Sweet error!--he but slept,-I breathe again;
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile !
O! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

THE GRAVE.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON,

FOR thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,

For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;

Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,

Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained,
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,

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
And descend after thee,

For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.-FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD,

KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast
In mist and smoke;

His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,
In mist and smoke.

66

Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can!
Who braves of Denmark's Christian

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
Thy murky sky!

Then champions to thine arms were sent ;
Terror and Death glared where he went;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent
Thy murky sky!

From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol',
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might!
Dark-rolling wave!

Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,
Dark-rolling wave!

And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms
My grave!

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups,
Around the rustic board;

Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
"Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare;
With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there."

"Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,—
And dashed his beard with wine;

"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 the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn."

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, 'Ye may no more contend,-
There lies the happiest land!"

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,
Stained with my margin's dust;
From the struggle and the strife
Of the narrow stream I fly
To the Sea's immensity,

To wash from me the slime
Of the muddy banks of Time."

THE DEAD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.

How they so softly rest,
All, all the holy dead,
Unto whose dwelling-place

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 the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say!
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur?
That can no murmur be;

'Tis the water-nymphs that are singing
Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,
And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are going
In every brooklet clear.

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 !