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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.

German.

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD.

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 fushed 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 TIEDGE.

“ 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 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!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM MULLER.

“ THE rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily

Their noisy trumpets blow.
" The clouds are passing far and high,

We little birds in them play;
And everything that can sing and fly

Goes with us, and far away.

" I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,

With thy fluttering golden band ?""I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea

I haste from the narrow land.

66 Full and swollen is every sail;

I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?

Thou mayst stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all."

“ I need not, and seek not company,

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. “ High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys? When the merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one!
I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

“ Thus do I sing my weary song

Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my wholė life-long,

Neither poet nor printer may know."

WHITHER?

FROM MULLER.

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;

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