With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil,
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,
Vested in colours of the living flame.

Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres;

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than had they said,
"Oh, wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"

The ice, that was about my heart congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged,
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less force the arrow hits the mark;

So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS.

Fifteenth Century.

GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad,

Well dost thou thy power display!

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou,-thou makest the sad heart gay.

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet and the snow, and the wind and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;-
'Tis sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought!-Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error!-he but slept,-I breathe again;-
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
Oh! 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.

"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!"

66 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! 45

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!"