THE MIGHT OF SONG.

IN the two Poems-" The Might of Song"-and that to which, in the translation, we have given the paraphrastic title, "Honour to Women," (Würde der Frauen,) are to be found those ideas which are the well-streams of so much of Schiller's noblest inspiration:-1st, An intense and religious conviction of the lofty character and sublime ends of the true Poet. 2d, A clear sense of what is most lovely in woman, and a chivalrous devotion to the virtues of which he regards her as the Personation and Prototype. It is these two articles in his poetical creed which constitute Schiller so peculiarly the Poet of Gentlemen-not the gentlemen of convention, but the gentlemen of nature that Aristocracy of feeling and sentiment which are the flower of the social world; chivalrously inclined to whatever is most elevated in Art-chivalrously inclined to whatever is most tender in emotion. The Nobility of the North which Tacitus saw in its rude infancy, has found in Schiller not only the voice of its mature greatness, but the Ideal of its great essentials.

A RAIN-FLOOD from the Mountain riven,
It leaps in thunder forth to day;
Before its rush the crags are driven,
The oaks uprooted whirl'd away!
Awed-yet in awe all wildly gladd'ning,
The startled wanderer halts below;
He hears the rock-born waters madd'ning,

Nor wits the source from whence they go,-

So stream from mystic Founts, along
Their earthly course, the Waves of Song !

Allied with those by whom is twined
The web of life, the Fatal Three,
Who can the singer's charm unbind?
Who can resist his melody?

He rules the soul his numbers spell

As with the wand to Hermes given :
Now steeps it shuddering in the hell,

Now lifts it breathless to the heaven

By turns, as grave or gay prevail,
Rock'd on Emotion's music-scale.

As, when in hours the least unclouded
Portentous, strides upon the scene
Some Fate, before from wisdom shrouded,
And awes the startled souls of Men-
Before that Stranger from ANOTHER,

Behold how THIS world's great ones bow
Mean joys their idle clamour smother,

1

The mask is vanish'd from the brow-
And from Truth's conquering flag unfurled,
Fly all the Falsehoods of the World:

So, rapt aloft from earth and time,

With all the meaner sense inherits,
Man drops his load, and soars sublime—

A spirit in the world of spirits:

1 This somewhat obscure, but lofty comparison, by which Poetry is likened to some Fate that rouses men from the vulgar littleness of sensual joy, levels all ranks for the moment, and appals conventional falsehoods with unlooked-for truth, Schiller had made, though in rugged and somewhat bombastic prose, many years before-as far back as the first appearance of "The Robbers."

He is as are the gods on high,

Nought earthly nears his nectar-hall, Still'd is each lowlier sovereignty

Not Fate itself on him can fall. Smooth'd are the wrinkled brows of Woe, While song's enchanted numbers flow.

As some sweet mother's absent face
The pining truant child recalls,
And on her breast, with wild embrace,
And tears of fond repentance, falls—
So, to his childhood's home of old,

Song guides the wanderer back once more,
From lands afar and customs cold,

To joys that guileless youth restore ; Snatch'd from the formal world of art, And warmed at Nature's faithful heart.

THE MERCHANT.

WHERE sails the ship?—It leads the Tyrian forth
For the rich amber of the liberal North.
Be kind, ye seas-winds, lend your gentlest wing,
May in each creek, sweet wells restoring spring!—
To you, ye gods, belong the Merchant !—o'er
The waves, his sails the wide world's goods explore;
And, all the while, wherever waft the gales,
The wide world's good sails with him as he sails!

HONOUR TO WOMEN.

(Literally "Worth or Dignity of Women.")

HONOUR to Women! To them it is given
To garden the earth with the roses of Heaven!
They weave from sweet garlands the fetters of love-
In the veil of the Graces their beauty concealing,
They feed, on each altar that's hallow'd to Feeling,
The flame that is won from above!

From the bounds of Truth careering,
Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps,
With each hasty impulse veering,
Rock'd on Passion's troubled deeps.
And his heart, contented never,
Greeds to grapple with the Far,
Chasing his own dream for ever,

On through many a distant Star!

But Woman with looks that can charm and enchain, Lureth back at her beck the wild truant again,

By the spell of the Present beguil❜d—

True Daughter of Nature, she loves not to roam,
But meekly with Nature for ever at home,
By the Mother, still dwelleth the child.

Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting,

Foe to foe, the angry strife;

Man, the Wild One, never resting,

Roves the troubled paths of life;
What he planneth, still undoing;
Vainly as the Hydra bleeds,
Crest the sever'd crest renewing-

Wish to wither'd wish succeeds.

But Woman, at peace with all being, reposes,
And seeks from the Moment to gather the roses—
Whose sweets to her culture belong.

Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er
The mighty dominion of Genius and Lore,

And the infinite Circle of Song.

Strong, and proud, and self-depending,
Man's cold bosom beats alone;

Heart with heart divinely blending,
In the love that Gods have known,
Soul's sweet interchange of feeling,
Melting tears-he never knows,
Each hard sense the hard one steeling,
Arms against a world of foes.

Alive, as the wind-harp, how lightly soever
If woo'd by the Zephyr, to music will quiver,
Is Woman to Hope and to Fear;

Ah, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving,
How quiver the chords-how thy bosom is heaving—
How trembles thy glance through the tear!