethusa or Lucrece.
[This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occ sional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines which even in the translation will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord. Most interesting is it to consider the effect when the feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious, while all the images are purely natural. Then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest.] She gave with joy her virgin breast; SHE She hid it not, she bared the breast Which suckled that divinest babe ! Blessed, blessed were the breasts Which the Saviour infant kiss'd : And blessed, blessed was the mother Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling
clothes, Singing placed him on her lap, Hung o'er him with her looks of love, And soothed him with a lulling motion. Blessed ! for she shelter'd him From the damp and chilling air ; Blessed, blessed ! for she lay With such a babe in one blest bed, Close as babes and mothers lie ! Blessed, blessed evermore, With her virgin lips she kiss'd, With her arms, and to her breast, She embraced the babe divine, Her babe divine the virgin mother ! There lives not on this ring of earth A mortal that can sing her praise. Mighty mother, virgin pure, In the darkness and the night For us she bore the heavenly Lord !
“Ah !' replied my gentle fair, Beloved, what are names but air ?
Choose thou whatever suits the line ; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine.'
Morning Post, August 27, 1799.
We pledg’d our hearts, my love and I,
I in my arms the maiden clasping; I could not guess the reason why,
But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT
ERE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care ; 'The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there,
ON AN INFANT
WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM
. BE, rather than be call'd, a child of
God,' : Death whisper'd !-with assenting nod, Its head upon its mother's breast,
The Baby bow'd, without demur
The sweet bird's song became an hollow
sound; And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most dis
tinct From many a note of many a waterfall, And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose
islet-stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sat, his white beard slow waving. I
moved on In low and languid mood :1 for I had
found That outward forms, the loftiest, still
receive Their finer influence from the Life
within ;Fair cyphers else : fair, but of import
vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not
finds History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, Q dear, dear England ! how my longing
eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady
clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs !
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT
Its balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety !
And such my infant's latest sigh ! Oh tell, rude stone ! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGE
RODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST
My native Land ! Filled with the thought of thee this heart
was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all
the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody
hills, Floated away, like a departing dream,
[I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over
hills, A surging scene, and only limited [By the blue distance. Heavily my way [Downward I dragged through fir groves
evermore, Where bright green moss heaves in
sepulchral forms Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom
- When I have gazed From some high eminence on goodly vales, And cots and villages embowered below, The thought would rise that all to me
strange Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot Where my tired mind might rest and call it home." SOUTHEY's Hymn to the Penates.