“Down went the corpse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, "Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, 66 I could not share in childish prayer, Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 'Mid holy cherubim! And peace went with them one and all, But Guilt was my grim chamberlain And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red! “All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; For sin had rendered unto her "All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That racked me all the timeA mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime! "One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave! 66 VOL. IV. Heavily I rose up-as soon slight was in the sky And sought the black accursed pool And I saw the dead in the river bed, Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran- Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, "And all that day I read in school, 66 And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one Or land or sea, though he should be "So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Ay, though he 's buried in a cave, Z 66 Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, “And still no peace for the restless clay The horrid thing pursues my soul— That very night, while gentle sleep 319. THE POET'S YEAR. GOETHE. (From a Criticism on the Poerns of J. H. Voss, translated by Mrs. Austin.) Every author, in some degree, portrays himself in his works, even be it against his will. In this case, he is present to us, and designedly; nay, with a friendly alacrity, sets before us his inward and outward modes of thinking and feeling; and disdains not to give us confidential explanations of circumstances, thoughts, views, and expressions, by means of appended notes. And now, encouraged by so friendly an invitation, we draw nearer to him; we seek him by himself; we attach ourselves to him, and promise ourselves rich enjoyment, and manifold instruction and improve ment. In a level northern landscape we find him, rejoicing in his existence, in a latitude in which the ancients hardly expected to find a living thing. And truly, Winter there manifests his whole might and sovereignty. Storm-borne from the Pole, he covers the woods with hoar frost, the streams with ice ; a drifting whirlwind eddies around the high gables, while the poet rejoices in the shelter and comfort of his home, and cheerily bids defiance to the raging elements. Furred and frostcovered friends arrive, and are heartily welcomed under the protecting roof; and soon they form a cordial confiding circle, enliven the household meal by the clang of glasses, the joyous song, and thus create for themselves a moral summer. We then find him abroad, and braving the inclemencies of the wintry heavens. When the axle-tree creaks heavily under the load of fire-wood-when even the footsteps of the wanderer ring along the ground-we see him now walking briskly through the snow to the distant dwelling of a friend; now joining a sledge-party, gliding, with tinkling bells over the boundless plain. At length a cheerful inn receives the half-frozen travellers; a bright flickering fire greets them as they crowd around the chimney; dance, choral song, and many a warm viand are reviving and grateful to youth and age. But when the snow melts under the returning sun, when the warmed earth frees itself somewhat from its thick covering, the poet hastens with his friends into the free air, to refresh himself with the first living breath of the new year, and to seek the earliest flowers. The bright golden clover is gathered, bound into bunches, and brought home in triumph, where this herald of the future beauty and bounty of the year is destined to crown a family festival of Hope. And when Spring herself advances, no more is heard of roof and hearth; the poet is always abroad, wandering on the soft pathways around his peaceful lake. Every bush unfolds itself with an individual character, every blossom bursts with an individual life, in his presence. As in a fully worked-out picture, we see, in the sun-light around him, grass and herb, as distinctly as oak and beech-tree; and on the margin of the still waters there is wanting neither the reed nor any succulent plant. Here his companions are not those transforming fantasies, by whose impatient power the rock fashions itself into the divine maiden, the tree puts off its branches and appears to allure the hunter with its soft lovely arms. Rather wanders the poet solitary, like a priest of nature; touches each plant, each bush, with gentle hand; and hallows them members of a loving harmonious family. Around him, like a dweller in Eden, sport, harmless, fearless creatures-the lamb on the meadows, the roe in the forest. Around him assemble the whole choir of birds, and drown the busy hum of day with their varied accents. Then, at evening, towards night, when the moon climbs the heaven in serene splendour, and sends her flickering image curling to his feet on the surface of the lightly ruffled waters; when the boat rocks softly, and the oar gives its measured cadence, and every stroke calls up sparkles of reflected light; when the nightingale pours forth her divine song from the shore, and softens every heart; then do affection and passion manifest themselves in happy tenderness; from the first touch of a sympathy awakened by the Highest himself, to that quiet, graceful, timid desire, which flourishes within the narrow inclosure of domestic life. A heaving breast, an ardent glance, a pressure of the hand, a stolen kiss, give life to his song. But it is ever the affianced lover that is emboldened; it is ever the betrothed bride that yields; and thus does all that is ventured, and all that is granted, bend to a lawful standard; though, within that limit, he permits himself much freedom. Soon, however, he leads us again under the free heavens; into the green; to bower and bush; and there is he most cheerfully, cordially, and fondly at home. The Summer has come again; a genial warmth breathes through the poet's song. Thunders roll; clouds drop showers; rainbows appear; lightnings gleam; and a blessed coolness overspreads the plain. Everything ripens; the poet overlooks none of the varied harvests; he hallows all by his presence. And here is the place to remark what an influence our poets might exercise on the civilization of our German people-in some places, perhaps, have exercised. His poems on the various incidents of rural life, indeed, do represent rather the reflections of a refined intellect than the feelings of the common people; but if we could picture to ourselves that a harper were present at the hay, corn, and potato harvests,-if we recollected |