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Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing, And toiling within

Like a funeral bell.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOXE, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There aro thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As these leaves with the libations Of Olympus. Yet dost thou recall, Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic, When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban tavern In the twilight. Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions. Sang these dittie Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend : They, alas! have left thee friendless Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome. And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.


When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister

Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.
And he gave the monks his treasures,

Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide

Daily on his place of rest;
Saying, "From these wandering minstrels

I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons

They have taught so well and long.
Thus the bard of love departed;

And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted

By the children of the choir.
Day by day, o'er tower and turret,

In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers

Flocked ihe poets of the air.
On the tree whose heavy branches

Overshadowed all the place,
On the pavement, on the tombstone,

On the poet's sculptured face,
On the cross-bars of each window,

On the lintel of each door,
They renewed the War of Wartburg,

Which the bard had fought before.
There they sang their merry carols,

Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered

Was the name of Vogelweid. Till at length the portly abbot

Murmured, "Why this waste of food ? Be it changed to loaves henceforward

For our fasting brotherhood." Then in vain o'er tower and turret,

From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide,

Gathered the unwelcome guests, Then in vain, with cries discordant,

Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers

For the children of the choir.
Time has long effaced the inscriptions,

On the cloister's funeral stones,
And tradition only tells us

Where repose the poet's bones. But around the vast cathedral,

By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend,

And the name of Vogelweid.


From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters langh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken,

Led by his inebriate Satyrs; On his breast his head is sunken,

Vacantly he leers and chatters. Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;

Ivy crown that brow sapernal As the forehead of Apollo,

And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes.

Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's

Vineyards, sing, delirous voices.

Thus he won, through all the nations,

Through days of sorrow and of mirth.
Bloodless victories, and the farmer

Through days of death and days of birth, Bore, as trophies aud oblations,

Through every swift vicissitude
Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw,
Judged by no o'er-zealous rigour,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,-
Much this mystic throng expuesses:

"Forever--never! Bacchus was the type of vigour,

And Silenus of excesses.
These are ancient ethnic revels,

In that mansion used to be
Of a faith long since forsaken;

Free-hearted Hospitality;
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils,

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board;
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken.

But, like the skeleton at the feast,
Now to rivulets from the mountains

That warning timepiece never ceased, -
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ;

"Forever-never! Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,

Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.

There groups of merry children played,
Claudius, though he sang of flagons

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; And huge tankards filled with Rhenish,

O precious hours! O golden prime,
From that fiery blood of dragons

And affluence of love and time!
Never would his own replenish.

Even as a miser counts his gold,
Even Redi, though he chaunted

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys,

"Forever-never! Never drank the wine he vaunted

In his dithyrambic sallies.

From that chamber, clothed in white,
Then with water fill the pitcher

The bride came forth on her wedding night; Wreathed about with classic fables ;

There, in that silent room below, .
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
Light upon Lucullus' tables.

And in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair, Come, old friend, sit down and listen!

"Forever-never !
As it passes thus between us,

How its wavelets laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus !

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;

And when I ask, with throbs of pain.

" Ah! when shall they all meet again? L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier As in the days long since gone by, dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, The ancient timepiece makes reply,dans le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours !

"Forever--never! " 177 jamais! Jamais ! tonjours !"

Never here, forever there,

tot SOMEWHAT back from the village street

Where all parting, pain, and care, Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.

And death, and time shall dissappear, Across its antique portico

Forever there, but never here! 15min Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;

The horologe of Eternity ..

! And from its station in the hall

Sayeth this incessantly, P ort ! An ancient timepiece says to all,

* Forever-never! "Forever-never!

Half way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who under his cloak,

I SHOT an arrow in the air, it all! Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

It fell to earth I knew not where; un With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

For, so swiftly it fiew, the sight/) 21908.' "Forever-never !

Could not follow it in its flight. Never--forever!"

I breathed a song into the air. By day its voice is low and light;

It fell to earth I knew not where: Bilt in the silent dead of night,

For who has sight so keen and strong, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,

That it can follow the flight of song! 09 It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor,

Long, long afterward, in an oak And seems to say, at each chamber-door,

I found the arrow, still unbroke; "Forever--never !

And the song, from beginning to end, Never-forever!"

I found again in the heart of a friend.php




THE HEMLOCK-TREE. Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

FROM THE GERMAN. Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, | O HEMLOCK-TREE! O hemlock-tree! how faithLike a fair lady at her casement, shines

ful are thy branches; The evening star, the star of love and rest!

Green not alone in summer time, And then anon she doth herself divest

But in the winter's frost and rime! Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

| O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

are thy branches! With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

thy bosom! My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady I even thus,

To love me in prosperity, As that fair planet in the sky above,

And leave me in adversity! Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

10 maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is And from thy darkened window fades the light.

thy bosom!

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for VO

thine example, AUTUMN.

So long as summer laughs she sings, THOU comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

But in the autumn spreads her wings. With banners, by great gales incessant fanned

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

thine example! And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirThou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 18

ror of thy falsehood! Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand

It flows so long as falls the rain, Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

In drought its springs soon dry again. Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain! The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

of thy falsehood!
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACII, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden

ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, leaves!

She is my life, and my goods, and my gold,

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again

To me has surrendered in joy and in pain
TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, gloom,

Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood! With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

snow, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

We will stand by each other, however it blow Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies Seall be to our true love as links to the chain, The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,

The more the hail beats, and the more the rains By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,

fall,The ascending sunbeams mark the day's de- so love in our hearts shall grow mighty and crease;

strong, And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Through crosses, through sorrows, through Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!" manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone And my songs,-green leaves and blossoms, In a desolate land where the sun is scarce To the doors of heaven would bear, known,-

Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air. Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea

roars. Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Oy the cross the dying Saviour W late'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Whatever forbidden thau hast not gainsaid.

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling How in the turmoil of life can love stang,

In his pierced and bleeding palm. Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, And by all the world forsaken, and one hand!

Sees he how with zealous care

At the ruthless nail of iron
Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

A little bird is striving there.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not ovr love;

Stained with blood and never tiring,

With its beak it doth not cease, Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, Whate'er my desire, in thine may be seen;

Its Creator's Son release. I am king of the household, and thou art its

And the saviour speaks in mildness: queen.

Blest be thou of all the good! It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, Bear as token of this moment, That makes of us twain but one soul in one Marks of blood and holy rood!" breast.

And that bird is called the crossbill; This turns to a heaven the hot where we dwell :

Covered all with blood so clear,
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. In the groves of pine it singeth

Tongs like legends strange to hear,


FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. FORMs of saints and kings are standing

THE sea hath its pearls, The cathedral door above;

The heaven hath its stars Yet I saw but one among them

But my heart, my heart, Who hath soothed my soul with love.

My heart hath its love. In his mantle-wound about him,

Great are the sea and the heaven: As their robes the sowers wind.-

Yet greater is my heart, Bore he swallows and their fiedglings,

And fairer than pearls and stars Flowers and weeds of every kind,

Flashes and beams my love. And so stands calm and childlike,

Thou little, youthful maiden, High in wind and tempest wild;

Come unto my great heart; Oh, where I like him exalted,

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, I would be like him, a child!

Are melting away with love!

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