Sweet error!--he but slept,-I breathe again; THE GRAVE. FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON, FOR thee was a house built For thee was a mould meant How long it shall be. Now I shall measure thee, Thy house is not Dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends; Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee For soon thou art loathsome KING CHRISTIAN. A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.-FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD, KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast His sword was hammering so fast, 66 Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can! The stroke?" Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, "Now is the hour!' "Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power?" North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent Then champions to thine arms were sent ; From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', And fly! Path of the Dane to fame and might! Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, And amid pleasures and alarms, THE HAPPIEST LAND. FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. FROM THE GERMAN. THERE sat one day in quiet, The landlord's daughter filled their cups, Then sat they all so calm and still, But, when the maid departed, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "The greatest kingdom upon earth "Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,— "I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine! "The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!" "Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon ! A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies. "There the tailor blows the flute, And then the landlord's daughter THE WAVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 66 WHITHER, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou? "I am the Wave of Life, To wash from me the slime THE DEAD. FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK. How they so softly rest, Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest, All in their silent graves, Deep to corruption Slowly down-sinking! And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies! And by the cypresses Softly o'ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber! WHITHER? FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER. I HEARD a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear. I know not what came o'er me, Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave; Downward, and ever farther, And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going? What do I say of a murmur? 'Tis the water-nymphs that are singing Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, The wheels of a mill are going She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! |