THE WAVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF 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 THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK. How they so softly rest, All, all the holy dead, 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 THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER. "THE rivers rush into the sea, "The clouds are passing far and high, And every thing, 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. "Full and swollen is every sail; I have trusted all to the sounding gale, "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? With merry companions all.". "I need not and seek not company, "High over the sails, high over the mast, When thy merry companions are still, at last, "Who neither may rest, nor listen may, I dart away, in the bright blue day, "Thus do I sing my weary song, And this same song, my whole life long, WHITHER? FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER. I HEARD a brooklet gushing And ever the brook beside; What do I say of a murmur? That can no murmur be; "T is the water-nymphs, that are singing Their roundelays under me. Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear. BEWARE! FROM THE GERMAN. I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! She knows how much it is best to show, SONG OF THE BELL. FROM THE GERMAN. BELL! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie! Bell! thou soundest merrily; Parting hath gone by! Say! how canst thou mourn? Thou art but metal dull! Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Trembling in the storm! |